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)
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.
As you might imagine, there’d been a lot of “How the hell did you know?” thrown around, but nobody outright accused me of getting a tip.
Until now.
Joe shares my incredulity. “J-Conn? That was nearly a year ago. Why now?”
My mind is reeling.
I get why people had to ask about J-Conn back when it all went down—even Matt and Kennedy had gotten screwed by that one, and they’re the best in the business.
In that particular case, I was just . . . better.
After months of waiting with everyone else for J-Conn to make the rumored “groundbreaking” technology announcement, I’d called bullshit. I’d sold when everyone else was buying high.
Risky as hell, but it had been a risk that paid off.
Call it intuition, call it brains—hell, I’ll even take dumb luck. But what I won’t accept is cheating.
“We can only assume the SEC’s received new information,” Sam says, seeming to choose his words carefully without looking at me directly. “We don’t know for sure that it’s J-Conn, but there’ve been whispers about Ian and that deal for months.”
“Nothing but playground gossip,” I snap. “There’s no new information, because there’s no information to be had. I didn’t—”
Samantha quickly holds up her hand. “Stop right there.” She blows out a breath. “Ian, you’re one of our best, but if we were to have to testify . . .”
I close my eyes. Testify. This can’t be happening.
“I get it,” I say quietly. “Plausible deniability.”
We’re not there yet, but . . . we could be, and that’s what worries me.
The only silver lining in all this is that the SEC is still at the informal investigation stage. If they weren’t, Lara McKenzie would have come at me with a subpoena yesterday instead of a courtesy call. Informal is good, in that it means they don’t yet have the evidence they need to launch a full-blown case against me.
But it’s also bad, in that they don’t have to tell me the details of my “crime.”
I run my hand through my hair. “J-Conn?” I ask again. “Seriously?”
Samantha sighs and shrugs, managing to pack a wallop of disdain into the small gestures. If I had to describe Samantha Wolfe in a word, it’d be hard-ass. She’s fiftysomething, attractive in a polished, perfect-lipstick kind of way.
Her husband’s the opposite, at least in looks. He’s got a small stature, balding head, and, no matter how straight the tie, how expensive the suit, he always manages to have a slightly rumpled quality about him.
Sam clears his throat. “We’ll know for certain soon enough. You know how these things go. We’ll be able to tell what she’s after by the people she talks to and the questions she asks.”
“We’ve guaranteed Ms. McKenzie our full cooperation. I’m sure you’ll share our policy of cooperation,” Samantha continues with a pointed look at me.
The instructions are clear: Play nice.
I run my hands over my face. This fucking blows. Objectively, I know the SEC has a job to do. I understand their function; I can even respect it. But this feels like a goddamn witch hunt. That they can come in here, ask us to cooperate, all without telling us why or when or what . . .
I don’t want to play nice.
I want to fucking fight it.
Joe seems to read my thoughts. “We need to let this die before it’s a formal investigation, Ian. The best way to do that is to—”
“Roll over? Hand them whatever they want based on their unfounded accusations?” I don’t bother to disguise my anger.