Hard Sell (21 Wall Street) Read online

  I grin, knowing my friend’s joking. “You’ll have to pry his billions from my cold, dead fingers.”

  “Jarod Fucking Lanham.” Kennedy shakes his head. “Unbelievable. You realize that you’re on the cusp of achieving everything you’ve ever wanted at twenty-eight. It’s hard not to hate you.”

  I smile reflexively, but I’m taken aback at Kennedy’s words: Everything you’ve ever wanted.

  Is that right?

  Is getting an elusive billionaire client my life’s dream? Is it really everything I’ve ever wanted?

  I suppose that’s right.

  So why do I feel so hollow?

  Because Jarod Lanham was looking at Sabrina. And she was looking right back.

  Okay, so I’m not entirely sure about the last one. Sabrina had been in her role as my girlfriend, and to give credit where it’s due, the woman rivals any Academy Award winner when it comes to her acting skills.

  Even I’d have been convinced that she was into me if I didn’t know better.

  But I’m definitely not imagining that Lanham had been looking at her. And if I know anything about the man from my years of watching him from afar, it’s that he gets what he wants.

  He’d wanted Sabrina.

  I can’t blame the man. She’d been sexy as hell in a blue dress that matched her eyes, her hair long and tousled, her heels high and begging to be wrapped around a man’s waist . . .

  I look up at Ian as I reach for the complimentary nut bowl in the center of our table. “You talk to Sabrina today?”

  “No, not in a few days. Why?”

  I hate myself for it, but I feel a tiny stab of relief that Sabrina hasn’t gone running to Ian to talk about how miserable she is in her and my current arrangement. Though I know her and Ian’s relationship has never been romantic or sexual, I’m always . . . aware of it. Aware that she’d do anything for him, whereas she won’t do a damn thing for me unless money and an ironclad contract’s included.

  And no sex.

  That part has been worse than I expected. Of course, I’ve always known how hard it is to be around Sabrina and not touch her. I just figured I’d . . . get over it. I figured that if a line was drawn in the sand, my constant boner for the woman would get over itself.

  Not so.

  I want her more than ever.

  Which, I’ve been trying to assume, is just the result of the age-old “wanting what I can’t have,” but I’m terrified it’s something worse. Terrified that I want her more because I’m spending more time with her. Talking with her. Studying her. Seeing how her brain works.

  Everything you’ve ever wanted . . .

  Damn it.

  “She’s meeting Lara for drinks, though.”

  I look up at Ian. “What?”

  He rolls his eyes at my distractedness. “You asked about Sabrina. I said I hadn’t talked to her, but Lara mentioned she and Sabrina were going to grab a drink before dinner.”

  “When? Where?”

  “Never had you pegged for a clingy boyfriend,” Kennedy says, snatching the nut bowl away from me. He looks down, then glares at me. “You ate all the almonds and left the shitty peanuts.”

  “So ask for some more almonds. And I am not a clingy boyfriend. You know we’re only—”

  “Posing for the people, I know,” Kennedy interrupts. “But no need to keep up the pretense for Ian and me.”

  It’s a trap. One of the subtle, barely noticeable verbal traps that Kennedy Dawson is legendary for. Kennedy’s got a low, almost monotone voice. He never yells, rarely laughs. All three of us are sarcastic, but Kennedy’s humor is dry to the Sahara level.

  I’m sure Kennedy and Ian expect me to either deny the comment or jump to reassure them that Sabrina and I still hate each other, that we’re just pretending. But I’m feeling ornery, so I surprise them. And myself.

  “Lanham wants something from her.”

  “From who?” Ian asks.

  “Sabrina. Keep up, man.”

  “I thought you said she left lunch as soon as he and The Sams showed up.”

  “Yeah, but she didn’t Irish goodbye. She chatted. Made nice. Then excused herself.”

  “I see,” Ian says, grabbing the nut bowl from Kennedy, then setting it aside in disgust when he sees it’s empty. “And at what point in this interaction did Lanham slip the note into Sabrina’s locker about having a crush on her?”

