She continued chugging through her messages, until roughly a half hour later, a knock at her door interrupted her. She looked up from her computer and saw Cade Morgan standing in her doorway, all cobalt blue eyes and thick dark hair and six-feet-plus of sophistication and lean-muscled confidence in a dark gray suit. She’d noticed earlier that he’d forgone a tie this morning, opting for a more casual look and leaving the top two buttons of his shirt undone.
It wasn’t the worst look she’d ever seen on a man.
She cleared her throat.
“We’re finished,” Cade said.
Brooke checked the time on her computer. “That was fast.”
“These guys know what they’re doing.”
Indeed. And let’s hope you do, too, Parker. For the first time since the Mighty Morgan had shown up at her office on Friday, Brooke felt nervous. Everything was set and ready to go, which meant that she was next up at bat. Until now everything had seemed simple enough and, frankly, a little exciting and secret-agent-esque—make sure Senator Sanderson sits here, put Huxley and his fake date over there, trade a few barbs with Cade—but suddenly everything had become real. She, Brooke Parker, was about to participate in a federal sting operation that evening, and while she considered herself to be a savvy businesswoman and a great negotiator, this definitely was not her wheelhouse. And now several people—hell, basically every citizen of Illinois, all of whom deserved to be represented by honest politicians (she was still going with the corruption angle on this one despite Cade’s vagueness)—were counting on her to get this right.
No pressure there.
“Okay, then,” she said in a bright tone. Nervous or not, she’d be damned if she betrayed that in front of him. For Cade Morgan, prosecutor extraordinaire, this kind of intrigue and high-stakes drama was probably an everyday occurrence. “I’ll just grab my stuff.”
She packed up her briefcase, trying to ignore the fact that he was watching her. “Shoot,” she said, remembering something. “I need to lock up the office and the restaurant.” She turned back to her desk, holding her briefcase while she rummaged around with her free hand. “Keys, keys, I just saw those keys . . .” She’d borrowed a spare set to Sogna from their VP of security and had last seen them . . . somewhere.
She felt Cade at her side and looked up.
He reached for her hand. “These keys?” His blue eyes danced as he jingled something in her fingers.
She’d had the keys looped around her finger the entire time.
Crap.
“Ah, yes. Thank you,” she said, making a mental note to give herself a good, solid head-thunk as soon as she was alone.
He cocked his head, studying her. “You’re nervous about tonight.” A statement, not a question.
She shook her head. “No.” She glared at his knowing expression. “Fine, maybe a little. If I threw you into a complex multimillion-dollar restaurant deal on less than forty-eight hours’ notice, how well do you think you’d do?”
“I’d kick ass.”
Truly, she wanted to shake him at times. “I swear, Morgan, you may be the most infuriating lawyer I’ve ever—” She stopped and collected herself. Rule Number One of any business arrangement: never let the other side see you rattled. “I’m locking up now.” She gestured to the door. “That means you—go.”
He seemed to be fighting back another of his aren’t-you-a-funny-one grins. “I’ll walk you out.”
Wonderful. “If you insist.”
They walked side-by-side through the empty office, no conversation, just the same aggravating, pestering agitation that had been present since the moment they’d first met. Once outside, she locked the door to Sterling’s offices and turned around. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan. I can take care of locking up the restaurant by myself.”
He reached into the pocket of his pants and pulled out his wallet. He took out a business card and handed it to her. “That has my cell number. Huxley will be there tonight, but if anything goes wrong, or if anything concerns you, just call me. I’ll be in the van with Agent Roberts.” His gaze seemed to soften. “And for the record, I was a little hesitant about this sting operation at first, too. Normally in an undercover investigation, I’ve got a cooperating witness who’s willing to wear a wire. Which makes things a lot simpler. So when Vaughn and Huxley came to me with this idea of bugging a restaurant table, I was a bit skeptical whether we’d be able to pull it off. Especially since the plan is so dependent upon the assistance of a civilian.”
