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)
“It says it’s hungry. What are you eating?”
“Healthy crap with no taste. Now quit evading. What does your gut say about the case?”
“Who cares?” I say breezily. “Gut feelings can be wrong. My job is to find facts. Evidence.”
“Don’t discount intuition, Lara. If your mom and I’ve learned anything in the bureau—”
“Yeah, well, I’m not in the bureau, Dad.”
I hear him blow out a breath. “Not this again . . .”
I shouldn’t let my irritation show, but the more work experience I get under my belt, the harder it is to accept the wall my parents put up every time I mention my dream of joining the FBI.
They’ve always told me I can do whatever I set my mind to—that I can do anything any man can do, all that good, empowering stuff. Right up until the moment I told them I wanted to follow in their footsteps.
Instead of being encouraging, they’ve been . . . reluctant.
“I’m not asking you to get me into Quantico,” I say quietly. “I want to get there myself, on my own merits. But you and Mom both change the subject every time I mention it.”
“Lara, if you have kids someday, you’ll get it. Your mother and I are just having a hell of a hard time thinking about our baby girl going through combat training and target practice.”
“Skills I’ll likely never need in the white-collar division,” I point out. “The job will be pretty much just like the one I have now—”
“Then why not keep the one you have?”
I tilt my head back in frustration and gaze for a moment at the sky. It’s an old argument and an exhausting one.
“The SEC’s fine; it’s been great training, but I want to be FBI, Dad. You know this has always been the plan.”
“I know,” he says grumpily, resuming his crunching.
“Is it such a bad thing?” I tease. “Having your only child want to follow in her parents’ footsteps?”
“It is when our footsteps are dangerous.”
“Exactly,” I say, pouncing on the point. “You and Mom walk into danger every day, and I worry, but I’m proud of you. I want you to be proud of me, too.”
There’s a long moment of thoughtful silence.
“We’re proud of you.”
I stifle a sigh. I understand their protectiveness, but if I’m being totally honest, a little part of me wonders if they think I can’t do it—that I won’t be good enough. I’m not as whip-smart as my dad, not as hard-ass as my mom, and maybe . . . ah hell, I’m that girl. The one still trying to please her parents at age twenty-eight.
My thoughts are distracted as I see a familiar form crossing the street.
Ian’s been avoiding me since our Frappuccino moment on Tuesday, and I’m sick of it. I can do only so much with e-mails and reports and meeting minutes. I need to talk to the guy. Read him.
And today, for the first time in days, he’s without his guard-dog assistant.
Now’s my chance.
“Dad, I gotta run. Talk soon, okay?”
“Keep me updated on the case.”
“Will do.”
I hang up the phone and tuck it in my purse, quickening my pace so I don’t lose sight of Ian. A little stalker-ish, I know, but I am an investigator. Sometimes we get downright gumshoe for the sake of the job.
Ian crosses yet another street, heading toward the Hudson waterfront, which is . . . odd. The place is a hotbed for tourists and parents pushing strollers, not Wall Street elite. I’d have expected him to duck into one of the FiDi hot spots for martinis and caviar.
I don’t have to follow him long. He walks into a cheesy-looking restaurant called Vincedi’s that looks like its next New York health inspection rating will be questionable at best.
Definitely the type of place you’d meet with someone you didn’t want to be seen with.
I give it a couple of minutes, then enter the restaurant.
“Just one?” the chipper hostess asks, holding up a vinyl menu.
I nod and follow her to the table, keeping an eye out for Ian and hoping I spot him before he spots me.
The restaurant’s bigger than I realized, so it’s not until I’ve been seated, alternating between scanning the room and feigning interest in their “gourmet burgers,” that I spot him.
My stomach drops out.
As expected, he’s meeting someone. But from the looks of it, his interest in her has nothing to do with J-Conn.
Ian’s table is a corner booth, and he’s whispering into the ear of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. The red dress is fitted to her perfect figure and is low-cut enough to show off impressive boobs without being yikes. Her hair’s long and black, her makeup flawless. She’s hardly the type of woman to be hidden away in a crappy, off-the-beaten-path restaurant, which makes me wonder if she’s married.