Hot Asset (21 Wall Street #1)(65)

She sighs. “I’m going to take a shower. See if inspiration strikes.”

I reach out and grab her hand, pressing my lips to her inner wrist. “Want company?”

She smiles and steps toward me, kissing my forehead. “Can I just take a minute? Think on my own?”

I kiss her wrist again and try to stifle the panic that she might be pulling away before we’ve really started. “Sure.”

She squeezes my hand and starts to move toward the bathroom.

But then she pauses. Backs up.

With one finger, she pulls a sheet of paper out of the stack piled on my kitchen table and studies it. Then she turns it around for me to see.

It’s one of the profiles I’d printed from my LinkedIn page—people who I don’t consider as friends but who are close enough to my circle to know about the J-Conn coup.

“Jacob Houghton?” I shrug. “He’s an investment broker. I don’t know him well, but from what I do know, he’s . . . well, he’s kind of a douche. Why?”

“I know him. And if Steve hasn’t unfriended me on Facebook yet . . .” She sits at the table and opens her laptop, her fingers moving quickly across the keys.

“Aha!” she says triumphantly, adjusting her glasses and turning the computer around so I can see the screen.

I bend down to look. She’s pulled up a wedding photo on Facebook.

My eyes go to the bride first, a middle-aged woman I’ve never seen in my life. I move to the groom next, and him I recognize—it’s Steve Ennis, Lara’s boss.

“I went to Steve’s wedding. Heck, he even had me sit at the head table with his family, which is how I know . . .” She points at the picture.

“Jacob Houghton,” I say. “Why’s he at your boss’s wedding?”

“He’s Steve’s brother-in-law, married to his sister. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, except I just saw him yesterday. Jacob’s always been friendly, but yesterday he was sort of . . . weird.”

“He was also at my cocktail party,” I say distractedly, remembering that the dude was a little off when I talked to him. I’d assumed he was just bad at small talk, but . . . “You think that’s our connection?”

“It’s the only one we have,” she says. “Although I can’t think of how you and Jacob connect. You ever go after the same client?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” I scroll through the rest of the wedding photos. Then I go totally still.

“Who’s this?” I point at the woman beside Jacob in what looks to be a family photo.

“That’s Jacob’s wife, Steve’s sister. I’m blanking on her name . . . Wendy?”

“How long have they been married?”

She blows out her breath. “I’m not sure. I didn’t really talk to her much beyond the usual small talk about the centerpieces. But Steve’s wedding was two years ago, so at least that long.”

My blood feels like it’s running cold. Then hot. Then cold again.

“Why?” She looks up at me, then touches my arm. “What’s wrong, Ian?”

“Her name is Whitney. I slept with her,” I say, my voice a little hoarse.

“When?”

I can’t bring myself to answer.

“Ian, how long ago?”

I have one hand on the back of Lara’s chair, the other on the table beside her. I force myself to look down and meet her eyes. “A few months ago, after a party. I don’t think I ever got her last name.”

She exhales.

“I had no idea she was married, Lara. You have to believe me.”

“I do,” she says, touching a hand lightly to mine. “But Jacob wouldn’t. And if he’s convinced Steve to help take you down . . .”

“It can’t be that,” I say, straightening and trying to clear my head. “This isn’t a TV procedural with cliché villains.”

“We’re right,” she whispers, pressing a fist to her stomach. “I feel it here. I know we’re right.”

I think so, too, and I’ve built my career trusting my gut feelings. It’s what got me into this J-Conn mess in the first place. Maybe it can be what gets me out.

I reach for my phone. “I’ll call Vanessa.”





32

LARA

Week 5: Thursday, Lunchtime

“You nervous?” Sabrina asks, watching me in the mirror as she reapplies her lipstick.

I meet her gaze. “Not even a little bit.”

She smiles, dropping the tube back into her purse. “I knew you had grit.”

“Or a simmering vendetta,” I mutter, giving myself one last look in the mirror. The usual Lara stares back. Wide blue eyes. Ponytail that’s neither too high nor too low, just there—practical. Black-rim glasses, minimal makeup . . . and a score to settle.

“Yes, well, take it from someone who deals with revenge plots on a regular basis—this is a good one,” Sabrina says, stepping toward me and opening a button on my blouse.

“Hey.” I start to button it again, but she slaps my hand. “Nope. This’ll go better if he’s distracted by a bit of cleavage.”

“I’m not showing any cleavage.” Am I? I glance down.