Hard Sell (21 Wall Street) Read online

  I’m annoyed she’s coming to lunch. Not because I don’t want her there.

  But because I do.

  Makes sense, right? Crap.

  “She’ll meet you there,” Kate says bossily, following me down the hallway toward the elevators. “Your reservations are at noon under your name. The Sams and Lanham have twelve thirty reservations, so your being at the same restaurant should seem coincidental instead of desperate stalker.”

  I punch the elevator button and look down at her. “How the hell do you know these things? Not only that he’s in town and having lunch but also the when and where?”

  She smiles. “As if I’d reveal my methods.”

  “You’re damn good at your job,” I say as the elevator doors open.

  “I know.”

  I step inside and turn to face her. “I’m grateful.”

  Kate rolls her eyes. “I know that, too.”

  “Anything you don’t know?” I ask with a grin.

  “What happened with you and Sabrina all those years ago?” she says hopefully.

  My smile drops, and the elevator doors close, saving me from responding. As if I could.

  I’m not sure I even know what happened.

  14

  SABRINA

  Tuesday Midday, September 26

  “You’re late,” I say, not glancing up from my phone as Matt comes through the front door of the restaurant.

  “Does anybody like you?” he mutters irritably, crossing his arms as he stands in front of me.

  I grin. “Lara does. She asked me to be a bridesmaid.” I can’t help it. Two days later, I’m still riding high on that one.

  His gaze searches my face, and when he smiles back, I have the strange sense he gets what the invitation meant to me. “Yeah?”

  “Yup.”

  His smile gets wider. “Excellent. I’m one of the best men. Maybe we can walk down the aisle together.”

  I purse my lips. “Actually, now that you mention it, it’s a church wedding. I’m pretty sure your skin will burn off if you try to enter the building.”

  “Ha-ha,” he says drily. “Shall we?” He puts a hand at the small of my back and nudges me toward the desk.

  Matt checks in with the hostess, who motions for us to follow her.

  He extends a hand, gesturing for me to precede him. Amateur. I ignore this, instead looping my arm in his and tugging him forward.

  “Say something charming,” I whisper.

  “Your ass looks amazing in that dress,” he says under his breath.

  I let out a low chuckle so that anyone watching assumes we’re sharing an intimate inside joke, but my words are chastising. “I said charming not horny.”

  “Compliments are charming.”

  “Sure. Compliments on smiles. Hair. A woman’s ass, not so much. No wonder you’re single.”

  He glances down at me. “I’m not single at the moment. I have you.”

  I open my mouth, ready to sling back a tart retort, but . . . I don’t have one.

  I have you.

  I know what he means. He’s hired me to pretend he’s no longer single. But for a moment, the idea that we have each other felt . . . nice.

  “Thanks for coming today,” he says quietly. “I didn’t find out about Kate’s plan until after she already called you.”

  I feel oddly disappointed that it was Kate’s idea to call and not his.

  He puts his lips to my ear. “Say you’re welcome.”

  His proximity sends a quick ripple of awareness down my spine, and the way I lean into him, just slightly, isn’t even faked, though I hope like hell he won’t know that.

  “Here we are!” the hostess announces, motioning us toward the center of the room.

  It’s not a great table, right in the middle of all the foot traffic, but for what we need it for, it’s perfect. It’ll be impossible to miss Matt’s bosses when they come in. Or for them to miss us.

  “So what’s our play?” I ask, picking up the menu once we’re seated. “Cocktail with lunch to signal we’re on a midday date or iced tea to show your new responsible side?”

  “Cocktail,” he mutters. “Definitely cocktail.”

  I look at him more carefully, taking in the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. I just want a damn drink. And lucky for me, The Sams are of the Mad Men era, three-martini-lunch mind-set,” he says. “They’d be more skeptical if I wasn’t drinking.”

  I continue to study him. He looks mostly the same as always. Impeccably styled blond hair. Blue eyes that can go from playful to guarded in the span of a single breath. His suit’s a dark navy today, the slim silver tie keeping the look modern and sharp instead of corporate dowdy.

