by Julie James
“You seem awfully certain of that.”
“I’m the general counsel of this company, Mr. Morgan. If I ask an employee to keep something confidential, she will. Nevertheless, I’ll plan to stick around the restaurant on Sunday evening, just to make sure there aren’t any problems.”
“Thank you,” he said. “On behalf of both the U.S. Attorney’s Office and the Federal Bureau of Investigation, let me say how much we appreciate your assistance in this matter.”
“You’re welcome.” Brooke locked eyes with him, to underscore the significance of her next words. “And I trust that the U.S. Attorney’s Office will remember that appreciation, should Sterling Restaurants ever need a favor in return.”
Cade cocked his head at that, regarding her with sudden suspicion. “What kind of favor?”
Brooke sweetly threw his earlier words back at him. “Let’s just say that I’ll provide you with that information at the appropriate time.” She rested her elbows on the table, ready to get down to the nitty-gritty details of the upcoming task. “So. What else do you guys need from me?” she asked Vaughn and Huxley.
“Not much at this point,” Vaughn said. “We might have some questions once we get into the restaurant on Sunday morning, but we’re only bugging one table. That’s a pretty simple job. For the FBI.” He laughed when Huxley threw up his hands in disbelief. “Come on, I threw that one in just for you.” Then he pointed, remembering something. “Actually, I do have one question. Do you have security cameras inside the restaurant?”
Although Brooke wasn’t as familiar with the restaurants as a manager would be, she did happen to know the answer to that. Last winter, they’d caught a bartender on video who’d been swiping customer credit cards through a handheld device in order to steal the numbers. After firing the guy, they’d turned the evidence over to the police. “We do. I’m assume you’d like to catch Senator Sanderson and Torino on video?”
“As they say, a picture is worth a thousand words,” Vaughn said.
“The security cameras inside the restaurant are typically focused on the bar area and the entrance, but I can tell our head of security to make sure that one of the cameras captures whatever table you select for that night,” Brooke said. “Again, he’ll probably have some questions, but I’ll get around that.”
Huxley and Vaughn exchanged looks. “That would be perfect.” Huxley turned back to Brooke, his expression one of both surprise and gratitude. “Thank you.”
Brooke turned back to Cade, all business once again. “One thing, Mr. Morgan: I’ll need a subpoena for the video footage. Purely a formality, something we require anytime we turn over any sort of Sterling property to the authorities. I’m sure you understand.”
Cade’s tone was a touch dry, likely not enjoying the fact that she’d taken charge of “his” meeting. “I can get you a subpoena.”
They wrapped up their meeting after that, making plans to meet at the restaurant at seven A.M. on Sunday. “I’ll let the lobby guard know to expect you, so you won’t have any trouble on that end,” Brooke told them.
She walked them to her office door, where both Huxley and Vaughn shook her hand and thanked her again for her assistance.
Cade paused in the doorway. “I’ll meet you guys in the reception area,” he told the agents.
Brooke waited until the two agents had left before turning to face Cade. He was very tall—easily a good three or four inches over six feet—so she had to tilt her head back to hold his gaze. “Planning to threaten me with more federal charges, Mr. Morgan?”
He took a step closer. “You knew you were going to cooperate with us from the beginning, didn’t you?”
Actually . . . yes. Or at least from the point in the conversation when she’d realized that Sterling wasn’t in any legal trouble. Both the attorney and businesswoman in her knew that one did not lightly refuse to cooperate with the FBI and U.S. Attorney’s Office. Cade Morgan may have irked her, but there was no doubt that he was a powerful man in this city.
“I negotiate multimillion-dollar deals for a living,” she told him. “You may have your subpoena power and tough-guy speeches, but I’m not exactly a novice at the bargaining table. You got your bugged table at Sogna. All I wanted in exchange was an acknowledgement of the courtesies that Sterling Restaurants is extending the U.S. Attorney’s Office.”
