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)
“Bullshit,” he snaps. “Does this moment feel personal to you, when you’re the one being followed?”
“Yes, but you—”
“Crashed your date? Infiltrated your life? Does it feel personal, Ms. McKenzie?”
Both of our tempers are simmering, and I take a sip of water to cool my own. “You’re trying to make me feel guilty for doing my job.”
“No, I’m trying to show you that the impact of your job isn’t as clean and impersonal as you pretend.”
“Fine,” I say calmly. “Noted.”
“Are you saying that because you feel bad about intruding on my lunch the other day or because you want me to leave?”
“Both?”
He studies me for a moment, then nods. “All right, then. Apology accepted.”
“I don’t know that it was an apology.”
His eyebrows lift.
I sigh. “Okay, fine. I’m sorry I didn’t leave the restaurant after I saw you were there on personal business. Now will you leave?”
He surprises me by grinning. “Nope.” He winks and reaches for my wineglass, lifting it in question. “What are we drinking?”
“We aren’t drinking anything. I’m having a glass of white wine. You were just leaving.”
He glances at his watch and takes a sip of the wine—my wine. “Seven thirty-four. Your date is four minutes late.”
Actually, my date is thirty-four minutes late, and that’s if he were coming, which he’s not.
I don’t say this, obviously. The last thing I need is to be even a tiny bit vulnerable in front of someone who’d love nothing better than to see me humiliated.
“Yes, I’m sure he’ll be here any minute, so if you don’t mind . . . ,” I say, wiggling my fingers in a shooing motion.
Ian sets my wineglass down in front of me.
I try not to sag in relief that he’s leaving, his little demonstration over. “Enjoy your evening, Mr. Brad—Wait, what are you doing?” I ask in panic as he picks up the neatly folded napkin and places it on his suited lap.
“Joining you for dinner.”
“But—”
“Your date’s not coming, Ms. McKenzie. Now, have you or have you not been bugging my assistant to get some time on my calendar?”
“Yes, but she’s playing hardball and won’t put me on your calendar until next week. I have some questions I need answers to before then—”
“About J-Conn, sure. And I’ll answer them, but only if you give me something in return.” His gaze drops to my mouth, just for a moment.
I narrow my eyes. “I’m not sleeping with you.”
His smile is slow and cocky as hell. “Famous last words. But that’s actually not what I was angling for. I was thinking a question for a question. For every question I answer, you have to answer one of mine.”
“That’s not how this works, Mr. Bradley.”
He shrugs and starts to set his napkin back on the table. “Good luck getting your subpoena, then, because that’s the only other way—”
“Fine,” I say, a little desperate. “A question for a question.”
He grins and drops the napkin back into his lap. “Perfect. But first things first . . . we’re going to need more drinks.”
13
IAN
Week 2: Friday Night
My lawyer’s going to kill me.
I’m pretty sure when the bosses told me to cooperate with the SEC, this isn’t what they’d meant.
Having a dinner in a cozy East Village French bistro’s not exactly what I had planned, either. Hell, I can’t even remember my plan. It all went out the window the second I came in and saw Lara sitting all alone, looking so unexpectedly vulnerable my chest had ached.
I should have turned around and walked out the front door.
Instead, the completely foreign urge to distract her from the embarrassment of being stood up had taken over. I gave the guy half an hour to show up and make her smile.
He hadn’t.
Moron.
Or maybe I’m the moron. Because while Lara may be the pain in my ass right now, even as I want to strangle her, I can admit she looks good. More than good.
Her hair’s in its usual ponytail, but it’s pulled to one side to drape over her shoulder—a bare shoulder, courtesy of a strapless dress that’s not low-cut enough to torture me but is tight enough to make me wonder things I shouldn’t be wondering.
A server makes his way toward us. “Can I get you something to drink, sir?”
“I’ll have what she’s having,” I say, nodding at the wine.
“Very good. Shall I put in any appetizers, or are we taking our time?”
Lara opens her mouth, but I beat her to it. “Definitely taking our time.”
She rolls her eyes as the server gives a deferential nod and backs away. “Very good, sir.”
“So,” I say, leaning forward. “I’ll start. Who were you supposed to be meeting tonight?”
“I don’t think so,” she says coolly, taking a sip of wine. “I’ll start the questions. You said you didn’t know Arnold Maverick. You’re positive the two of you never crossed paths?”