by Julie James
“How’d it go at your doctor’s appointment?” Sidney asked over their salads at Corner Bakery.
“He said everything looks great with both me and the peanut,” Isabelle said. “He took a few ultrasound photos. Want to see?” She took the strip of black-and-white pictures out of her purse and handed it over.
“Oh my gosh.” Sidney pointed. “Look, there’s its nose. And a little hand.”
“The doctor joked that the baby was waving ‘Hi, Mom.’”
The alarm on Sidney’s biological clock suddenly blared so loud it sounded more like a fire drill. She hit the mental snooze button and smiled at her sister. “Are you going to find out the gender?”
Isabelle shook her head. “Simon and I decided that we want to stick with the theme of this pregnancy and be surprised.” She took a bite of her salad. “But enough about me—what’s going on with you? Anything happening on the guy front?”
Not much. Just Vaughn and I having crazy-hot sex after your pre-wedding tasting. “Actually, I have a date tomorrow.” Sidney cocked her head. “Come to think of it, you might remember the guy—Chad Bailey. He was a year younger than me in high school—he would’ve been a senior when you were a freshman?”
Isabelle set down her fork. “No way. I had a huge crush on Chad Bailey back then. And I wasn’t the only one. I think half the cheerleading squad lost their virginity in the back of his Mustang GT.”
“Please tell me you weren’t one of them, because—eww—I’m not going on a date with someone you slept with.”
“You’re in the clear.” Isabelle cracked open the water bottle, looking eager for the details. “How did you two reconnect, anyway? By the way, you definitely need to call me after the date and let me know if he’s still as hot as he was in high school.”
“He found me on Facebook. We’ve e-mailed back and forth a few times, and he asked if I’d meet him for a drink.” Not that Sidney didn’t have doubts, particularly after Vaughn’s comments about what it meant when a guy rapid-fire e-mailed a woman and then fell quiet for a few days. But this was what single thirty-three-year-old women with blaring biological clocks did—they kept an open mind.
And apparently, they went on a lot of first dates.
• • •
THURSDAY EVENING, SIDNEY’S date with Chad started off better than expected. They met for drinks at a wine bar not far from her office and fell into a fun, easy conversation as they reminisced about high school.
“I had a crush on you back then, you know,” he said, his brown eyes warm and friendly. “It broke my heart when you went off to college.”
This provided her just the opportunity she’d been looking for. “From what I hear, you survived just fine,” she said teasingly. “My sister told me some rumor about your Mustang GT and half the cheerleading squad?”
Chad laughed, looking embarrassed. “Oh . . . that. Well, I couldn’t wait around for you forever, could I?” Then he leaned in, speaking more earnestly. “But all jokes aside, I’ve grown up a lot since high school. That’s not who I am anymore.”
That sounded potentially promising. Sidney took a sip of her wine and set down her glass. “All right, then. Tell me who you are now, Chad Bailey.”
As they drank their wine, he told her all about his job as a consultant, his dog, and how he’d just bought a new condo in the Bucktown neighborhood. In return, he asked a lot of questions about her, and seemed genuinely interested in wanting to know more.
But there was just one thing.
During the date, he received several text messages—in fact, his phone chimed so often that he finally shut it off. “Sorry,” he said, glancing at the screen. “Just some co-workers getting together after work.” A few moments later, he excused himself to go to the restroom.
Sidney watched him go, thinking that this seemed a little . . . suspicious. Then again, it was possible that she was being too paranoid about such things. So far, Chad had sailed through her thirty-four-item checklist. Hell, he even had a dog—which, according to her research, was a big sign of commitment-readiness.
I hate to break it to you, but any guy trying to play you will know how to get around that checklist.
Deciding to go straight to the source, she pulled out her phone and texted Vaughn.
WHAT DOES IT MEAN IF A GUY GETS A BUNCH OF TEXTS WHILE ON A DATE, BUT DOESN’T WANT TO ANSWER THEM IN FRONT OF ME? SHADY, OR JUST BEING POLITE?