Cade crossed his arms across his chest, the jacket of his suit pulling tighter around his broad shoulders. “For the record, I don’t believe I actually agreed to this ‘favor’ you asked for.”
“Nor did you disagree. Implied consent.”
He gave her a long look. “I can’t decide if you’re irritatingly self-assured or just . . .” He seemed to ponder this for a moment, and then shrugged. “Nope, I’ve got nothing else. ‘Irritating’ it is.”
Seeming to have settled this, he turned to go. “See you bright and early Sunday morning, Brooke Parker.”
Then he strode out of her office just as confidently as he’d come in.
Most annoyingly.
Four
“WELL, I THINK that was a very productive visit.”
Walking alongside Vaughn as the three men crossed the parking garage, Huxley concurred with his partner’s assessment. “Assuming Brooke can deliver on getting the hostess to seat everyone at the right tables, this should go off smoothly.”
Cade headed to the front passenger door of Huxley’s Range Rover. So it was “Brooke” now, apparently. Not surprising, seeing how she’d practically had both agents eating out of the palm of her hand.
They all climbed into the SUV. As Huxley started the car, Vaughn spoke from the backseat, continuing to sing the praises of Brooke Parker of Sterling Restaurants and the Sarcastic Quips.
“I liked when she offered to have the camera directed at Sanderson’s table. I would’ve suggested it regardless, but it’s great that she’s so willing to cooperate.”
Cade fought the urge to roll his eyes. Okay, so she was hot. Whatever. And pleasant enough to people who didn’t threaten her with obstruction of justice charges. Big deal.
“If only all lawyers were that agreeable to work with,” Huxley said. “It would make our jobs a hell of a lot easier.”
“So true,” Vaughn agreed.
A silence fell over the car.
“Although she didn’t seem to like you very much, Morgan,” Vaughn mused.
Yes, thank you, he’d caught that. “Somebody had to be the bad cop. Clearly, it wasn’t going to be either of you two.” And in fairness, that hadn’t been the role he’d expected the agents to play. Brooke Parker wasn’t a witness, or a suspect—they’d been approaching her in her capacity as legal counsel for Sterling. Which meant she was his responsibility.
But he had to give credit where credit was due: there were very few people who could essentially tell an assistant U.S. attorney to kiss her ass with quite that exact mix of sarcasm and charm. She’d even had Vaughn and Huxley cracking smiles with that one.
Traitors.
“Does that mean you won’t be asking for her phone number when this is all over?” Vaughn asked.
“Ah, no.” When Vaughn said nothing further, Cade turned around in his seat to face him. “Don’t tell me you’re actually being serious.”
“Well, somebody should ask for it. Smart, gorgeous, no wedding ring, no pictures of kids or a guy in her office. That is one very fine, very single woman.” Vaughn held out his hands when Cade threw him a get-real look. “What? Like I’m the only one who noticed those things?”
“I don’t think I’m comfortable discussing Brooke this way while she’s assisting us in an investigation,” Huxley lectured from the driver’s seat.
Cade stifled a smile and turned back around to face the road. Here we go again. Huxley was a good agent—a very thorough, organized, by-the-book special agent—who hailed from Harvard Law School and was never anything less than immaculately dressed in three-piece suits. A direct contrast to Vaughn, who was far less intereste
d in playing by the rules, frequently sported a five o’clock shadow and a wrinkled suit, and often looked like he’d just rolled out of some strange woman’s bed. And probably had.
It was no secret that the two agents, partners for the last year, drove each other nuts. They bickered and bitched about each other like the Odd Couple of the FBI, yet Cade knew that deep down (perhaps deep, deep down) they respected each other’s methods in the field.
“Fine. We can talk about something else,” Vaughn said faux amiably. “Like your big date Sunday night, Hux. With Agent Simms.”
Cade watched as Huxley’s lips twitched in a slight smile at the mention of the redheaded female agent’s name. Still, Huxley refused to rise to the bait. “It’s an undercover op, Roberts. Not a date. Unlike you, I’m perfectly capable of having dinner with a woman without obsessing all night about getting in her pants.” He shot Cade a look, clearly seeking to change the subject. “And why is he asking you about getting Brooke’s phone number? Did something happen with Jessica?”