  But there’s a restlessness about him, alongside the weariness. Even as he studies the menu, I can tell his brain’s elsewhere.

  “You’re nervous,” I say quietly, so none of the neighboring tables can hear.

  His eyes snap up. “What would I be nervous about?”

  “You tell me.” Normally I’d call him out on his mood swings, but instinct tells me to tread carefully. “This client. He’s important?”

  “Kate didn’t tell you who it is?”

  I shake my head. “No. Just said that Matt’s ‘girlfriend’ was needed, that it was important.”

  “It’s Jarod Lanham.”

  I blink. I don’t get starstruck by name-dropping very often, but even I can appreciate the wow factor of one of the world’s most watched billionaires entering the Wall Street sphere. “Well. Crap. He’s like . . . your spirit animal.”

  His smile flashes, and I’m relieved to see that it’s a real one.

  “You know him?” Matt asks. “Hell, of course you do.”

  “No, actually I don’t,” I admit. “He’s not in New York very often, and though we’ve gotten invited to plenty of the same events, both here and in Europe, our paths have never crossed.”

  Plus, he’s never needed my services, which is how I make most of my acquaintances.

  Our server comes over to ramble about today’s raw bar and take our drink order.

  “A glass of the Chardonnay, please,” I say, following Matt’s lead on the boozy lunch.

  “Make it a bottle,” Matt says, handing over the cocktail menu.

  “You hate Chardonnay,” I say as the server moves away.

  “I don’t hate it. I like vodka better, but splitting a bottle of wine’s romantic.” He looks at me in question. “Isn’t it?”

  “I suppose,” I muse. “Truth be told, I spend a lot of time faking romantic evenings, not a lot of time actually enjoying them.”

  Matt leans across the table toward me. “I seem to remember an evening four years ago that was romantic, and there was no faking. I don’t think.”

  “That wasn’t romantic so much as . . . sexual.”

  His eyes narrow slightly in challenge, and I get the sense he’s calling me a liar.

  He’d be right.

  That night when Matt and I first met had been romantic. And sexual. Hell, it’d been magical.

  In the span of hours, he’d made me feel like no man had in my entire life. Butterflies, breathlessness, the whole bit.

  And even though we’ve let the horrific aftermath of the whole thing determine our current relationship, the truth is, the good stuff is always there, lurking in my subconscious like a cherished memory, perfectly protected.

  Matt sets an elbow on the table, palm out, and beckons with his fingers for me to put my hand in his.

  I do. We’re playing the part of smitten, after all.

  And though I know it’s pretend, my stomach tightens the second our palms touch. Even more so when he maneuvers so that my hand is cradled in his, his other hand coming up to rest fingers against the center of my palm.

  The knot in my stomach tightens. Want. And a little bit of fear.

  I try to hide both emotions with a coy smile. “Nice move. Setting the scene?
”

  In response, he drags his fingers lightly along my palm. My breath catches at the caress, but instead of looking smug, he looks intent. Thoughtful as he holds my gaze.

  The server appears with the bottle of wine, but instead of releasing me, Matt continues his gentle caress, directing the server to let me be the one to do the tasting.

  With my free hand, I taste the wine and declare it perfect, though truth be told, I don’t really register the flavor of the Chardonnay. I’m too aware of the man I’m sharing it with.

  I clear my throat. “So what’s the plan?” I ask. “You’re going to just hold my hand until they get here?”

  His gaze drops to the spot where his fingers continue their slow caress of my palm, before moving in a teasing circular motion that immediately calls to mind all the places I want his touch.

  I try to jerk my hand back, but he holds it firm and looks up to study me. “You’re jumpy.”

  I’m facing the front of the restaurant, and I do a quick scan to ensure Matt’s bosses haven’t come in yet. There’s no sign of them.

  “Save your moves for when they’re actually here,” I say, gently extracting my hand from his.

  He lets me go with a thoughtful expression, and it takes all my self-control not to ask what’s going through his head. I know how to deal with snarky Matt, charming Matt, even irritable Matt. But this version, the one with the soft eyes and secretive thoughts . . . he throws me off-balance.

