Hot Asset_21 Wall Street Read online

  Here’s an example:

  Last week, Gabby went home with a broker who had a Steinway concert grand piano in the living room of his penthouse. When Gabby asked if he played, he said he’s never even touched the keys. His decorator had recommended the piano to him as a “statement piece.”

  Sorry, but can we pause on that for a second?

  There are people in my own city whose “statement pieces” cost more than double my annual income.

  I get that it’s reverse snobbery, but come on.

  Anyway.

  I don’t officially kick off my investigation until later this week, but statistically speaking, Ian’s probably every bit as guilty of insider trading as our source claims. He’s one of the biggest names at one of the biggest firms. That means the most money. The most money means the most to lose . . . and the most to win. Which means the most temptation to cheat.

  Ian’s also exactly what I’d expected. The guy’s pic on the company website is pretty much the stock photo equivalent of a Wall Street broker—expensive haircut, expensive teeth, expensive suit, expensive tan.

  In person, he was even more . . .

  Well, he was just . . . too much. Too tall. Too charming. Too masculine.

  Also . . . gorgeous. Really, ridiculously, hurts your eyes gorgeous.

  But he knows it.

  Even if I hadn’t been investigating the guy, I’d have dodged his come-ons. Guys like that just aren’t for me. I don’t have the patience for their flash and dazzle and strutting, and they don’t have time for my rules and structure.

  So is Ian Bradley hot? Yes. Very. But I don’t need hot. I’d settle for someone a little plain, even a little boring, just so long as he’s loyal. Someone who won’t mind when I geek out over a new case at work or spend my Saturdays updating my Quantico application.

  Professional life first, personal after. It’s a little pact I’ve made with myself since acknowledging that apparently I’m incapable of juggling both.

  I’m just starting toward the subway when I hear a masculine voice calling my name.

  I turn to see Ian strolling out of Wolfe Investments’ revolving doors and heading right toward me. I press my lips together, not loving the jolt of surprise that has me freezing instead of continuing on my way.

  I don’t like surprises.

  Usually the people I’m investigating avoid me at all costs. The fact that he’s breaking the rules already does not bode well for the investigation proceeding predictably.

  And I do like predictability.

  Still, the job is the job, so I paste a professional smile on my face, even as I feel a strange flicker of awareness as he comes closer. The Ian Bradley in the office had been all quippy one-liners, superficial charm, and playboy confidence. This Ian, though . . . let’s just say I can understand why Ian Bradley and his crew at Wolfe Investments are nicknamed the Wolfes of Wall Street—they’re wicked hot, insanely rich, and known for getting exactly what they want, consequences be damned.

  Ian slides on sunglasses, hiding eyes that I know are piercingly blue. He stops in front of me, a hair closer than he needs to be, but I refuse to step back.

  God, he smells good. Manly and expensive. How annoying.

  “Hello again,” I say, giving him my most generic “SEC smile.”

  He doesn’t smile back, and even with his sunglasses on, I’m more certain than ever that I’m dealing with a very different version of Ian Bradley from the one I met ten minutes ago. A more dangerous version.

  “Was it good for you?” he asks in a low voice.

  My smile drops. “Excuse me?”

  “Your little game back there.” He tilts his head toward the office. “You have fun?”

  “Actually, yes,” I say, lifting my chin defiantly.

  He steps closer, and I can feel the anger radiating off him. “Where the hell do you get off? Coming into my office, flirting—”

  “Flirting?” I interrupt, furious. “I was just trying to get a stupid cup of coffee. You’re the one who was acting like freaking Don Juan.”

  “I’m not going to apologize for asking an attractive woman to drinks,” he snaps.

  I snort. “Save the flattery for someone who’s interested.”

  He shakes his head. “You’ve got a sad-ass love life if you think that was flattery, Ms. McKenzie.”

  His barb hits a little too close to home, but I swipe away the sting and step closer. “Let’s get one thing straight, Mr. Bradley, for both our sakes. You think you’re the first Wall Street suit who thinks I’ll be so dazzled by broad shoulders and a well-played line that I’ll lose my little female head and overlook any wrongdoing? You think you’re the first one to think this is a game to be won by slimy seduction?”

  His mouth drops open. “What the—? Slimy seduction, my ass!”

  I ignore his protest and continue with my tirade. “Being a woman in today’s world is no easy task, and being a woman in the SEC is that much harder. But here’s the part I want you to listen to very closely, Mr. Bradley. I love working for an agency that seeks justice. I love the fact that when it comes to the world of trades and stock and money, nobody’s above the law. Not freaking Martha Stewart and most definitely not you.”

  He takes a small step back and crosses his arms. “Guilty until proven innocent, is that how this works?” I can’t see his eyes through the dark shades, but I feel the heat of his glare.

  I open my mouth to retort, but his comment slices into my conscience like a very thin paper cut. He’s maybe a tiny bit right. In my experience, rumors of insider trading are almost always true, but that doesn’t mean I can assume.

  “My job is to find out the truth,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “And what if the truth isn’t what you want to hear?”

  “Meaning?”

  He leans toward me, and I can see the faintest bit of dark stubble against the decidedly stubborn set of his jawline.

  Damn it, he really does smell good. What is that, sandalwood? Cedar? George Clooney’s sweat?

  “Meaning, I think you want me to be guilty,” he says in a low rumble.

  “Why would I want that?”

  “You’ve got a hero complex,” he continues. “You’re determined to save the world, even if you have to invent your own villains.”

  I scoff. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it?”

  Is it?

  I’ve known this guy for all of three minutes, and somehow, he’s made me doubt myself twice. The feeling is unfamiliar and highly annoying.

  Much like the man in front of me.

  I give him a cool, dismissive smile. “Ah. I see. Asking me to drinks didn’t work, so now you’re trying to twist this around. Get in my head.”