Moments later, she received Vaughn’s reply.
YOU’RE ON A DATE RIGHT NOW?
Clearly, this was self-evident. YES, WITH HIGH SCHOOL GUY.
I THOUGHT YOU NIXED HIGH SCHOOL GUY.
I’M BEING OPENMINDED, she shot back.
SAYS THE WOMAN WITH THE THIRTY-FOUR-ITEM CHECKLIST.
Okay, so they were getting a little off topic here. JUST ANSWER THE QUESTION. CHAD WILL BE BACK ANY MINUTE.
OF COURSE HIS NAME IS CHAD.
She was tempted to take her phone and shake it. But seeing how she genuinely wanted Vaughn’s opinion, she took a deep breath and counted to ten. ANY HELP? I’M GETTING MIXED SIGNALS HERE.
There was a long pause.
COME ON . . . YOU WOULDN’T WANT ME TO GET BURNED AGAIN, WOULD YOU? she cajoled.
After a moment, he answered.
JUST BE DIRECT. ASK HIM STRAIGHT-OUT IF HE’S SEEING ANYONE.
She rolled her eyes. That was his advice? DID THAT ALREADY. HE SAID HE’S NOT DATING ANYONE RIGHT NOW.
Vaughn’s reply was quick. TIME TO CUT BAIT, SINCLAIR. HE’S PLAYING YOU.
She frowned. HOW DO YOU KNOW?
THAT’S MAN-SPEAK. WHEN A GUY SAYS HE’S NOT DATING ANYONE ELSE “RIGHT NOW,” HE MEANS LITERALLY RIGHT AT THAT MOMENT. LAST NIGHT? ANOTHER STORY.
She scoffed at that. GET OUT OF HERE.
ASK HIM YOURSELF.
Chad’s voice interrupted them. “Texting a friend to say how the date’s going?”
Sidney tucked her phone back into her purse as Chad took his seat. “Maybe.”
He winked at her. “So? How am I doing?”
“Time will tell,” she said jokingly. She toyed with the stem of her wineglass, keeping her tone casual. “Here’s a funny thing, going back to something we talked about earlier. My friend has this theory that when a guy says he’s not dating anyone else right now, he’s being tricky and just means right at that moment.”
Chad opened his mouth, as if to defend himself. Then, perhaps seeing something in her gaze, he stopped.
He reached for his glass and took a sip of his drink, his playful expression now replaced by a smug, busted smirk. “So I’m a little precise with my answers.”
And . . . another one bit the dust.
• • •
LATER THAT NIGHT, Vaughn, aka Mark Sullivan, watched as Officer Pritchett brought his rented van to a stop. They were in their usual meeting place, an alley behind an abandoned warehouse on the south side of the city. Vaughn had arrived twenty minutes ago, in the Hummer H3 he drove while undercover as Sullivan, and had ensured that the location was secure. As always, Huxley, the backup team from the white-collar squad, and the team from the special operations group were all parked in various locations surrounding the alley, listening in on their encrypted radios via the live transmission wires.
Tonight’s meeting would be a turning point in Vaughn’s investigation. Having tested the waters with the prior run—in which Pritchett’s gang had smuggled several suitcases of handguns—he had decided to up the ante.
“Nice touch,” he said when Pritchett stepped out of the driver’s side of the van. He nodded at the police jacket the cop had displayed in the passenger window, with the letters CPD plainly visible.
Pritchett grinned smugly as another cop stepped out of the van—Officer Ortiz. “I thought so, too. Who’s gonna pull us over when we’ve got that in the window?”
&nb
sp; Vaughn saw the headlights of a second vehicle approaching. He stepped back as another van pulled up, this one with Officers Mahoney, Cross, and Howard, all from the Sixteenth District.
After the second group of cops exited their vehicle, Vaughn told Pritchett and Mahoney, who’d been driving the second van, to pop the trunks. He headed over to Pritchett’s trunk first. Inside the back of the van were two large duffle bags. As he unzipped one of them, the cops all gathered around to watch.