  I hate being off-balance.

  I pick up the menu once more. “Okay, what are we getting? Do you like sushi?”

  “Nope. Came to a sushi restaurant but can’t stand the stuff,” he says sarcastically.

  I don’t bother to look up. “Yes, well, you came to a restaurant with a woman you can’t stand, so you’ll excuse me if I don’t take your actions at face value.”

  “Who says I can’t stand you?” he asks.

  I lift my gaze to his. “Um, you? Every time you look at me, snap at me, pick a fight with me . . .”

  “That’s a two-way street, Ms. Cross.”

  “I never said it wasn’t.”

  Matt runs a hand over his face. “I swear to God, talking with you is impossible.”

  “I’m happy to sit in silence until the show starts.”

  “I don’t—Damn it, I don’t want to sit in silence, and I don’t want to fight.”

  I set the menu back on the table with an irritated slap. “Well, it’s you and me, so silence and fighting are the only options.”

  “They don’t have to be. If you weren’t so damned stubborn—”

  My jaw drops. “Do not put this on me. I’m here because I signed a contract, and in no part of that contract does it say that we have to like each other. I committed to convincing others that I’m wildly in love with your playboy ways, but don’t think for one second—”

  “Matt. Sabrina. We certainly seem to have the same taste in restaurants this week.”

  Matt’s heated gaze snaps away from mine as we both look up to see The Sams standing over our table, along with Jarod Lanham, who looks just as put together and appealing in person as he does in pictures.

  Matt recovers quickly, standing to greet them. “Nobu is definitely the best cure for sushi cravings.”

  “Indeed,” Samantha says, looking torn between admiration and wariness at the fact that Matt’s so clearly manufactured a way for us to end up in their path. Again.

  I give Matt a quick, deliberately shy look, as though not quite sure how he wants me to handle it, then turn my sheepish smile on them. “You must think I’m the worst influence, dragging him out for a lunch date on a workday.”

  “Nonsense,” Sam says. “I have my heart set on an ice-cold martini myself. Do either of you know Jarod Lanham? Jarod, Matt Cannon’s one of our best brokers. This is Sabrina Cross, his . . .”

  “Girlfriend,” I say with a self-depreciating eye roll. “Don’t mind me.”

  Matt extends a hand to Jarod. “Mr. Lanham. A pleasure.”

  Jarod Lanham’s an attractive man—tall and lean, with a strong jawline to balance out his otherwise narrow features. Dark hair with just the slightest gray at the temples that promises excellent silver-fox potential. And when he smiles, like he’s doing now, the laugh lines and straight white teeth flashing against tanned skin make him even more appealing.

  “Mr. Cannon.” He shakes Matt’s hand. “Of Wall Street Journal fame.”

  I keep myself from wincing. Barely. The Sams’ poker faces aren’t as good. Sam visibly flinches, and Samantha’s eyes close in brief exasperation.

  Matt’s shoulders stiffen slightly, but he keeps his expression friendly and lets out an easy laugh. “Ha, yes. Note to self: check for cameras when attending a bachelor party.”

  “You should party with me sometime,” Jarod says. “No cameras. Plenty of private entertainment.”

  The billionaire’s dark eyes drift my way as he says it, and though I’m braced for a smarmy, smug dismissal, his gaze is frank and assessing.

  And appreciative.

  I’ve been around long enough to know when a man likes what he sees, and I’ve definitely gotten the stamp of approval from Jarod Lanham.

  Matt knows it, too, his blue eyes narrowing just slightly. I nearly smile, because I bet in all of Matt’s carefully calculated scenarios of how his first meeting with his dream client would go, Jarod admiring his “girlfriend” wasn’t part of any of them.

  “Ms. Cross. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” He extends a hand.

  Finally? He knows me? “Likewise,” I say, placing his hand in mine and trying to hide that he’s caught me off guard.

