The Thing About Love

by Julie James

  “This is what you tell people, ten seconds after I meet them?” Shaking his head in exasperation, Sam turned to Jessica. “Huxley’s a good agent. He just likes to talk a lot of smack about how Harvard is the best law school.”

  “Sam here is a Yale man,” Jack told Jessica.

  “Indeed.” Sam flashed her a grin that said he was quite proud of this fact.

  “Got it.” Jessica considered this. “Well, obviously this Agent Huxley has no idea what he’s talking about.”

  Sam nodded, satisfied, as the elevator reached his and Jack’s floor. “Thank you. See?” he said to Jack. “And that’s coming from an independent source—clearly a very wise one.” He winked at Jessica.

  “Because everyone knows that Stanford is the best law school,” she continued.

  Jack laughed as Sam’s mouth fell open. He gripped Sam’s shoulder as the elevator doors opened. “You walked right into that one, buddy.” He nodded at Jessica as he left the elevator. “Enjoy your first day.”

  Sam pointed mock-archly at Jessica as he stepped out. “To be continued, Agent Harlow.”

  Jessica smiled as the doors closed between them, thinking she rather liked those two. Their friendly ribbing reminded her of the dynamic she’d had with Javier, her partner in Los Angeles.

  As a female in a profession where over eighty percent of her colleagues were men—and an even greater percentage of her supervisors—she’d quickly learned that a little good-natured trash talk went a long way in getting others to see her not as a “female special agent” but as a special agent who happened to be a woman. Not that she tried to downplay her gender, nor did she have any interest in pretending to be one of the guys. For one thing, she firmly believed that in many situations, her gender could be a tactical advantage. People inherently trusted women more than men, something that came in handy when one was an undercover agent.

  And for another thing, she just really liked wearing cute high-heeled shoes.

  On the twelfth floor, an assistant greeted Jessica from a desk in front of the corner office at the end of the hallway. “Mr. McCall will be with you shortly.” She gestured to a small waiting area.

  “Thank you.” Jessica took a seat in one of the chairs and put her phone on vibrate to make sure it didn’t ring during the meeting.

  Obviously, she wanted to make a good first impression with the man who was, as of today, her new boss. She’d done her homework and knew that Nick McCall had been appointed five years ago to the position of Special Agent in Charge—or SAC, as agents referred to the position around the office. Before that, he’d been on the public corruption squad, specializing in undercover work.

  That was something they had in common, at least.

  She set her briefcase next to her feet, watching the bustling office activity as she waited. Being back here reminded her of the many times she’d had to visit this office, several years ago, when she’d first applied to the FBI. There’d been the preliminary exam—three hours of cognitive, behavioral, and logical reasoning tests—followed by an initial interview, language and writing tests, a one-hour panel interview, two physical fitness tests, and a polygraph and security background check. And throughout the entire process, she’d had a real hard-ass of a recruiter guiding her.

  But a hard-ass who’d believed in her.

  Don’t give them any reason to doubt you in the Academy. You go in there, Harlow, and you’d goddamn better show them what you’re made of.

  The door opened, and a tall, well-built man with dark hair stepped out. His sharp green eyes fell on Jessica, and he walked over.

  “Special Agent Harlow.” He held out his hand. “Nick McCall. I just got off the phone with your former SAC. If half the things he says about you are true, we’re very lucky to have you on board.”

  Jessica smiled, hearing that. “Thank you, sir. It’s good to be here.” She followed him into his office and took a seat at one of the chairs in front of the desk.

  “So, you couldn’t resist the call of the hometown,” Nick led in.

  That was the reason Jessica had given the SAC in Los Angeles, when she’d put in for a transfer to Chicago. And it was true. What was also true, however, was that she’d needed a fresh start and figured Chicago was the best place to get it. “My family all lives here. When I heard that this office was looking for agents with undercover certification, it seemed like an opportunity I couldn’t pass up.”

  “The U.S. Attorney for this district and I have made it one of our top priorities to crack down on government corruption at all levels. And the agents on the public corruption squad have absolutely stepped up to the plate. I try not to go overboard in praising them so that it doesn’t go to their heads, but they’re a very skilled group of agents. And I’d say that even if they weren’t my former squad.”

  Jessica smiled. No matter the office, one thing was always true: Squad loyalty ran strong. “Of course.”

  “The one challenge is that with the increase in the number of investigations we’re handling, the squad is running short on agents who can cover the undercover work,” Nick said. “Which is where you come in.”

  And she was eager to get started. “You said there are two other agents on the squad who are certified?” All special agents in the FBI were qualified to do “light” undercover work—investigations in which the agent had only a few interactions with the target or targets. Anything more than that required an agent who was undercover certified, meaning he or she had attended the FBI’s undercover school at Quantico. The problem was, because of the extra training required, there were only a handful of undercover-certified agents in any given field office—mostly on the public corruption and organized crime squads, given the nature of the work.

  “Agents Huxley and Roberts,” Nick said. “Given their workloads, they were very pleased to hear you’re joining the squad. They’re probably waiting at your desk with a big welcome banner and a stack of thirty case files to hand over.”