“You’re telling me this now?” she asked. “Where was all this hesitation on Friday afternoon when you first approached me?”
“Gone.” His eyes held hers. “Because I knew, ten seconds after walking into this office and meeting you, that we had this in the bag.” With a nod in good-bye, he turned and walked off toward the elevators.
Brooke stood there for a moment, unable to move because her brain needed all its functional capabilities to process the fact that Cade had just given her an actual compliment.
This had been a most unusual morning.
Keys in hand, she headed in the direction of Sogna to lock up the restaurant. As she turned the corner, she glanced over her shoulder and saw Cade walking in the opposite direction.
At the same moment, he looked back over his shoulder, too. Their eyes met for a brief second before they both turned back, going about their business.
* * *
CADE STOPPED IN front of the elevators, where Huxley and Vaughn waited for him.
“Guess that kills my chances of asking for her phone number,” Vaughn said.
“No clue what you’re talking about.” Cade stepped inside the elevator when it arrived at their floor.
“Sure you don’t.” With a mischievous smile, Vaughn followed him into the elevator, along with Huxley.
And, being men, they left it at that.
Seven
BROOKE STOOD BY the bar in Sogna’s dining room, thinking that she had quite an affinity for this whole FBI undercover business.
She’d spoken earlier to both Rochelle, the hostess on duty, and Patrick, the manager, and had explained the situation. In the most casual of terms, she’d made a joke about tonight being a “happening” night for Sogna and had informed them that there were two parties with dinner reservations that evening—Torino and Carson—for whom she’d arranged special seating. She’d laid out the tables at which each group should be seated, and then had made another joke about hoping it remained such a beautiful night outside since she’d gone to such efforts to personally ensure that the parties had a good view. Ha, ha, ha.
And then she’d followed that up with her toughest now-scram-and-don’t-ask-me-any-questions stare.
Because, on the off chance that she was not quite as good as she believed she was at this whole FBI undercover business, she would get the job done anyway.
That had been over an hour ago, and in the meantime Agent Huxley and the pretty redheaded agent posing as his date, aka the “Carson party,” had arrived and were already in position and seated at their table. Now all they needed was the last and most important piece of the puzzle: Torino and Senator Sanderson. From there on out, it would be smooth sailing.
“Excuse me, Brooke. We have a problem.”
And . . . so much for that.
Brooke turned and saw Rochelle, the hostess, standing there.
“What kind of problem?” she asked.
“The couple at table twenty-eight is complaining that they’d requested a table with a view. I explained that we don’t guarantee window seating, but they saw the open table you told me to set aside for the Torino party and asked to sit there. When I explained that the table was reserved, they demanded to speak with a manager.” She took a breath, eager to provide a solution. “I talked to Patrick already. We’ve got another window table that should be opening up in a few minutes; the customers are just paying the bill now. He wants to know if we can move the Complainers at twenty-eight to the open table, and then put
the Torino party at the other window table that’s about to open up. It’s only ten after seven; there shouldn’t be any problem having it cleared and reset for a seven thirty reservation.”
Normally, Brooke knew, that would be a perfectly acceptable solution. The Complainers would get their window table, and the Torino party could also be seated at one as soon as they arrived. Except for one teeny, tiny problem: the bug that the FBI and the U.S. Attorney’s Office had gone to great lengths to plant at Sanderson’s table.
Seeing Brooke frown, Rochelle was quick to backtrack. “Or I’m sure Patrick can just tell the Complainers that all the tables are reserved. No big deal.”
Brooke had no doubt that Patrick and Rochelle could handle the situation—she was familiar enough with the goings-on at Sogna to know that they both were very capable at their jobs. But she’d inadvertently stuck them in the middle of this, without giving them any reason why, and on top of that she wanted to quell the problem as fast as possible before there was too much attention drawn toward the mysteriously “reserved” window table.
