Evening Storm Read Online Free Page A

ache he’d never felt before.
    Any idiot could tell that Simone’s purpose in life wasn’t about getting rich quick or being a flash in the pan. The attention to detail in the clothes she made, their beauty and craftsmanship, the way she focused on fitting Jade, told him everything he needed to know about Simone. Unfortunately what it told him was that she wouldn’t truck with notoriety, shame, and scandal. His casual offer to bill him an astronomical amount for the alterations fell on proud, deaf ears, which was why he’d resorted to having a bike messenger both deliver the payment and pick up the lingerie. He’d been more focused on what Simone thought of his tip than on Jade.
    She wouldn’t like it, but while his stomach twisted at the thought of her reaction, he didn’t regret it. Maybe the slow flare in his gut was the incipient ulcer. The plan called for him to continue working at MacCarren, while getting confessions from the leaders in the scheme. When it came to trading millions or billions of dollars in a split second, he had nerves of steel, but the collateral damage from this particular trade of integrity for confessions of guilt would lead to bankruptcy and prison sentences, destroyed reputations, and shattered dreams. His nerves were a goddamn mess.
    He shook two antacid tablets out of the container he carried with him at all times, and popped them in his mouth.
    His eyes on the speaker, Daniel Logan leaned over. “How’s your stomach?”
    Ryan liked that about Daniel, his directness, the way that he went to the heart of an issue, and all in a low rumble of a voice that said it wouldn’t matter if he was trapping a daddy longlegs to release into the wild or defusing a nuclear bomb—he had this.
    â€œHow do you think my stomach is?” Ryan said under his breath. “How come you’re so calm?”
    â€œI spent six years with the NYPD in the Bronx and met my wife on a ledge in a stiff breeze. Not much fazes me.”
    Sure Logan was yanking his chain, Ryan stared at him. Logan’s expression didn’t change. “A ledge?” he asked, incredulous.
    â€œTwenty-two stories over Park Avenue,” Daniel said. “Try not to give yourself a bleeding ulcer before this is over. We’re just getting to the good stuff.”
    Daniel’s definition of “the good stuff” was very different from Ryan’s. The plan was simple: Ryan would use the social whirlwind of the New York summer season as a cover to get specifics about the scheme. He would claim that he’d figured it out, and he wanted in. There were massive amounts of money to be made, and no one would doubt that Ryan, with his lifestyle, both needed more money and lacked the moral compass to go to the FBI or the SEC. Hubris and greed. That’s what this was all about, and everyone knew Ryan had both in spades.
    That’s who he had become. A decade on Wall Street and not a shred of his soul left. He looked out the window at the sky, where the summer solstice sun was finally setting, wreathed in clouds the same shade of red as Simone’s hair. A snippet of song floated into his head:
It’s a long way down back to the place where we started.
    He should be paying attention, because this wasn’t going to be easy. MacCarren didn’t save internal emails or instant message conversations, and the offices were routinely swept for recording devices. The success of the operation depended on his ability to get the people in charge to admit to the scheme either in writing or out loud while he wore a wire. In writing wasn’t going to happen, so he had to get close to the two men in charge, and get them talking. Daniel Logan had very politely informed him he would prefer evidence that stood up in court. It was pretty clear that the FBI would prefer not to come off looking like boneheads.
    From Ryan’s perspective, the only thing worse than being a rat was