by Julie James
She shook her head. “I just stopped by for a short visit. I have to get up early for work tomorrow.”
“On a Saturday?” Charlie made a face to show his strong distaste for that notion, then pointed with his beer. “Hey, how are things going with the Hot OB?”
“He broke up with me this afternoon.”
“Oh. Sucks.” He paused for a moment, as if trying to come up with more, then threw Tucker a look for help.
“Don’t look at me,” Tucker said. “I’m still trying to figure out why she and Ford haven’t hooked up.”
“Never gonna happen,” Brooke and Ford said simultaneously, probably for the five-hundredth time since they’d become friends over twenty years ago.
Ford reached into the refrigerator and pulled out two Amstel Light bottles. He held one out to Brooke. “Should we go to the Spot and talk?”
She took the beer from Ford, smiling despite everything that had happened that day at the reference to their childhood hangout, a shady bank next to a tiny creek that they’d nicknamed “the Spot.” Not the most creative of names, but then again, they’d only been ten years old at the time. “Sure. Although I’ll give you the CliffsNotes version: it’s pretty much the same story as the last two guys.” She followed Ford outside and took a seat in one of the outdoor couches on his deck.
“So what happened?” Ford led in, sitting in a chair across from her.
A warm breeze blew Brooke’s hair into her eyes, so she undid her ponytail and readjusted it. She’d changed into jeans and flip-flops before coming over—a far cry from her customary high heels and pencil skirts, but it was Ford. She hadn’t worried about what she looked like in front of him since . . . well, ever. “He said I’m not a ‘big-picture’ kind of girl.”
Ford glared. “That’s a dick thing to say.”
Brooke appreciated the loyalty. But she’d done some thinking ever since she’d left work and she’d begun to think there was a lesson to be learned here. “No kidding. But that doesn’t change the fact that something isn’t working with these guys. I keep investing four months of my time into these relationships, only to end up right back where I started. And you know what? It’s not all that much fun to keep coming back here.”
“Maybe you need a Plan B,” Ford said.
“Cut back on my hours?” Brooke shook her head. “Not possible right now. With this sports and entertainment division I’m helping to build at Sterling, there’s too much going on.”
“Actually, I was thinking that maybe you should stop trying to shoehorn a relationship into your life. Especially since you’re only halfway into these guys, anyway.”
“Hey, that’s not fair.”
“Oh, right. The Hot OB was the love of your life.”
Well . . . okay. Maybe not. But she’d enjoyed being with those guys in her downtime. All thirty minutes a week she had of it.
With a sigh, Brooke leaned her head back against the chair. “I think I need to go on a relationship sabbatical.”
“It worked for me,” Ford said.
That got a slight smile out of her. Ford, the king of casual dating, had been on a relationship “sabbatical” for years. Hopefully, hers wouldn’t last quite that long. But after three breakups, it was time to face facts: in light of the demands of her job, relationships simply weren’t a good fit for her right now.
And, come to think of it, she was tired of feeling like she needed to apologize for that.
She worked hard; she didn’t deny that. Frankly, she’d worked hard her whole life—and she was proud of where that had gotten her. She and Ford had grown up in Glenwood, an affluent Chicago suburb that, with its elegant tree-lined streets and big, fancy houses with wide, beautifully landscaped lawns, looked like something out of a John Hughes movie.
Except, that is, for the part of town where she and Ford had lived, which was slightly more modest.
Actually, a lot more modest.
Nicknamed “the Quads” because each building contained four townhomes per unit, Brooke’s childhood subdivision was considered a “hidden gem” because of the fact that it offered very affordable housing within Glenwood’s school districts, which consistently ranked among the top in the state. Brooke’s father, a butcher, and her mother, a day care instructor, had made the decision to leave the city of Chicago after the public school Brooke had been attending slipped to the bottom quartile in Illinois school rankings.
Brooke had always done well in school, had always wanted to do well in school—and, frankly, at the Chicago public school she’d previously attended, it hadn’t taken a lot of effort for her to be at the top. But that all changed when she moved to Glenwood.
In Glenwood, the kids had private tutors. And nannies and stay-at-home moms who could help them with projects after school. Her classmates in Glenwood took piano lessons and dance lessons and every other kind of lesson imaginable from the top instructors in the area, and they learned foreign languages like German and Japanese in summer-break immersion programs.
When Brooke got to high school, things turned even crazier. She heard stories about parents who hired the most popular teachers in school to work with their children over summer vacation, and by her sophomore year all the parents and students had begun focusing on college, and the fact that the Harvards and Yales of the world would likely only take one or two students from Glenwood—the guidance counselors had repeatedly reminded them of that—no matter how accomplished they all were.
Brooke realized early on that, in many aspects, she couldn’t compete with her far-wealthier classmates. Her parents couldn’t afford a private tutor or a bazillion lessons in things that would look good on her college applications; in fact, at times they struggled to make their mortgage payments on their townhome. And, unlike many of the other students, her parents didn’t have any “connections” with the top universities, or alumnae in the family who could help grease a few wheels. Which meant that if Brooke wanted to be a contender for those top university spots, she needed to do it the old-fashioned way.