“It’s okay, Rochelle,” Brooke said. “Tell Patrick that I’ll talk to the Complainers at twenty-eight myself.”
Rochelle pulled back. “Really?”
Brooke couldn’t blame her for being so surprised. As general counsel, she was arguably the second-most-powerful executive at Sterling Restaurants, behind Ian. She handled matters on a corporate level, while the managers had primary responsibility for the daily problems that arose at the restaurants. Which meant that Brooke personally did not get involved in customer complaints—ever—unless they turned into potential legal issues. So volunteering to interject herself in this particular situation was odd.
Still, she played it casually. “Yeah, sure,” she said with a wave. “I’ve got it.”
Rochelle paused at that, and her expression changed from one of confusion to curiosity. And suddenly, it clicked.
Something’s going on.
Seeing the flicker of recognition in the other woman’s eyes, Brooke held Rochelle’s gaze unwaveringly. Yes, something was going on. But the beauty of being the second-most-powerful executive was that she didn’t have to give any explanations.
After a moment, Rochelle nodded. “Of course.” And no further questions were asked.
With that, Brooke headed toward the staircase that would lead her to the second level. The Complainers could fuss all they wanted, but they weren’t getting anywhere near Sanderson’s table. She, Brooke Parker, recently of the mad undercover skills, was on top of this.
She stopped, realizing something, and looked back at Rochelle.
“Um . . . which one is table twenty-eight?”
* * *
UPSTAIRS, BROOKE SPOTTED Agent Huxley and his undercover date, who were seated only a few feet from table twenty-eight. As the two agents chatted amiably, Huxley held Brooke’s gaze briefly, as if to say he was aware there was a “situation” and was relieved to see she was on top of it.
Brooke’s goal, as she walked toward the Complainers, was simply to resolve this issue as quickly as possible. By no means did she want Torino and Senator Sanderson overhearing any discussion about a table that had been reserved specifically for them. Since they had not, in fact, made any such arrangements, this would undoubtedly seem suspicious. And if that happened, they might get paranoid and clam up about whatever shady things Cade, Huxley, and Vaughn were all jonesed about, and Brooke would have a boring, anticlimactic ending to the really fantastic story she planned to tell someday about the time she was a key operative in a federal corruption investigation.
With that in mind, she threw on a smile as she approached the table and introduced herself. “Hi, there. I’m Brooke. Rochelle said you wanted to speak to a manager?” Conveniently, Brooke left out the fact that she wasn’t one.
The Complainers were not what she’d expected.
Given Sogna’s expensive prices, the restaurant tended to get more than its fair share of high-roller, high-maintenance types. Frankly, Brooke had assumed table twenty-eight was going to be a prime example of that: a wealthy couple, possibly a flashy investment banker sporting a thirty-thousand – dollar watch on one arm and his Gucci-clad, twentysomething trophy wife on the other—not that she was stereotyping here—who were offended by the notion that they weren’t getting the best seats in the house.
Instead, what she found was a couple in their midfifties, sans Gucci and flash, who looked slightly embarrassed.
“Oh, thank you. But we’re fine,” the woman said. She threw a do-not-make-a-stink-about-this look at the man across the table from her. “My husband and I are having a wonderful evening. We’re sorry to have bothered you.”
The husband, not so easily appeased, turned to Brooke. “See, it’s just that—”
His wife cut him off with a smile. “Sweetie. Let it go. I’m sure Brooke has a lot on her plate tonight.”
Just helping the Feds take down a state senator. All in a day’s work. “No apologies necessary. I’m told you were asking about moving to a table next to the windows?”
“Yes, because I arranged this two months ago,” the husband said. He shrugged off his wife’s glare. “What? She asked.” He turned back to Brooke to explain. “When I made the reservation, I specifically mentioned that this was a special occasion for us, and from what I’d read in the Tribune’s review of this place—”
“It was the Sun-Times,” his wife interrupted.
“We don’t get the Sun-Times.”