  I point my glass at him. “You don’t get to be sarcastic about this. We had to listen to you overanalyze Lara’s every blink for months.”

  “He’s got you there,” Kennedy tells Ian. But my reprieve is temporary. Kennedy turns back to me. “So what if Lanham likes her. Hell, it could work in your favor.”

  I’m already shaking my head. “She’s supposed to be my girlfriend. Hell, the entire reason for that is so I don’t lose out on clients like Lanham because of my wild ways or whatever.”

  “But you’ve already got Lanham halfway there,” Kennedy points out. “Which means either The Sams overstated the impact of the WSJ article, or Lanham doesn’t give a shit, or you and Sabrina were damn convincing at lunch and he thinks you’re a settled man.”

  I toss back the rest of my drink. “It’s not the last one. Or if it is, he wouldn’t hesitate to make a move if given the chance.”

  “So? Let him. You want Lanham. He wants Sabrina. He’ll probably crash and burn with her as every man does. What’s the harm in letting him try?”

  “Guess we’ll find out.”

  I turn toward Ian. “What?”

  “You were so into your ranting, I didn’t have the chance to tell you that Lara and Sabrina were meeting here for a drink. I just got a text from Lara that she’s running late, but it looks like Sabrina found someone to keep her company while she waits.” He nods his chin toward the bar.

  My head whips around, and hot possession rips through me.

  Sabrina’s at the bar, all right, still wearing the sexy blue dress from earlier. Her head tilts back as she laughs at something the man next to her said.

  A man who’s none other than Jarod Lanham.

  16

  SABRINA

  Tuesday Evening, September 26

  So, billionaires can be genuinely charming. Who knew?

  Jarod Lanham uses his elbow to indicate my nearly empty drink. “Another?”

  I hesitate for a second, and he immediately picks up on it. “I’m being pushy. Forgive me.”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just . . . convenient that you’re at the same bar as me, on the same day I met you. I can admire a man with a plan. Just wish I knew your angle.”

  “No angle. All I want is to buy you another drink.” When I narrow my eyes, he gives a sheepish grin. “I suppose that sounded a touch desperate.”

  I laugh at that. “I don’t think anyone could ever describe you as desperate.”

  He grins and leans forward on the bar. “I confess, the money does help people overlook the flaws.”

  “Yeah?” I sip the last of my drink. “And what would the flaws be?”

  The second the words are out, I blink a little in surprise. Oh hell. Was that flirting?

  I mean, not that I’m any stranger to flirting—I’ve practically built a career out of being good at it. But usually it’s with an agenda. This had just . . . slipped out.

  The bartender comes over, and Jarod gestures for another round for both of us with an assertive spin of his finger.

  Instead of using the barstool I’d been saving for Lara, Jarod’s leaning against the bar, and he shifts now so he’s fully facing me, elbow on the counter.

  “My flaws,” he says with a smile. “You sure you’re ready for them? We’ve just met.”

  I make a bring-it gesture with my fingers.

  He leans forward slightly. “I can be alarmingly single-minded. When there’s something I want . . .” He shrugs. “I get it.”

  He holds my gaze as he says it, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he’s saying. Or rath
er, what he’s not saying. Not out loud, anyway.

  Still, the guy’s perceptive enough to know I was at lunch with Matt, so his forwardness, while flattering, is also a bit off-putting.

  “Question,” he says, crossing his feet at the ankle. “Your services. You ever help people sort out their personal life?”

  I take my time before answering. Normally I’d play coy a bit. Figure out how much he knows about me before confirming exactly what it is I do.

  But this is Jarod Lanham. He wouldn’t waste my time. Or his own.

  “What did you have in mind?” I ask.

  He looks away, and I’m surprised to see there’s a flash of uncertainty there.

  “Mr. Lanham. Anything between my clients and me—and that includes potential clients—stays between us.”

  He fiddles with the cocktail napkin, just for a moment. “I’m, ah—” He clears his throat. “Sort of looking for a . . . matchmaker.”

