Hot Asset (21 Wall Street #1)(5)

Is it?

I’ve known this guy for all of three minutes, and somehow, he’s made me doubt myself twice. The feeling is unfamiliar and highly annoying.

Much like the man in front of me.

I give him a cool, dismissive smile. “Ah. I see. Asking me to drinks didn’t work, so now you’re trying to twist this around. Get in my head.”

To my surprise, he grins, all traces of his former intensity vanished. “Is it working?”

“Getting in my head? Nope.”

“What about the seduction?”

I spread my arms to the side, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. “Again, no signs of imminent swooning. Suspected criminals aren’t my type.”

I expect him to growl at me, but his smile merely widens, though there’s a sharpness to it. “Then I look forward to the day you have to look me in the eyes and tell me I’m innocent.”

“If you’re innocent, I will surely do that,” I say.

“But you don’t think I am.”

“I told you, it’s my job to find out.”

“Great. So when this thing goes my way, maybe you can buy me a drink.”

“Oh, absolutely,” I say, making no effort to hide my sarcasm.

He rubs his jaw and studies me, then he shakes his head and turns away. “See you around, Ms. McKenzie.”

I’ll deny it to my dying day, even to myself, but I’m disappointed that he doesn’t turn and glance my way, because I can’t seem to remove my eyes from his retreating back.

A back that’s too broad, too muscular, too . . .

Gah!

I pivot on my heel and march away, more in need of that champagne than ever.

A drink with Ian Bradley, indeed. Can you imagine?

Even if he’s not guilty, it won’t happen.

And if he is . . .

Let’s just say I’m totally not visiting him in prison, even though I know he would look really good in an orange jumpsuit.





3

IAN

Week 1: Tuesday Morning

“Ian. Ready for you.”

Well, hell. That makes a first—the first time in my life I’ve ever hated hearing a woman tell me she’s ready for me.

I stand and manage a flirty wink for Carla, the longtime executive assistant of Wolfe’s CEOs. She winks back, but it does little to ease my nerves as I enter the office.

It’s not that I mind bosses. I don’t know that I even have trouble with authority—that’s more my friend Matt Cannon’s gig. And as far as my superior goes, the guy I report to’s a good one. Joe Schneider, my MD (managing director, not the doctor kind), is a hard-ass, but he’s decent. Granted, he’s the type of guy who nobody particularly likes at cocktail parties because he doesn’t know how to talk about anything other than work. But in the office, he commands respect, and that’s good enough for me.

However, today I’m not dealing with Joe. Or at least, not just Joe.

Today, I’m dealing with his bosses—the CEOs of the company.

I’ve met Sam and Sam Wolfe (yeah, you read that right) several times. The CEOs loves me. I’m their hottest asset. They know it, and I know it. Between holiday parties, fund-raisers, and quarterly meetings, I’ve gotten plenty of face time with the higher-ups.

This time, though, is entirely different. There’s no shooting the shit, no clap on the back, no grin at my arrival. I’m all too aware of their somber faces, the way the room smells like tension.

As it should. The SEC likes to give the illusion it’s got Wall Street by the balls, but Wolfe’s got a rep for steering clear of their attention—mostly. I hate like hell that I’m the one to put Wolfe on the SEC’s radar for the first time in years.

Most annoying of all, I don’t even know what the hell this is all about.

I had an opportunity to know—to go into this meeting armed with the details of the case and maybe even a strategy for how to fight it. All I had to do was play Lara McKenzie exactly right when I cornered her on the sidewalk yesterday.

I’d fucked up.

Not only had I not coaxed the details of the case from her, I’d forgotten to try. Those big eyes behind her glasses drove me fucking crazy. Add in the smart mouth, the tight skirt . . .

Someone clears his throat, and I nod at Joe as I sit across the table from the two Sams.

They’re a scary duo.

For starters, they’re married.

Just days after inheriting the CEO title from his dad, Samuel Wolfe Jr. married Samantha Barry, a partner at a competing firm, thus creating one of the world’s richest power couples.

There’s a long moment of silence, then Sam—female Sam—stands. “Screw this. Who wants a whiskey?”

Whiskey, gin, whatever. She could have offered me a damn white wine spritzer and I’d have said yes.

Joe and Samantha’s husband nod affirmatively for the drink as well. Apparently, I’m not the only one stressed out.

Four generous pours of bourbon later, they get right to it.

“We think they’re after J-Conn,” Samantha announces.

It takes me a second to register what they’re talking about, and it’s with equal parts irritation and surprise when I do.

J-Conn is a tech company that went tits up and screwed plenty of people out of plenty of money. But not me. Or my clients. I’d sold my J-Conn stock before it all went to hell and hadn’t gotten kicked in the balls like everyone else.