By working her butt off.
As a result, she studied a lot in school. Her parents had given her the opportunity to attend one of the best high schools in the state, and she’d be darned if she didn’t do her best to capitalize on that.
Fortunately, all her hard work had paid off, and to this day she could still remember the look of pride on her parents’ faces when she’d received her acceptance packet from the University of Chicago. But what stuck with Brooke even more was the pride that she, personally, felt in knowing that she’d done it all by herself.
She was a competitive person, and that pride, that feeling of achievement, similarly pushed her to do well in undergrad and law school. By the time she’d graduated from University of Chicago Law School and began her legal career, that was simply a part of who she was. She gave one hundred and ten percent to whatever it was she was doing, and basically had one speed when it came to her career: full speed. And since she genuinely enjoyed working at Sterling Restaurants, she’d never minded that.
Her three ex-boyfriends, on the other hand, obviously had been less enthralled with the situation.
“You know, I’m not sure I’m feeling the proper level of sympathy here,” she told Ford. “I think we need a little more rallying around the dumpee. If you were a woman and I’d told you that the third guy in eighteen months had broken up with me, right now we’d be drinking lemon drop martinis and giving each other female empowerment pep talks about how we don’t need a man in our lives to feel complete. And then we’d watch The Notebook and drool over Ryan Gosling.”
Ford flashed her a grin as he stretched an arm across the back of his chair. “Sorry, babe. But when they handed out best friends, you drew the straw with a penis attached. That means no Ryan Gosling.”
“Just my luck,” she grumbled.
A comfortable silence fell between them as they both looked out at the incredible nighttime view of the Chicago skyline.
“Do you ev
er take a moment to look at that,” Ford pointed at the view, “and wonder how we got here?”
She smiled at that. “Not bad for two kids from the Quads.”
“Any regrets?” Ford asked her.
She could tell that he was being serious, so she gave some thought to his question. “Not a one.”
“Then screw all these guys,” Ford said. “If they don’t fit into your big picture, they’re not worth your time, anyway.”
Brooke looked over at her friend. Sometimes, penis and everything, he knew exactly the right thing to say. “Thank you.”
He winked. “Anytime, babe.”
Charlie opened the sliding door and poked his head out. “Is it safe yet for Tuck and me to come outside? We don’t want to interrupt if you two are still making out or whatever.”
Brooke and Ford shook their heads at each other. Make that five hundred and one times. They answered in unison.
“Still never gonna happen.”
Six
PROMPTLY AT SEVEN A.M. on Sunday morning, Cade, Vaughn, and Huxley rode the elevators that would take them to the entrance of Sogna. A hostess desk, made of dark mahogany wood, stood empty before a set of wide etched glass doors—doors that were open.
“I guess that’s our invitation,” Cade said. He led the way inside Sogna and looked around curiously. He’d heard great things about the restaurant, but had never dined here himself. Sogna’s signature, eight-course $210 prix fixe menu made it a “special occasion” kind of place for a man on a government salary, and none of his recent relationships had quite made it to the “special occasion” level.
The lights inside the restaurant were off, but the natural light coming in from the windows revealed a modern décor, with dark mahogany tables and booths offset by chairs covered in ivory fabric. A staircase made of glass and steel snaked its way to the second floor of the split-level dining room, which Cade knew, from the online research he’d done the night before, could accommodate nearly two hundred seats between the two levels. Striking floor-to-ceiling windows looked out at Michigan Avenue, the Drake Hotel, and Lake Michigan—the same view, on a much larger scale, as the one from Brooke’s office.
Suddenly, the lights came on, instantly brightening the space and making it feel less empty. A moment later, Brooke Parker of the Gorgeous Green Eyes, Sarcastic Quips, and Yep, More Hot Shoes stepped out from a hallway behind the bar. Her golden blond hair was pulled up in a knot again, and she was dressed in a red skirt, crisp black shirt, and kick-ass red heels. She carried a Starbucks cup in one hand, looking every bit as sophisticated and professional as she had the last time Cade had seen her.
He wondered if she slept in her high heels and tailored clothes, too. “Good morning, Ms. Parker,” he said in greeting.
“Mr. Morgan,” she said with a nod. “Sorry if I kept you waiting. It took me a few minutes to figure out where the light switches are,” she said with an easy smile.
Polite as ever, Cade noted. Despite the slight . . . friction between them, they were both professionals who knew how this worked. Business was business, and this morning they had a job to do. “No problem. We just got here ourselves.”
Brooke gestured to the restaurant with her coffee cup. “So where do we start?”
“I think the first step should be to pick the table we want Sanderson and Torino to sit at.” Cade looked at Vaughn and Huxley for confirmation. “Yes?”
With a nod of agreement, the two agents began walking around the restaurant to survey the scene. Huxley explained to Brooke the kind of table they were looking for in terms of maximizing the audio quality of the bugs: one that allowed for semiprivacy, so that Senator Sanderson and Torino felt comfortable speaking openly, and one that also was located away from any particularly noisy places like the bar or kitchen.