  I’m careful to hide my surprise. It’s not an uncommon request. I get people asking all the time to fix them up with someone compatible when they don’t have the time or inclination to try dating apps or no longer hope to meet someone the old-fashioned way.

  But Jarod Lanham is a billionaire. And a good-looking one.

  Unless he’s got really creepy skeletons in his closet, he can have pretty much any woman he wants.

  Jarod apparently reads my thoughts, because he gives a derisive laugh. “I know. It sounds ridiculous.”

  “No. Surprising, maybe, but not ridiculous. Have you been dating long?”

  He shrugs. “I’ve had girlfriends. Some of them serious, but none I can see myself sharing a life with.”

  “You’re looking for a wife,” I say, deciding to cut straight to it.

  He nods. “Yes. I’m not in a hurry, but I’m also not getting any younger. I’ve never wanted to be a bachelor forever.”

  “Understood. I’d be happy to make some time for us to go over what you’re looking for.”

  “I already know exactly what I’m looking for.”

  I laugh. “All right. Let’s hear it.”

  “I don’t want someone fluttery. I’m not looking for some grand love or any of that bullshit. I just want someone to . . . be with.”

  I swallow, a little alarmed by how closely his sentiments echo what I told Matt at brunch on Sunday. “I see. So you’re not looking for a love match.”

  He shrugs. “I want someone I can trust. Care about. But I don’t expect to feel butterflies, nor do I want someone who expects to be swept off her feet.” His smile is rueful. “You’re probably thinking I sound like an unromantic asshole.”

  I smile into my drink. “I’ve heard worse.”

  “You and Cannon,” he says curiously. “You’ve got the whole thing? The butterflies, the sweeping?”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to confess I don’t know what Matt and I have. Then I remember my role: Matt is my current client, not Jarod.

  I get a minute to come up with my answer as the bartender delivers our drinks. Jarod nods in thanks, then turns back to me, expectant but not prying.

  “We haven’t been dating long,” I admit. “But . . .”

  “There’s something there?”

  I allow myself a little smile. “Yeah. Yeah, there’s something there.”

  Don’t know what. But it’s there.

  He studies me. “I think you’d have a good sense of what I’m looking for. In a woman, I mean.”

  “How soon are you thinking? I’ll be honest; I have a waiting list . . .”

  “You can’t shoot handsome billionaires to the top of the list?” he says with a charming smile.

  I laugh. “Not cocky ones, no.”

  Jarod shrugs. “All right. I can wait.”

  “Really? You don’t strike me as overly patient.”

  “How do I strike you?” he asks with a flirty grin.

  We’re interrupted before I have to answer.

  “Mr. Lanham. It’s good to run into you again.”

  My head whips around. “Matt?”

  Jarod won’t know it, but he’s about to see exactly how good I am at my job.

  I slip immediately into character, pivoting toward Matt with a wide smile on my face. “We were just talking about you.”

  Matt’s looking right at me, and the expression on his face takes me aback a bit. I’d been expecting wariness—I am talking to his chief target after all, the entire reason he needs me to pose as his girlfriend in the first place. But he’s beyond wariness. He looks . . . mad?

  Jarod extends a hand. “I figured I might run into someone I knew here. The Sams mentioned it was one of the popular Wall Street hangouts.”

  “They’d be right,” Matt says, barely disguising the edge in his voice. “Am I interrupting?”

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. This is so not the time for him to play jealous boyfriend.

  “Not particularly.”

  “Good,” Matt says decisively. “Have you given any thought to whether or not we might be a good fit?”

  “I’m still thinking,” Jarod says blandly.

  I look between the two of them, a little surprised that their conversation at lunch apparently went so far as to talk specifics. Matt must want this deal badly.

  “I understand,” Matt says. “That said, I also don’t like games. If you’re not intending to give me your business, I’d prefer to know upfront.”

  I give myself a quick pat on the back for not laughing out loud. Don’t like games, my ass. Matt’s entire life is a game. So is mine.

  Only this one we’re playing together, which makes it all the more dangerous.

