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)
“Of course.” She taps something on her keyboard. “How does next Thursday at four sound?”
“It sounds like a week and a half away.”
She folds her hands on her desk and lifts her eyebrows in a clear take it or leave it, but it’s all I’m offering gesture.
If I weren’t so frustrated by the woman, I’d admire her. Actually, scratch that. I do admire her. Kate’s not only Ian’s assistant, she also works for Matt Cannon and Kennedy Dawson, and she manages the three bullheaded, egomaniac investment brokers with more aplomb than I’ve seen any other assistant manage one, all while looking like a grown-up schoolgirl.
Kate wears her dark-brown hair pulled back with a simple headband. Her eyes are wide and brown and makeup free. Her blouses are primly buttoned to the top, her skirts always just below the knee. Last week, she was wearing honest-to-god Mary Janes.
Her appearance is all soft sweetness, a direct contrast to her personality, which can best be described as hard-ass.
There’s zero chance she’ll meet me halfway on this.
“Next Thursday would be great,” I say with a forced smile.
She nods and adds it to his calendar. “In the meantime, I’d be happy to answer any questions you have.”
“Yes, because you were so helpful when we met last week,” I mutter.
I’d sat with Kate for nearly an hour on Friday afternoon, and impressively, she’d managed to answer every single question with as few words as humanly possible.
You’ve worked for Mr. Bradley for five years? Yes.
Would you say he’s a fair employer? Yes.
Have you ever known him to correspond with any J-Conn employees? No.
Has Mr. Bradley ever asked you to lie for him? No.
“What about Mr. Cannon and Mr. Dawson?” As Ian’s closest confidants, they’re at the top of my interview list but thus far have been proving just as difficult to pin down as Ian himself.
I get it. They’re protecting one another. So I’ve been patient, biding my time by combing through every electronic and paper record with a fine-tooth comb last week.
I haven’t found crap—not a single thing we can use to connect Ian and J-Conn. Not that I’m surprised. The man strikes me as brash but not foolish. He’s not going to put anything incriminating in writing.
He might, however, say something to his best friends over drinks.
Kate is clicking idly on her keyboard. “I can get you on Mr. Cannon’s schedule next Tuesday. Mr. Dawson . . .”
I suck in another breath for patience as she takes her sweet time checking her bosses’ schedules. I’ve played this game just about as long as I can afford to. Any more of this and I’ll have to go over all their heads, which I don’t particularly want to do. The last thing I need is more hostility if I want to make any progress. I can play bad cop if I have to, but my record’s what it is because I use finesse, not brass knuckles, to get my way.
Kate’s phone rings, and she lifts a hold, please finger as she picks it up. I’m about to give her a finger of my own—a different one—when over Kate’s head, I see a familiar brown head moving toward his office, white Starbucks cup in hand.
It’s the opening I’ve been waiting for.
As Kate turns her attention to her computer screen, I dart toward the man, managing to step in front of him just before he can enter his office.
Kennedy Dawson’s brown eyes are cold and bored as he looks down at me. “Yes?”
“Mr. Dawson,” I say, extending a hand. “We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting yet.”
“Because there’s nothing pleasurable about it,” he responds, reluctantly shaking my hand.
Kennedy’s a very attractive man. For one, he has dimples. Really, really great dimples. Not that they’re present now, but I saw him laugh with Ian the other day outside the conference room. He wears glasses about half the time, like he is today, and it emphasizes the quiet, scholarly way he carries himself. His suits are classic, his ties never flashy.
My family’s got a bit of a classic movie obsession going for us, so let me put it this way: if Ian’s got Cary Grant’s swagger, and Matt’s got Paul Newman’s charm, Kennedy’s got the uptight brooding thing going for him, a little bit Humphrey Bogart meets Clint Eastwood. Yum.
In other words, I should definitely be feeling something when our palms make contact. Kennedy looks like every version of the one I’ve been dreaming about since I hit puberty. Quiet. Sensible. Safe. He’s the opposite of Ian Bradley, and thus exactly what I’m looking for.
I wait for the expected feminine awareness, and . . . nothing.
Not a zip, not a spark, not even a flutter.
He drops the handshake as soon as he can without being rude, and judging from the near-sneer on his face, I don’t think he felt anything, either.