Hot Asset (21 Wall Street #1)(8)

“She is,” I mutter, spinning idly in my chair. “She fell for exactly none of my bullshit yesterday.”

“Yesterday. You gave up after one day? Ain’t like you. You’ve always been stubborn as a mule, digging your teeth in, lighting a fire under every bush . . .”

I go still at his words, letting them sink in. Mixed metaphors aside, Dave’s got a point.

Persistence is my ace in the hole—the thing that’s gotten me where I am today.

Have I gotten so lazy, so complacent, that I’m giving up after a single afternoon of getting shot down?

Fifteen years in the foster system couldn’t keep me down. Nor could the Yale legacies who’d tried to make it clear I didn’t belong.

I get what I want by fighting for it. And what I want right now?

Lara McKenzie on her knees, begging me to forgive her for the false accusation.

Well, okay, the on her knees part is a different fantasy entirely. One I’m not completely ready to give up on.

“Dave, you’re a damn genius.”

“Yeah, yeah. So when’ll the TV be here?”

I shake my head with a grin, telling him I’ll get right on it. I hang up, then grab my desk phone to call my assistant.

Kate picks up on the first ring. “How’d the meeting with the Sams go?”

“’Bout like you’d expect.”

“Did they—”

“I’ll fill you in on everything later,” I promise, interrupting. “But first, any chance I can talk you into getting Dave another TV by tomorrow?”

“Oh, jeez,” she says, and I hear the efficient clack of her keyboard. “What happened this time? His favorite hockey player get traded again?”

“It was a baseball emergency.”

“Mmm. Okay, I’m on it. What else can I do? I feel useless, and you know that’s not my jam.”

I smile. I do know. Kate Henley’s been my assistant for five years, and I’ve learned that her tiny, tidy package hides an administrative powerhouse.

“No, nothing yet . . .” I break off. “Actually, yes. If you were trying to sell someone on the magic of overpriced Starbucks beverages—”

“Mocha Frappuccino, extra whip, extra chocolate shavings,” she says without hesitation. “You can’t go wrong. Your Tuesday barista’s Karen, right?”

“Yeah, but I’ll take care of it.” This is one challenge I need to undertake on my own.

“But—”

“If you’re fishing for shit to do, Matt started trying to manage his own calendar again. He’s got himself triple booked for three o’clock but is too scared to tell you.”

“Are you freaking kidding me?” Kate makes a hissing noise. “Okay. I’m on it.”

Kate hangs up on me, as I knew she would, and I text Tuesday-barista Karen, ordering two mocha Frappuccinos.

Lara McKenzie thinks she saw Don Juan yesterday?

She hasn’t seen nothin’ yet.





4

LARA

Week 1: Tuesday Afternoon

I’m pulling my stapler out of my box of office crap when there’s a knock at the conference room door.

I glance up, lifting my eyebrows in surprise when I see the last person I’d expect leaning against the doorway.

Ian Bradley’s dressed impeccably in a light-gray suit, black tie, and holding two frothy concoctions.

I click my stapler twice and study him, trying to figure out his game. His expression’s friendly, but his blue eyes are calculating.

“Mr. Bradley.”

“Ms. McKenzie.” He doesn’t move.

“Would you like to come in?”

He grins. “Would you like to put that stapler down?”

The moment I do, he steps forward and, setting one of the drinks on the table, slides it toward me with a flick of the wrist. If anyone else did this, the drink would tip and fall, but Ian simply makes the cup slide perfectly across the table and into my waiting hand.

I lift the Starbucks cup and study it. “Really. Bribery?”

“Barista made two by accident. I could just give it to Kate . . .”

“Ah yes, your assistant,” I say, leaping on the opening. I’d met Kate Henley yesterday, and my initial impression of the tiny brunette was that she has one of the best poker faces I’ve ever seen.

Verdict after trying to coax her into conversation today?

The best poker face I’ve ever seen.

“She said she’s worked for you for five years,” I say.

“Mm.” He walks toward the window, looks down. “They gave you the shitty conference room. The other ones have a better view.”

“I’m not here for the view.”

“No, you’re here because of J-Conn,” he says, turning back around.

It’s a predictable play, fishing for information. Granted, he’s right. I’m here for J-Conn, and I’m not all that surprised Wolfe’s already put that at the top of their guesses.

But this isn’t my first rodeo.

I say nothing, instead watching him carefully for any signs of nervousness, finding none.

“Why now?” he asks quietly. “Why are you guys after me for a company that crashed ten months ago?”