“We did when they gave us that free one-month subscription.”
The husband paused, mulling that over, then turned back to Brooke. “Anyhow, I read the review in the Sun-Times”—he emphasized the words with a slight smile at his wife—“and it said that the view from this restaurant is one of the best in the city. So when I made the reservation, I’d asked if we could have a table by the windows.” He pointed to the table being held open for Torino and Sanderson. “Like that one there, sitting empty.”
The wife reached across the table and covered her husband’s hand with hers. “It’s fine, Dennis, really. Let’s just enjoy the evening. The restaurant is amazing even without the view.”
He rubbed his thumb over her fingers and lowered his voice. “You deserve to have the best, Diana. You’ve been looking forward to coming here for so long. I just want everything to be perfect for you.”
Hearing that, Brooke knew two things. First, from their attire and accessories—Dennis’s somewhat ill-fitting suit and inexpensive watch, and Diana’s simple, modest diamond ring and slightly too-formal dress, possibly one she’d originally bought for a wedding and was glad to finally have the chance to wear again—she guessed that dining at Sogna was a splurge for this couple. Something they very possibly would do only once in their lifetime.
The second thing Brooke knew was that she’d just crapped on that once-in-a-lifetime experience.
Actually, Cade Morgan and Agents Huxley and Roberts had done the crapping, but since that whole crew was lollygagging around in FBI vans or too busy smiling at cute redheaded undercover agents, the fallout landed on Brooke’s shoulders. And even though it may not have seemed like it to an outside observer, she understood where the so-called “Complainers” were coming from. Back in the day, she wouldn’t have been able to fathom ever eating at a place where dinner cost $210 per person.
“If you don’t mind my asking, what’s the occasion?” she asked.
“It’s our twenty-five-year anniversary,” Diana said.
“Congratulations. That is something to celebrate.” Brooke pointed to Sanderson’s table. “So unfortunately, as Rochelle mentioned, that table in the corner is reserved this evening. But if you’re interested, there’ll be another window table opening up in a few minutes. We could move you there as soon as we’ve had a chance to clear it. And in the meantime, as an apology for the glitch in your reservation, I’d like to send over a bottle of champagne. My treat.”
Surprised by the off
er, Diana exchanged a look with her husband. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure. Can’t have an anniversary without champagne, right?”
Brooke chatted with them for a few more minutes before heading toward the staircase to tell the waitress to charge the bottle of champagne to her employee account. She paused at the top of the stairs and looked back, just in time to see Diana smile at Dennis. In response, Dennis picked up her hand and pressed it to his mouth.
I love you, he said.
Even across the room, Brooke could read those three simple words, and she found herself unexpectedly moved by them, by the couple’s obvious affection for each other.
The sound of a loud cough cut into her thoughts, and she saw Huxley, a few tables away, as he reached for his water glass. Time to get moving, his pointed gaze said.
Brooke brushed off the sentimental feelings—not sure what had happened there—and began descending the stairs.
All right, fine. Maybe she’d been suckered in, just a bit, by Dennis and Diana’s story, and perhaps had lingered too long chatting with them, but she was back on top of things now. The coast was clear for Sanderson and Torino, the FBI’s sting operation was on track, and on top of that, a sweet older couple had a fun anniversary story to tell about the time a nice young woman with totally awesome red shoes—she’d taken the liberty of filling in a few details here—bought them a bottle of champagne at Sogna. All in all a very pleasant, rewarding evening.
Now everyone else needed to do their part, wrap this up, and get the hell out of her restaurant.
All this do-gooder sweetness was going to ruin her reputation as a tough girl.
* * *
LATER THAT EVENING, Cade sat in an unmarked van parked in the garage outside, wearing headphones and listening in on Sanderson and Torino’s conversation. So far, they’d spent most of the dinner talking about nothing of importance: the food, the Cubs, and the TV show White Collar, of which, ironically enough, they were both apparently big fans.