  She chuckled. “I’m happy to get started right away.”

  “Glad to hear it. In fact . . .” Nick handed her a case file. “This one needs your immediate attention. It’s an out-of-town investigation, a partial undercover assignment. Apparently, the public corruption squad in our Jacksonville office is looking for two ‘shady Chicago business entrepreneurs.’”

  Jessica raised an eyebrow. “‘Shady Chicago business entrepreneurs’?”

  “That’s literally how the request was worded. And the best part is, I get requests like this all the time from other offices. I swear people think we’re all still running around this city with tommy guns and hanging out in speakeasies.” Nick pointed to the case file. “I have to turn down most of the requests because we’ve been so short on manpower, but this one seemed like it might be worth your while.” He winked. “Plus, it’ll make me look like a team player with the other SACs if I finally say yes to one of these things.”

  Intrigued by that lead-in, Jessica opened the case file. It wasn’t uncommon for an FBI office to use out-of-town agents for an undercover assignment. In fact, under certain circumstances—such as investigations that involved a high-profile target—that was the preferred course of action because it minimized the risk that the agents would be recognized.

  And that, she saw as she skimmed over the request from the Jacksonville agents, was precisely the case here. High-profile target, suspected of bribery and corruption. Most of the groundwork for the sting operation had been laid; all the Jacksonville team needed now were two experienced out-of-town agents to play the lead roles.

  She felt the spike of adrenaline that came with every new assignment. “I’ll start working on my undercover legend right away.” Going undercover in this kind of case required a lot more than a simple name change and a fake ID. For starters, as an “entrepreneur,” she would need a fake business that had web presence.

  She made a ment
al note to coordinate with Stagehand, the internal prop and tech squad who handled all details related to undercover operations, on that front.

  Then she made a second mental note to ask someone where the heck the Stagehand squad even was in this building.

  Nick nodded approvingly. “Good. I’ll call the SAC in Jacksonville and let him know you’re on board.”

  They chatted for a few more minutes, mostly about her new neighborhood and how she was settling into the condo she’d bought when her transfer had been approved. She took the Jacksonville case file with her as she started to leave the office, but when she got to the doorway she realized they’d forgotten to discuss something. “The assignment calls for two Chicago entrepreneurs. Will I be working with Agent Huxley or Agent Roberts on this?” She figured that whoever it was, they could start discussing logistics right away.

  “Actually, neither,” Nick said. “They’re both involved in other undercover investigations right now. You’ll be partnered with an agent from the organized crime squad for this.”

  Organized crime? Now that was unexpected. Not to stereotype—okay, fine, she totally would—but generally speaking, the agents from the organized crime squad were considered a little . . . rougher around the edges than those from other squads. And this sting op in Jacksonville, like many run by the public corruption squad, would require a certain amount of finesse.

  Nick grinned, seemingly catching the skeptical look on her face. “Don’t worry. He’s a good agent. One of the best in this office. In fact, he just finished up the HRT Selection course. Tomorrow will be his first day back.”

  Hmm. Rough around the edges or not, her soon-to-be partner must have been something of a badass if he’d tried out for the FBI’s super-selective Hostage Rescue Team. Because from what Jessica had heard, HRT’s Selection course was two weeks of near torture. Every year, roughly half the class dropped out before completing the tryouts. And even if a candidate was still standing at the end, there was no guarantee he would be picked for the team—he being the operative word, since, in the thirty-plus years since HRT had been formed, no woman had ever made the cut.

  Not that she, personally, had any interest. For one thing—ha—there was no way she’d make it through the tryouts; she’d had to work her butt off just to pass the physical tests in the Academy. And for another thing, she simply wasn’t one of those adrenaline junkies who got all jazzed up over rappelling out of a helicopter, or parachuting into shark-infested waters in the middle of a hurricane, or hiding out in a muddy ditch with a sniper rifle while wearing one of those camouflage helmets with a little bush attached to it.

  Really, that just wouldn’t work with her hair.

  Kidding.

  Okay, mostly kidding.

  In her six years with the Bureau, Jessica had known only one person who’d planned to try out for HRT: a guy in her training class who’d been recruited for the FBI directly from the Army Rangers. And not to dwell on the past or anything—another good theme for this year—but she and that guy in her training class had . . . well, one might say they hadn’t exactly seen eye-to-eye.

  Or, one might also say that he’d irritated the hell out of her.

  Hey, look at me, watch me fly through this obstacle course with one hand and two feet tied behind my back. This is child’s play to what we did in the Rangers, bitches!

  All right, fine. Possibly, those hadn’t been his exact words, but there was no doubt that he’d relished being the shining star of their training class.

  Fortunately, that guy was far away now, undoubtedly already headquartered at Quantico with the rest of the Hostage Rescue Team. And as for this other guy she would be partnered up with, the one from the organized crime squad, if her new SAC swore by him, that was good enough for her.

  As the new girl in town, frankly, she didn’t have the luxury of not being a team player with this.