  “I said I’m still thinking,” Jarod repeats, all but daring Matt to push him further.

  Luckily, Matt’s smart enough to know when to drop it. He leans in to kiss my cheek, deliberately pressing his lips close to my ear in an unmistakably intimate, mine gesture.

  I smile and lean up to adjust his tie. “Hey, you found me!”

  He smiles back, but his eyes stay cold. “Looks like we crossed wires about where we were meeting. I had a table in the back.”

  “Oh shoot, sorry!” I say, stepping immediately into the charade that he and I had plans. “I just assumed we’d grab a spot at the bar.”

  I say a quick prayer of thanks that Lara’s in on our arrangement. If she walks in, she’ll know better than to blow our cover.

  Jarod reaches for his wallet and sets enough money on the bar to cover his and my drinks plus a generous tip. “I know my reputation is ruthless, but I’m not so much of an ass as to interrupt two dates in one day.” He gives me an easy no-hard-feelings grin. “I stole your man away at lunch; I won’t do so at dinner as well.”

  Matt’s smile is forced, his hand pressing hard against my back. “Better than you stealing away my woman.”

  I stiffen, shocked at both Matt’s lack of charm in front of an important potential client, as well as my visceral, pleased reaction at being called his woman.

  Still, we’re here for a reason, and he’s very close to screwing it all up.

  “Matt,” I murmur in warning under my breath.

  He smiles a bit wider, still focused on the billionaire. “Normally I wouldn’t worry, but you’re just about the only other man who can afford her.”

  I can’t stop my gasp from slipping out. Nor can I disguise the fact that it’s a gasp of pain.

  I don’t know how it happened, but somehow over the course of the past few days, my shield has been slowing lowering, and now it’s gone.

  I did what I promised I’d never let him do—hurt me. Again.

  I swallow and manage to stand, grabbing my purse off the back of the stool, all but shoving away Matt’s hand.

  “Sabrina—”

  I pretend he’s not there, my attention focused on Jarod through what I’m horrified to realize is a sheen of tears. “It was nice speaking with you. I appreciate the drinks.”

  “Of course,” he murmurs, his bro
w furrowing in confusion. “And really, I was just leaving. If you two want to—”

  “No, I was just leaving,” I say.

  And then I do. My chin might be wobbling, but I keep it high as I walk out of the restaurant and onto Pine Street.

  Away from Matt Cannon.

  17

  MATT

  Tuesday Evening, September 26

  “Sabrina. Shit. Sabrina!”

  She’s halfway down the block before I can catch up with her, my fingers grabbing hold of her arm and pulling her around.

  What I see there rocks me back a step.

  Sabrina Cross is crying.

  She shoves a hand against my shoulder. “Don’t. Don’t talk to me, don’t touch me, don’t ever call me again.”

  I run my free hand through my hair, still holding her arm with the other. I’m not letting her get away. Not when she looks like this.

  “What did I—”

  “He’s the only other man who can afford me?” she says, her scathing tone doing nothing to hide her hurt.

  “What—”

  Oh. Oh fuck.

  Fuck fuck fuck.

  Of all the boneheaded things I could have said . . .

  I lift my hand to her other arm, holding both her shoulders, desperately needing to make her understand. “No,” I say firmly. “That’s not what I meant.”

  She pulls away with a harsh laugh. “Whatever. You made it clear four years ago what you thought of me.”

  I groan. “Not that again—”

  “Yes again,” she shouts, not caring that a handful of passersby are staring at us wide-eyed. “You may want to forget what you said that morning, but I can’t. You said that I must be worth every penny. You said it after we slept together, like I was a common—”

  “Don’t say it,” I growl. “Do not call yourself that.”

  “Why not?” she challenges. “You practically did.”

  “You heard what you wanted to hear, then and now,” I say, my own voice raising to a shout. “Back then I only meant that you were damn good at your job. You’d told me just hours before that your job was to be anything to anyone, for a price, and that night you were everything to me.”

  She snorts and opens her mouth to argue, but I talk over her.