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)
“Yes, one hundred percent positive. I didn’t know the man. Now is this a boyfriend you were planning to meet, or—”
“What about a mutual acquaintance of Mr. Maverick’s?” she presses. “Someone you both knew?”
“Question for question, Ms. McKenzie. That’s the deal.”
She blows out a frustrated breath but relents. “It was a blind date.”
“Who set you up?”
“My best friend, Gabby. She can be a little . . . pushy. She’s a serial dater and doesn’t understand why I’m not the same.”
“But you agreed.”
Lara twists the stem of her wineglass between her fingers, watching as the wine swishes lightly from side to side. “Yes, it’s been a while since—” Her head snaps up. “Hold on. That was more than one question.”
“Whoops.” I grin.
Her eyes narrow behind her glasses, and she leans forward. “So you didn’t know Maverick. But you must’ve known someone from J-Conn. It was a huge company, and—”
“Christ, woman, you’re like a dog with a bone.”
She studies me. “If you’re not going to take this seriously, Mr. Bradley—”
“Nobody,” I snap. “I don’t know a damn person from J-Conn, Ms. McKenzie. I didn’t have any inside scoop. You can believe me or not believe me, but it’s the damn truth.”
I sit back in my chair, nodding in thanks as the server brings my wine and moves away again.
“Favorite food.”
She blinks. “What?”
“What’s your favorite food?”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“Jesus, you’re ornery. Fine, why the SEC?”
She studies me for a moment. “Pizza.”
I’m trying so hard not to check out her body in that dress that it takes a moment to register she’s said something. “What?”
“My favorite food is pizza. How’d you get Vanessa Lewis as your lawyer?” she asks.
For a half second, I’m tempted to gloat—my getting the best attorney in the business is a win, and she and I both know it. But for reasons I don’t feel like analyzing, I don’t feel like gloating. I don’t feel like working against Lara.
I want her to see me as something other than the fucking case.
“Charm?” I say teasingly, answering her question.
“It takes more than charm to get someone like Ms. Lewis on your side,” Lara says, watching me carefully.
“Damn straight. She’s got to believe she can get a nonguilty verdict. Because you know as well as I do that Vanessa Lewis only takes on clients she knows are innocent.”
“Thinks are innocent,” she corrects. “So if you didn’t know anyone at J-Conn, how’d you luck out when they went under?”
Technically it’s not her turn for a question, but I answer anyway because it’s something she needs to hear, even if she doesn’t believe me. “Good old-fashioned gut instinct,” I say. “It bugged me that J-Conn had been sitting on a supposed big announcement for so long. Everyone else took the claims that they were releasing some game-changing product at face value. I didn’t. My gut told me they didn’t have the next Facebook or iPhone waiting in the wings, so I sold when everyone bought high.”
“So a gut feeling saved you and your clients millions of dollars,” she says, shaking her head. She takes another sip of her wine, frowns when she sees the glass is nearly empty.
“You don’t believe in intuition?”
“I believe in facts, Mr. Bradley. Intuition is nothing more than your subconscious remembering something your consciousness forgot and attributing it to some outside source.”
Aha. I study her for a moment as a crucial piece of the Lara McKenzie puzzle clicks into place. Here I’ve been approaching this thing like a game: winner, loser, hunter, prey.
For Lara, it’s different. It’s true or false, right or wrong.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” She shifts uncomfortably.
“The world’s not black and white, Ms. McKenzie.”
“Maybe not to you,” she says.
And there it is, the root of this mess: we don’t live in the same world. Or, at least, we don’t look at the world through the same lens.
The sudden realization that our very realities might be incompatible feels . . . unacceptable.
The server comes over, interrupting my thoughts. “Another glass of wine, miss?”
She looks at me, and as our eyes lock and hold, something passes between us—a silent acknowledgment of . . .
Hell, I don’t know. Wanting? Wishing things could be different?
“Yeah, okay,” she says slowly. “Another glass of wine.”
I lift my glass and take a sip to hide my smile as the server moves away. “So, why the SEC?”
“How long does this game go on?”
“We each get one more question after you answer this one.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine. I’m with the SEC because it gets me closer to my dream job.”
“Which is . . . ?”
She points at me and smiles. “That’s your last question.”
I shrug. “’Kay.” I’m a little surprised that I really do want to know more about what motivates this complex woman who’s driven by structure and rules. I know it’s not money. The SEC pays shit.