Crap. Leave it to Vaughn to bring that out into the open. Although Cade supposed the subject of the demise of his relationship would inevitably come up at some point. He and Huxley had gotten to know each other well over the last five months while working on the Sanderson investigation and were familiar with each other’s personal lives.
Nevertheless, he kept his answer short and sweet. “We’re not seeing each other anymore.”
Huxley looked over. “Sorry to hear that.” He treaded lightly with his next question. “Any particular reason?”
Sure. According to Jessica, the problem was that he was “emotionally unavailable.” They’d been having dinner last Friday night at Sunda, a sushi restaurant located in the River North neighborhood, when she’d laid that one on him. They’d just finished dessert, and she’d said something about him being distracted, and he’d mentioned offhandedly that he’d had a crappy day at work. He’d had a cooperating witness go south on him that morning in a motion to suppress, a witness who’d already pled guilty and had cut a deal for a lesser sentence in exchange for providing complete and truthful testimony. On the stand, however, the witness—who’d been key to Cade’s motion—had suddenly become hazy about certain important facts and deliberately evasive and uncooperative.
It had been a frustrating day, to say the least.
“Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” Jessica had asked.
“Sometimes cooperating witnesses rise to the occasion, and sometimes they don’t,” Cade had said with a shrug. “It happens.”
And somehow, that perfectly innocuous comment had led into a Whole Big Thing about how he never opened up and told her these types of things, and how she’d been feeling like she didn’t really know him even though they’d been dating for three months, and how he seemed like this charming, easygoing guy on the outside but underneath that façade he kept himself closed off from any real, genuine intimacy and refused to let anyone in.
“I see,” Cade had said when she finished with her speech. “Remind me never to mention that I had a bad day again.” He took a sip of his Manhattan.
“That’s all you’re going to say?” she’d asked him.
Yep, that had been his plan. They had been in the middle of a crowded restaurant, and Cade didn’t think it was necessary to entertain their neighbors with the numerous ways in which he was, apparently, an emotionally stunted Cro-Magnon. But from the stubborn look on Jessica’s face, he’d sensed that leaving the restaurant without saying anything further wasn’t an option. She’d wanted answers.
And, actually, there was something he’d wanted to say.
Frankly, he didn’t think he was that bad of a boyfriend. He’d been raised by a single mother to be respectful of women, he never cheated, and if he said he would call a girl, he did. He had a good job, a nice condo, and could make a mean Denver omelette for breakfast. Nevertheless, he’d gotten this lecture from more than one ex-girlfriend about his so-called “emotional unavailability.”
Normally in response, he simply apologized to the woman for not giving her what she wanted. But tonight? Screw it. Come to think of it, it had been a shitty day. So for once, he’d decided to skip over the usual BS and keep it real.
He’d set down his drink and leaned in. “Fine. You want me to elaborate, I will. Here’s the deal: I’m a guy. Generally speaking, we’re pretty simple folk. I know women always want to think we have these deep, romantic, and emotionally angsty thoughts going on in our heads, but in reality? Not so much. You women have layers and you’re complicated and mysterious and you say one thing, but you really mean another, and it’s this whole tricky package that intrigues us and scares us and challenges us all at the same time. But men aren’t like that. You talk about me not letting you in, but maybe what you don’t realize is this: there is no in.” He pointed to himself. “It’s all right here on the surface, Jessica. What you see is what you get.”
Jessica’s expression had said she wasn’t buying it. “I’ve talked about this with my friends, you know. They say you probably have a fear of rejection. I’m thinking it has something to do with whatever happened with your father. That thing you won’t talk about.”
Christ. And so the psychoanalysis began. “I think, by definition, one actually has to have a father in order to have father issues,” Cade had said dryly. And he most definitely did not. Just an asshole of a sperm donor who’d gotten his mother pregnant.