Vaughn pulled out an M-16 assault rifle.
This was where the shit got very real. In his hands was an untraceable military rifle, which the police officers believed to be fully functional. Given what they knew about “Mark Sullivan,” there could be no doubt in any of their minds that the weapon would end up in the hands of some thug who would use it against other thugs, civilians, or possibly even police officers.
Vaughn scanned their faces, waiting for any sign of doubt or hesitation among any of them.
Instead, Pritchett nodded at the M-16 and grinned. “And he’s got some friends.”
The rest of the cops laughed.
So much for doubt or hesitation.
Vaughn pulled out the other rifles and examined them. They’d been rendered inoperable by the agents in Indiana, although none of these assholes knew that. When finished with his “check” of both duffle bags, he zipped them up and then walked over to Mahoney’s vehicle.
In the back of the second van were two more duffle bags. Vaughn unzipped them and saw that each contained twenty handguns, a mix of Ruger, Glock, and S&W pistols. All the guns were nine millimeter or larger calibers and had altered serial numbers. After ensuring that the guns he’d “purchased” were all accounted for, he zipped the duffle bags back up.
“All right, let’s load them up,” he said.
He and three of the cops, including Pritchett, carried the duffle bags over to the Hummer and loaded them into the back of the SUV. Then Vaughn grabbed a large envelope from the passenger seat.
He handed the envelope, which was filled with cash, to Pritchett. “Fifteen thousand for another job well done. My seller in Indiana says he can have shipments ready every two or three weeks. Think you guys can handle that?”
“I told you, Sullivan. This isn’t fucking amateur hour here,” Pritchett bragged. He held up the envelope. “As long as you keep paying, we’ll bring as many guns as you want into this city.”
Vaughn smiled, glad to hear it.
When this whole thing blew up, that answer was going to bite these dickheads right in the ass.
• • •
VAUGHN LET HIMSELF into his loft and peeled off yet another of Mark Sullivan’s designer suits. Famished, as usual, from the undercover work, he threw a frozen pizza in the oven, poured himself a vodka tonic, and settled in at the counter to check his messages. He’d had to leave his phone at home for the undercover op—obviously, Mark Sullivan couldn’t walk around with Special Agent Vaughn Roberts’s cell.
He saw that he had a couple of texts, one from Simon asking how it went with the groomsmen’s tuxes—shit, he’d forgotten about that—and another one from Mollie, the investigative reporter from the Trib, asking if he wanted to get together that weekend.
Shelving that question, he went back to his messages screen and saw Sidney’s texts from earlier that evening, when she’d been on her date. She’d never responded to his last message, he’d noticed.
Ask him yourself, he’d said.
He wondered what High School Guy had said, and whether she’d finally nixed him for good.
So . . . ? he typed, and almost hit send. But then he realized it was after midnight. Probably best not to text her right then, as if he was ruminating about her date in the wee hours of the night. Which he wasn’t, obviously.
He was just . . . curious.
Nothing more.
Twenty-one
FRIDAY MORNING, SIDNEY got some good news from her headhunter.
“I talked to Karen—she has an offer from PetSmart, but she hasn’t accepted it yet,” Gabe said. “She’d love to fly out to talk to you about the Vitamin Boutique position, but we need to move fast.”
Sidney turned in her desk chair and pulled up the calendar on her computer. “Can she do an interview Tuesday? Wednesday? Find out what works best with her schedule, and I’ll make it happen.”
“Will do.”
She spent the rest of the morning on the phone, first with Vitamin Boutique’s board of directors, making sure that at least two of them would be available to meet with Karen the following week. After that, she had a lengthy discussion with the consulting firm she typically worked with in these situations so that they could begin figuring out what kind of compensation package PetSmart had likely offered Karen—and more important, the kind of compensation package she would need to convince the VP to come work for Vitamin Boutique instead.
Sidney hung up the phone shortly before noon and rolled her head, stretching her neck. She was just thinking she should send an e-mail to her team, updating them on these newest developments, when her secretary buzzed.
