Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Matt glares at Kennedy’s back, then gives me a nod goodbye.
I lift my hand in farewell as I head into my lobby, grateful for the blast of air-conditioning. Grateful, as I am every damn day, to have a roof over my head to call my own—one I don’t have to worry about getting kicked out of the next day when someone tires of me.
Yeah, I know. Foster-kid issues. You’d have ’em, too, though. Trust me.
The lobby’s big and modern, the amenities state of the art. The building is fifty-eight stories. I live on the fifty-sixth. It’s not the penthouse, but hey, as we’ve already established, I thrive on challenges.
I open the door to my living room and toss the keys on the side table. My apartment is pure bachelor pad—big TV, black leather couch, sideboard, bar cart, big bed, the whole deal.
I pour myself a glass of water, downing it in three gulps as I check my e-mail on my phone. There’s one from a hookup a few months back that includes an NSFW subject line, a kiss-face emoji, and a picture of her on her bed. Naked.
I grin, remembering Lara McKenzie has access to my e-mail. That should blow her prudish little mind.
My cock twitches, and I realize my mistake—thinking of Lara and blow in the same sentence. Damn it.
What is it about her?
That I can’t have her? That she doesn’t want me?
I take a shower, in which I take care of business, if you know what I mean, picturing Lara McKenzie in nothing but whipped cream and glasses, then pull on boxers and an undershirt before heading into the kitchen to make coffee.
My phone buzzes. A text from Kennedy. Call her.
It annoys me, but he’s right. I need to get a lawyer, and not just a good one. I need the best one. I need Vanessa Lewis.
Kennedy’s also right that I need to ignore Lara McKenzie until I do so. I’d like to think I can stay out of any trap she lays for me, but I’d be an idiot to test my willpower with a woman who makes my blood hum like Lara does.
I scroll through my favorites until I find the number I’m looking for.
“Hey,” I say the second she picks up. “I need you.”
6
LARA
Week 1: Friday, Lunchtime
“So, do you think he did it?”
I tuck my cell phone beneath my ear so I can pull off my blazer. What started as a pleasantly warm morning has turned into a sweltering afternoon, and I’m keenly aware of my blouse plastered to my sweaty back.
“Too soon to say,” I tell my dad, shrugging my arms out of the sleeves of the blazer and rolling it into a tidy bundle to stuff into my purse.
“What’s the accusation?”
“Insider trading,” I say, keeping my voice low, even though nobody’s paying attention to me. The weekday lunch hour on Wall Street is everything you’d expect—plenty of suits and martinis and pretension. Nobody bothers to look twice at a woman in a boring blouse and four-year-old stilettos bought at Nordstrom Rack.
I don’t really mind, but I’ll confess that just once, I wouldn’t mind one of those high-priced lunches instead of a mediocre café with cheap sandwiches.
Since today’s lunch will likely involve a thrilling debate between dry turkey and boring tuna, I’m in no hurry to get off the phone with my dad. He’s been working a big case, so we’ve been playing phone tag for a couple of weeks. It’s good to hear his voice.
“Who’s the tip?” my dad asks.
“Fantastic question,” I mutter.
I practically hear my dad’s frown. “You don’t know?”
“Steve’s keeping it quiet. Confidential informant and all that.”
Steve Ennis is my boss. I’ve worked for the guy ever since I started with the SEC at twenty-three, and up until this case, I couldn’t have asked for a better one. With the Ian Bradley thing, however, Steve’s been cagey, and it’s driving me crazy. I understand the need to protect witnesses in certain cases, but keeping the witness’s name from the investigator is a whole other frustrating level of classified.
My dad apparently agrees. “But you’re the investigator. How’re you supposed to do your job?”
I lift my heavy hair off my neck, but there’s no breeze today, so it does me no good. “Trust me, this is nothing I haven’t already told Steve. But those were the informant’s terms. We have to protect his privacy.”
“So you know it’s a him.”
I smile, because it’s so Dad—he’s FBI through and through. “Yes. Apparently, it’s a him.”
“Well, that’s a start. Surely with a little digging—”
“Dad,” I interrupt gently. “I don’t get paid to find the informant. I get paid to find out if he’s right.”
“Is he?”
I shrug, even though my dad can’t see me. “I told you, it’s too soon to tell.”
“What’s your gut say?” I hear the crunch of whatever he’s eating for lunch, and my stomach growls.