  She finished her meeting with Nick and agreed she would drop by his office at ten A.M. the next morning to discuss the Jacksonville assignment in more detail once she’d reviewed the file. The rest of her day flew by in a whirlwind of introductions, a meeting with her new squad leader, and a tour of the entire complex. In Los Angeles, the FBI had shared the Wilshire Federal Building with several other government offices, but here in Chicago, they had the whole place to themselves.

  By the end of the day, she was exhausted from all the nice-to-meet-you small talk, and she still hadn’t had time to review the Jacksonville file. She grabbed it on her way out of the office, and, figuring she would make a working dinner out of it, she picked up a salad from the Green Door Tavern, a pub just around the corner from her place.

  Salad and briefcase in hand, she walked into the lobby of her high-rise building.

  Luther, one of the doormen, grinned from behind his desk. “Agent Harlow. How’d the first day go? Catch any serial killers?”

  When she’d moved into the building last week, she’d made a point of introducing herself to all the doormen. Luther, in his early sixties, had been very interested in her job—so much so that she didn’t have the heart to tell him that the life of an FBI agent wasn’t quite the same as that depicted on TV and in the movies.

  “Mostly just paperwork and introductions,” she said.

  “Ah, well. Tomorrow is another day.” He pushed the button that unlocked the glass door leading to the elevators.

  Before heading up, Jessica made a pit stop at her mailbox. In addition to the usual junk mail and bills, there was a FedEx envelope inside. She pulled it out and saw that it was from her lawyer’s office in California.

  She tucked the envelope into her briefcase, along with the rest of the mail, and then locked her mailbox and headed for the elevators. After letting herself into her condo, she set the briefcase and salad on top of the breakfast table in her living room that doubled as her dining area and office.

  In the bedroom, she ditched her work clothes for a T-shirt and jeans. She headed next for the wine chiller in her kitchen and cracked open the most expensive bottle she owned.

  Because, screw it.

  She knew exactly what was in that FedEx envelope, and she figured she might as well cap off the end of an era—her last remaining connection to Los Angeles—with a good glass of wine.

  Settling in at the table, she took the envelope out of her briefcase and opened it. For your records, said the Post-it note from her lawyer. She had called on Friday, after the court appearance, so it wasn’t as if Jessica hadn’t been expecting this. But seeing the words in black and white, and actually holding the papers in her hands, made it that much more official.

  JUDGMENT FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE

  There it was, the court’s order and the signed settlement agreement between her and Alex that had been incorporated into the judgment. As divorces went—especially in L.A.—this probably had been the easiest money Jessica’s lawyer had ever made. From start to finish, the process had been completely civil. She hadn’t wanted any maintenance from Alex, nor had she sought any part of the profits from the films he’d produced during their three-year marriage. All she’d taken, aside from the stuff that had been hers before they’d gotten married, were the clothes, shoes, and jewelry he’d bought her. And even that wasn’t out of spite, more a matter of practicality since Alex obviously had no use for them.

  “Well, at least I’ll be a well-dressed divorcée,” she’d tried to joke with her best friend, Tara, who’d flown out to L.A. as moral support the weekend after Jessica and Alex’s settlement conference. “God, do I actually have to use the word divorcée?” she groaned. “It sounds so Real Housewives–esque.”

  They’d been commiserating over cocktails at Norah, an eclectic American restaurant in West Hollywood. “I don’t understand what happened. You guys used to be so crazy about each other,” Tara had said.

  That was the hardest part of this whole thing. In the beginning, sh
e and Alex had been good together. Their whirlwind courtship had been exciting and romantic—they’d met at a restaurant, during a private party hosted by a mutual friend, and when Alex had found out that she was an FBI agent, he’d asked for her opinion on the plot of a suspense thriller script he’d been thinking about optioning. They’d spent the rest of the night talking, grabbing a spot at the bar after the party broke up and staying until the place closed. He’d asked if he could see her again the next day, and then just like that they were dating, and she’d loved the fact that he’d refreshingly played no games. Back then, their differing professional worlds had been a good thing: He’d liked the fact that she wasn’t in “the industry,” and she, in turn, had found his insider stories about Hollywood to be a fun change of pace from the seriousness she often faced on the job.

  The problems began about a year into their marriage. At first, it was little things, like the fact that she never particularly warmed to his friends, whom they saw a lot. They were all film producers, and they barely spoke to Jessica, having zero interest in anyone or anything not connected to Hollywood. That she could handle—she’d married Alex, not his friends, and she could deal with a few douchebags for the man she loved. But more troubling was the way Alex changed when he was around them, going from a man who was wry and witty and passionate about films to a guy who was arrogant, concerned with appearances, and far more interested in trading snarky insults about actors, writers, and directors with his friends than actually discussing anything substantive.

  In the end, however, it was her career, not his, that became the problem. She began handling undercover investigations and had a lot of success on that front. She genuinely enjoyed it, too, the seeds of her desire to work undercover probably having been planted when she was eight years old and had become obsessed with Wonder Woman reruns, the budding feminist in her loving it every time the bad guys made the sorry mistake of ever underestimating Diana Prince.

  Now if only the FBI could invent a Lasso of Truth she could pair with her pantsuits . . .