“Upstairs will be quieter, since it’s farther away from both of those spots,” she said. “And the tables along the window are considered the best seats in the house. I could always tell the hostess that I heard the senator was dining with us this evening and wanted to be sure we put him at a table with a nice view,” she offered.
Huxley nodded. “We were going to suggest something along those lines. And Agent Simms and myself—we’ll be dining under the name ‘Carson’ tonight—will take a window table, too. If anyone asks any questions, just tell them that I’m an old friend planning a special night for my date, and that I called you and asked if I could have a table with a romantic view.”
“I’ve got it—maybe you’re proposing tonight, Hux,” Vaughn suggested. “We could get you a fake engagement ring and everything. Agent Simms can’t say no, it’ll blow your cover. This could be your one chance.”
Huxley shot him a glare, but otherwise refused to rise to the bait. He turned to Brooke. “Do you feel comfortable with all that?”
Brooke nodded. “Carson. Old friend. Special occasion.”
All four of them headed up the staircase to the second level. Huxley and Vaughn conferred among themselves, choosing the two tables they wanted to use that night. Brooke and Cade followed a few feet behind.
“So what’s your role in all this?” Brooke asked him conversationally.
“Tonight I’m just an observer,” Cade said. “I’ll be in the van outside with Vaughn and the tech guys, listening in on Sanderson’s conversation with Torino.”
She studied him curiously. “Are prosecutors typically this hands-on at the investigatory stage of a case?”
“It varies,” Cade said. “Some cases come to me after the investigation is complete and there’s already been an arrest. But being in the special prosecutions division, it’s not uncommon for me to get involved at the earlier stages. The investigations tend to involve more complex legal issues than, say, a simple drug bust or a bank robbery—and thus tend to be more of a collaborative process between the agents and myself. Oh, that reminds me.” He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a folded document.
He handed it over to Brooke. “One subpoena, per your request.”
“Thank you.” She took the subpoena with her free hand, the one not holding her coffee, and flicked it open. She took her sweet time reading it, looking every bit the dutiful contract lawyer right then.
Cade waited patiently for her to finish. Then waited some more.
This woman seemed to enjoy keeping him waiting.
He looked her over as she reviewed the subpoena and couldn’t help but notice that she looked rather . . . cute with her brow furrowed in concentration.
His tone was suddenly teasing again. Weird, how that kept happening around her. “Perhaps there’s something you’d like me to explain, Ms. Parker?”
Two green eyes glared at him over the top of the subpoena.
“Or maybe I should just let you do your thing.”
“Now there’s an idea.”
Fighting back a smile at her dry tone, Cade eased against a nearby table and folded his arms across his chest, waiting as Brooke turned the page over and continued reading. Then she flipped back to the front side and started all over again.
Come on. Cade held out his hands. “You can’t be serious.” The damn thing was only two pages long.
“Patience, Mr. Morgan.” With a slight smile, she folded up the subpoena and tucked it under her arm. “It’s fine.”
She’d been messing with him again, Cade realized. Something else she seemed to enjoy. The lawyer in him thought back to his irritatingly self-assured comment on Friday.
The man in him was slightly more intrigued.
Good thing, then, that the man in him had no say in the matter. This morning was all about business.
As a reminder of that fact, Huxley called over right then. “Brooke, if you’re ready, we’ve got the tables picked out for tonight.”
She turned her gaze. “Absolutely. Just tell me what I need to do.”
“Here’s how this will work.” Huxley set his hand on a back-corner table that was flanked on one side by window
s. “First, you need to make sure Torino and Sanderson sit here. They have reservations at seven thirty, which means that Agent Simms and I will be here at seven o’clock, just to be safe.” He moved two tables away from the one at which Sanderson and Torino would be seated, also in front of the windows. “The hostess should seat the two of us here.”
They ran through the rest of the plan, and agreed that Brooke would get to the restaurant at six o’clock. That gave her plenty of time to speak to the hostess who was scheduled to work that evening and with the manager on duty, so she could give him, too, a heads-up that she’d made special arrangements regarding the seating of some of their guests.
After they’d run through the routine for the evening, and then had run through it again, Vaughn pulled out his cell phone and dialed. “Stand by to start the audio checks in five minutes.” He hung up the phone.
Huxley set his briefcase on top of the table he and Vaughn planned to bug. Both agents smiled at Brooke expectantly.
She didn’t get the hint.
Brooke looked at Cade. “Is somebody waiting for me to say something?”
He bent his head closer to hers. “This is the awkward part where I need to ask you to leave so that Huxley and Vaughn can do their secret-special-agent thing.”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re kicking me out? This is my company’s restaurant.”
“I’m kicking you out.”
She considered this, likely contemplating several sassy retorts, and then—surprisingly—acquiesced. “Try not to look so pleased about it, Morgan. I’ll be in my office in case you need anything.” Then she turned in her heels and strode off in the direction of the stairs.
Cade caught himself watching her as she left.
So it was “Morgan” now.
Tough to say whether this was progress.
* * *
TO KILL TIME while she waited, Brooke took a seat at her desk and caught up on e-mail. She saw that she had a new message from Ian, saying that he needed to cancel their weekly Thursday lunch meeting because he had “highly important CEO business to tend to.”