“I didn’t want to interrupt your call, so I was about to bring you a note,” Darnell said, speaking in a hushed voice. “A Special Agent Roberts is waiting in the reception area. He says he’d like to speak with you.”
Vaughn? Here? Sidney didn’t know whether to smile or roll her eyes at her secretary’s whispered tone, having no doubt that a certain special agent had used his job title to get exactly that kind of reaction. “Tell reception that I’ll be right out.”
• • •
WHILE WAITING IN the sleek, sophisticated lobby, Vaughn studied the contemporary artwork on the walnut-panel walls. After a couple of minutes, he heard the sound of high heels clicking confidently against the pearl marble floor.
He knew that walk.
He turned around and watched as Sidney approached. With a smile, he took in her effortlessly stylish outfit—gray pants, ivory silk blouse, and a light peach scarf wrapped loosely around her neck.
She was just the woman he needed.
“Special Agent Roberts,” Sidney said as she approached. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I need your help.”
That caught her off guard. She stepped closer and lowered her voice, her expression turning concerned. “Is everything all right? It’s not Isabelle, is it?”
“Nothing like that. I need your fashion advice.”
“Oh. Okay.” She looked him over. “Well, with that suit, I think your tie could be a little skinnier.”
Vaughn threw her a look. And made a mental note about the tie. “I need to pick out the groomsmen tuxedos for the wedding.”
“Ah. That’s an important job. The tuxes help set the tone for the entire wedding.”
“So I’ve just been told,” he said dryly.
She cocked her head, her blue-green eyes sparkling. “Are you having some difficulty with your assignment, Agent Roberts?”
He could already tell he was going to regret this. “Here’s the deal. Simon bought his tux, so he told me to pick out whatever I want for myself and the other groomsmen. No problem. Then I get to the store and the salesman starts asking all these questions. Bow tie or necktie? How wide would I like the lapel to be? Pleated pants or flat front? How many buttons on the jacket? Do I want a vest? A cummerbund? How formal are the bridesmaids’ dresses? Because, as I recently learned, it’s very important that the groomsmen’s attire complement what the bridesmaids are wearing,” he said, imitating the salesman’s serious tone.
“This is true.”
“So? What are you wearing?” he asked.
“A dark champagne strapless dress with a sash across the hip.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is it sexy?”
She raised an eyebrow back. “Should that really be your focus right now?”
It certainly was a far more interesting topic than what he was wearing to this superposh shindig. “Look, I wear suits every day—I can pick out a damn tux. And if this was a tux for my wedding, I’d be in and out of the shop in five minutes.” He caught her looking at him strangely. “What?”
“I’m just waiting for your eye to start twitching after the reference to your wedding.”
And there it went, right on schedule. “The point is, this is your sister and Simon’s big day. And since I’m pretty sure that hell hath no fury like a pregnant woman whose dream wedding is ruined because the best man decided to go with vests instead of cummerbunds, I’m thinking I should get this right.”
“Skip the vest, then. Isabelle can’t stand them.”
“Good to know. A cummerbund, it is.”
“No cummerbund either.”
Vaughn frowned. “Don’t I need something that’s going to coordinate with the color of your dress?”
“Why yes, you do. If this is 1998, and you’re taking me to prom.”
And . . . there was the snark again. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Quite a bit, actually.”
He took a step closer. “Think about it this way, Sidney. You have to walk down the aisle next to me at this wedding. We’ll be in numerous photos together—photos that the entire Sinclair family will look at for years to come. If my job as a groomsman is to complement you, do you really want to put your faith in whatever I might come up with?”
She considered this for a moment.
“Let me just grab my purse.”
• • •
WHEN THEY STEPPED through the door of the tuxedo shop, the salesman who’d been helping Vaughn earlier came out of backroom.
He smiled when he saw them. “Special Agent Roberts. I see you’ve returned with backup.”
“This is Sidney, our illustrious maid of honor.”
She said hello, and then gestured to Vaughn. “Ignore everything this man told you during his previous visit.”