Jessica had glared at him pointedly. “Nothing going on underneath the surface, huh? Right.” She picked up her purse and stood up from the table. “I think it’s probably best if you don’t call me anymore. We obviously have different ideas about what it means to be in a relationship. For me, it’s a little more than sex, having somebody to go to dinner with, and sharing the occasional interesting work story. It’s about putting yourself out there, Cade. For your sake, I hope you give that a shot someday.”
She’d stalked out of the restaurant, leaving Cade sitting alone.
He took another sip of his drink, ignoring the stares of the people seated around him.
Well.
That had pretty much sucked.
* * *
CADE REALIZED THAT Huxley was looking at him, waiting for an answer about why he and Jessica had broken up.
“It was a mutual thing,” he said simply.
Huxley nodded. “Got it.”
And, being men, they left it at that.
“You know, I think we should celebrate today’s fortuitous turn of events with a drink,” Vaughn suggested. “Come Sunday night, we’ll have Senator Sanderson right where we want him, and to top it all off, Huxley miraculously has a quasi date with an attractive woman—granted, one who’s being paid to have dinner with him, but we’ll gloss over that part. All thanks to the lovely Brooke Parker.”
Cade shook his head. Enough already with the praises. “She’s just a girl, Vaughn.”
“I take it that means you don’t care if I ask her out on Sunday?”
Immediately, a pair of gorgeous light green eyes popped into Cade’s head.
Because in response to your tough-guy speech, I, in turn, would’ve had to give you my tough-girl speech, about where, exactly, federal prosecutors who come to my office looking for assistance can stick their obstruction of justice threats.
All right, fine. So she’d almost made him smile with that one, too.
“If you want to ask her out when this is over, be my guest,” Cade said.
“You hesitated,” Vaughn noted in a sly tone.
“Not at all.”
Huxley glanced over from the driver’s seat. “Actually, you did. There was a definite pause there.”
Cade sat back in his seat, shaking his head as he stared at the road in front of him.
Of course, now they decided to agree on something.
Five
LATER THAT EVENING, Brooke dropped by Ford’s loft apartment. When he slid open the heavy steel door, she held out three tickets for Sterl
ing’s skybox at Wrigley Field.
“Cubs/Sox. Figured I’d see if you, Charlie, and Tucker want to go,” she said, already knowing the answer to that. There wasn’t a person in Chicago who would turn down free skybox tickets to the Crosstown Classic between the city’s two baseball teams.
Ford grabbed the tickets without hesitation. “Skybox? Hell, yes. I love it when they bring in that dessert cart.”
“One of my strongest selling points as a girlfriend, apparently,” Brooke muttered as she stepped inside.
With its open floor plan, exposed brick walls, and raised ceilings, Ford’s condo was nearly double the square footage of Brooke’s high-rise apartment in the Gold Coast. Whenever Ford gloated about that fact, Brooke went into her usual spiel—the same one she’d given her parents when she’d bought her place—about how she wanted to be able to walk to work, wanted to be close to the lake, and felt safer, as a single woman, living in a high-rise building with a doorman.
Really, though, she just liked being near the fast-paced action of Michigan Avenue.
“I thought you were taking the Hot OB to the game,” Ford said as he followed her into the kitchen. “Is he on call that day?”
“The Hot OB and I broke up earlier today.”
Ford’s arms fell to his side. “What? That’s the third guy in eighteen months.”
Brooke glared. “Thank you, I’m aware of that.”
Right then, Tucker and Charlie stepped through the sliding glass door, coming in from the deck. They were Ford’s former college roommates, and around a lot, seemingly never having any work to do—or anything else to do, really—and somewhere along the way Brooke had just sort of adopted them as friends, too.
“Hey, Brooke. Ford didn’t say you were coming over.” Charlie helped himself to a beer from the fridge and handed another one to Tucker. “Are you coming with us to Firelight?” he asked, referring to a popular upscale nightclub in the city’s Gold Coast neighborhood.