Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“And this is news how?” Fin deadpans.
“It’s not news, per se. It’s strategy.” Oliver glances my way as though formulating what he wants to say. “Aside from finding her, what exactly do you want from Ryan?”
“A chance. A chance is all I can ask for.”
“Then how about we investigate the possibility,” Oliver suggests.
“The possibility of what?” Fin’s head pivots so fast.
“Of devastating Dreyland Capital. Destroying them not for the sake of it, but because harm has to be answered.”
“I don’t know,” Fin says doubtfully.
“Just an investigation, Phineas. A look at how we lock down their deal flow, should Matt decide that’s what he’d like to do.”
“Steer away their investors?” Fin frowns.
“What’s the use of having market influence if you don’t use it to get what you want?”
“I just don’t get how this will benefit her?” Fin says, looking my way.
I shrug, unsure. The only truth I have seems to lurk in a very primitive center of my brain: for better or worse, I want to protect her.
Chapter 14
Ryan
“Who are you all tarted up for?” Martine asks as she passes by, all slinky hips and sass.
“Girl, not who; what,” I answer, my attention remaining on the empty meeting room. The office is pretty empty too. Just me and Martine so far, everyone else still suffering from post-Christmas blues, it would seem.
I like to get into the office early, as a rule. I usually check the foreign markets while drinking my first coffee of the day. Maybe get a start on any paperwork before the office fills and the day is inevitably eaten up communally.
“Why do you suppose companies insist on meeting rooms like this?” Arms folded, I nod toward the glass box with its catwalk of a table and the dozen or so ecru Eames chairs. “There’s nothing about the room that would set people at ease or even encourage a flow of openness and trust.”
Martine laughs. “Openness and trust—are you sure you’ve done this job before?”
My smile reflects in the glass.
“It’s all for show, the whole space-age interior thing,” she says with a dismissive wave. “Because the walls of glass are so they can keep an eye on us. Fapping on company time is not allowed.”
I cough out a laugh as I glance over my shoulder at her. “I think it’s probably more a productivity thing than a fapping thing.”
“You have your theories, and I have mine,” she retorts, all playful pique. “And I’ve been here longer than you.”
“Well, that’s true,” I agree, turning to face her fully.
“Wow, check you out, Miss Thing.” She snaps her fingers as her gaze falls over my outfit. “Very stylish, the assassin-favored high-ponytail-and-oversized-blazer look. Also, very Y2K. Of course, I remember it the first time around.”
“When you were twelve?”
“Why, thank you, dollface.” Batting her lashes, she presses the backs of her fingers under her chin. “It’s all thanks to the tweakments.” She blows me a kiss as she takes a couple of steps backward. Then she turns and sashays her tight ass away.
“Is that dress Dries Van Noten?” I call after her, coveting her style, from the leopard-print kitten heels that I’m sure are YSL to the fine-knit claret-colored wool hugging her figure.
“A Mango knockoff,” she replies without turning.
But I don’t believe her as I pull at the front of my shirt. Underdressed? Too young? Too of the hour? Second-guessing my Veronica Beard pantsuit, I slide off the oversize blazer and cross the office to hang it in the coat closet. Or cloakroom, as they call it here, which is just another piece of English whimsy that appeals to me.
My heels echo against the floor as I make my way back. A slow smile spreads across my face for no other reason than the sight of dust motes dancing merrily in a shaft of weak wintery sunshine. It feels like a good omen, the sun shining today. Maybe because London has been nothing but gray since I arrived. Not that I’m complaining. I’m stoked to be here, whatever the weather.
When I applied for the job at DLC Capital Management in the fall, I didn’t think for one minute I’d wind up working for one of their subsidiaries in London. Freakin’ London! In my secret reveries, I’d long imagined myself living here, sipping cocktails in fashionable clubs and beer in old pubs with roaring log fires. In Knightsbridge and Mayfair, shopping till I dropped. Brunch at Soho House and discovering retro treasures at Camden Market. Winter walks through Hyde Park with a coffee in my hand. Being here is like a dream come true.
The city is iconic and cooler than cool, from the chimes of Big Ben to the trundle of black cabs and red double-decker buses. It’s the quaint street names and cobblestone lanes, history and culture, ancient buildings, museums, and galleries. It’s the Square Mile of towering glass but also the pristine parks and tranquil woods. It’s the world-class restaurants and hotels but also ye olde pubs. It’s the home of philosophers and explorers, artists and poets, and yes, grouchy commuters on the Tube ignoring crazy drunk people singing show tunes. And as of last month, it’s also home to me.