  To my surprise, he grins, all traces of his former intensity vanished. “Is it working?”

  “Getting in my head? Nope.”

  “What about the seduction?”

  I spread my arms to the side, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. “Again, no signs of imminent swooning. Suspected criminals aren’t my type.”

  I expect him to growl at me, but his smile merely widens, though there’s a sharpness to it. “Then I look forward to the day you have to look me in the eyes and tell me I’m innocent.”

  “If you’re innocent, I will surely do that,” I say.

  “But you don’t think I am.”

  “I told you, it’s my job to find out.”

  “Great. So when this thing goes my way, maybe you can buy me a drink.”

  “Oh, absolutely,” I say, making no effort to hide my sarcasm.

  He rubs his jaw and studies me, then he shakes his head and turns away. “See you around, Ms. McKenzie.”

  I’ll deny it to my dying day, even to myself, but I’m disappointed that he doesn’t turn and glance my way, because I can’t seem to remove my eyes from his retreating back.

  A back that’s too broad, too muscular, too . . .

  Gah!

  I pivot on
my heel and march away, more in need of that champagne than ever.

  A drink with Ian Bradley, indeed. Can you imagine?

  Even if he’s not guilty, it won’t happen.

  And if he is . . .

  Let’s just say I’m totally not visiting him in prison, even though I know he would look really good in an orange jumpsuit.

  3

  IAN

  Week 1: Tuesday Morning

  “Ian. Ready for you.”

  Well, hell. That makes a first—the first time in my life I’ve ever hated hearing a woman tell me she’s ready for me.

  I stand and manage a flirty wink for Carla, the longtime executive assistant of Wolfe’s CEOs. She winks back, but it does little to ease my nerves as I enter the office.

  It’s not that I mind bosses. I don’t know that I even have trouble with authority—that’s more my friend Matt Cannon’s gig. And as far as my superior goes, the guy I report to’s a good one. Joe Schneider, my MD (managing director, not the doctor kind), is a hard-ass, but he’s decent. Granted, he’s the type of guy who nobody particularly likes at cocktail parties because he doesn’t know how to talk about anything other than work. But in the office, he commands respect, and that’s good enough for me.

  However, today I’m not dealing with Joe. Or at least, not just Joe.

  Today, I’m dealing with his bosses—the CEOs of the company.

  I’ve met Sam and Sam Wolfe (yeah, you read that right) several times. The CEOs loves me. I’m their hottest asset. They know it, and I know it. Between holiday parties, fund-raisers, and quarterly meetings, I’ve gotten plenty of face time with the higher-ups.

  This time, though, is entirely different. There’s no shooting the shit, no clap on the back, no grin at my arrival. I’m all too aware of their somber faces, the way the room smells like tension.

  As it should. The SEC likes to give the illusion it’s got Wall Street by the balls, but Wolfe’s got a rep for steering clear of their attention—mostly. I hate like hell that I’m the one to put Wolfe on the SEC’s radar for the first time in years.

  Most annoying of all, I don’t even know what the hell this is all about.

  I had an opportunity to know—to go into this meeting armed with the details of the case and maybe even a strategy for how to fight it. All I had to do was play Lara McKenzie exactly right when I cornered her on the sidewalk yesterday.

  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.

  They don’t bother to calm me down.

  There’s a pregnant pause before anyone speaks again.

  “Ian, you’ve been with us a long time,” Sam says, taking a sip of whiskey. “We like you. Consider you a friend.”

  “Likewise,” I grunt with a nod.

  “We’ve got the best attorneys in the business,” Samantha says. “They’re here to protect the company and everyone in it, and that includes you.”

  I meet her gaze. “But?”

  “But,” she says with the faintest smile, “if it comes down to you or the company . . .” She looks at her
husband.

  “You’ve got to get independent counsel, Ian. For your own sake,” Sam says.

  It’s sound advice. No matter how good Wolfe’s lawyers are, if the SEC decides to pin something on me, the company would—and should—cut ties with me, thus severing access to their lawyers.

  I need my own.

  I’ve known this. I’ve known it since the second Lara McKenzie said the words “SEC” and “investigation.” But hearing it from my bosses makes it all the more real. And serious.

  Joe thumps my shoulder in solidarity, but it’s an empty gesture. I’m not sure what grates more, the fact that none of them is confident I’m innocent or the fact that I’m getting the distinct sense they’ll hang me out to dry if I’m not.

  Sam clears his throat, and I realize that the meeting’s over. They’ve done all they can do, said all they can say. They’ve also covered their own asses while giving me plenty of fair warning, which I guess I can appreciate.

  I set my glass aside and stand. “Thanks for the time. And the whiskey.”

  “We’d say the same thing to anyone in this situation,” Samantha says, standing and leaning across the table to shake my hand.

  I nod, shake her hand, as well as Sam’s.

  “I’ll stop by your office later,” Joe says, clearly intending to stay behind to talk with the Sams.

  “Sure.”

  “Ian.” I turn back again to Sam, female version. “We’ve given Ms. McKenzie full access to the west conference room on your floor for the course of her investigation. It’ll work in your favor to make her like you.”

  I don’t bother to respond to that. It’s not until I get back to my office, door closed, that the anger sets in.

  Not at either of the Sams. And not at Joe.

  No, my anger has a very specific focus. A blonde, bespectacled, SEC kind of focus, and the lying asshole who set her after me in the first place.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and try to ward off the panic. I can’t fight this when I don’t know who I’m fighting or why. I haven’t worked this hard, haven’t gotten this far, only to have it crumble around me because some blonde ballbuster has a liar whispering in her ear.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I have every intention of ignoring whomever it is, but then I see the name, and it’s the one person I’ve never been able to ignore.