  “You’re a . . . consultant.” His eyes lock on mine as he says it. The confidence in his gaze makes me realize he knows full well what I do, but since people don’t go around dropping the word fixer in meetings like this, he’s stuck with my more generic title.

  “I am.”

  He nods. “I’m familiar with your work. I may actually be in the market for your services in the near future, but that’s for another time.”

  I feel a little flutter of surprised pleasure that the Jarod Lanham might want to hire me, but I push it aside, remembering that I’m here for Matt.

  Jarod glances at our table, the barely touched wine. “If you haven’t ordered yet, why don’t you join us?” He glances at The Sams. “If that’s okay with you.”

  I press my lips together to hide a smile. Jarod Lanham could have told Sam and Samantha he was bringing a rabid raccoon to lunch, and they’d have put the animal at the head of the table with champagne and caviar.

  “Absolutely,” Sam says. “Matt’s one of our best. I think you’ll enjoy talking with him. You know he joined us when he was twenty-two?”

  Jarod runs a thumb along his jaw. “That so?”

  Samantha turns to the hostess, who’s been standing a discreet distance away. “Is a table for five available?”

  The woman’s eyes widen in panic. “Five? Well . . . I’ll have to check. We have a limited number of tables for larger parties, especially during the lunch hour, but, um—”

  “Actually,” I interrupt. “This is sort of a lifesaver. I had a work issue come up, but I didn’t want to leave Matt to eat alone. If you all don’t mind my begging off, you’d just need a table for four.”

  Samantha and the hostess practically sag in relief.

  “I hope we’re not running you off,” Jarod says as I lift my purse from the back of my chair.

  “Absolutely not. It’s just that duty calls.”

  “Understood,” Jarod says quietly, clearly still assessing me.

  I swear I hear Matt let out a faint snort, which reminds me why I’m here in the first place: damage control for Matt’s career.

  I give Jarod a vague smile in response, and after nodding goodbye to The Sams, I move around the table to Matt. My touch on his upper arm is for the group’s benefit.

  He leans down to kiss my cheek. “I’m sorry our lunch go
t cut short.”

  I blink in surprise at the sincerity in his voice. We both know Jarod Lanham is the goal here, not me.

  Don’t we?

  “Call me later?” I ask him, letting my voice go soft and a little hopeful.

  “Of course.” His eyes stay locked on mine.

  Even when I turn away, I feel his gaze between my shoulder blades. And though I know it’s for Jarod’s benefit, a part of me wonders—hopes—if his possessiveness isn’t so much about saving his professional career as a broker as it is staking his claim. As a man.

  15

  MATT

  Tuesday Evening, September 26

  “Let me get this straight. You had lunch with Jarod Lanham. And our bosses. Lanham told you he’d be in touch. And you’re looking like someone kicked your puppy?”

  I glare at Ian. “I don’t have a puppy.”

  “Evading,” Kennedy chimes in, pointing at me accusingly. “Ian’s right. You’re not nearly as happy as you should be.”

  “I don’t have Lanham’s business yet. You’ll have to excuse me if I’m not popping the champagne.”

  The guys and I are at one of Wall Street’s favorite after-work watering holes, and I’m halfway through what I expect to be the first of many cocktails tonight. And not the celebratory kind.

  My friends are right. I should be ecstatic that Jarod didn’t laugh me right out of the restaurant. That he knew about my Vegas notoriety and still seemed to entertain the idea of working with me.

  Hell, the man ended our lunch meeting with the implication that I was on his short list of potential brokers.

  “Lanham say why he’s in the market for someone new?” Ian asks. “He’s been with Herbert Bishop for a hundred years.”

  “Precisely. Bishop’s practically a hundred years old. He’s retiring,” I answer.

  “So why not stay with Morgan Stanley? Surely Bishop’s got a half dozen protégés itching to take over.”

  “Probably. But the last thing I wanted to do was plant the seed that he should stay where he is. Besides, I got the sense the man thrives on change.”

  Ian takes a sip of his Negroni, a bitter red gin cocktail he orders wherever he goes. “Wanna flip for him?”