Love Irresistibly

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 offer, 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.

Hey, dickheads, have you seen the one where the U.S. Attorney’s Office and FBI plant a bug in a restaurant and catch a state senator accepting a large bribe from a hospital CEO? It’s a good one. So let’s say we cut through the chitchat and get down to it.

Seventy minutes into the conversation, after Cade had begun to wonder if this whole sting operation was going to be a bust, Torino and Sanderson ordered dessert and two glasses of port and finally turned to the subject of the hospital’s possible closing.

Senator Sanderson sounded wholly at ease as he began.

“I poked around after we talked, and it seems like a few of my colleagues feel as though Parkpoint should be the hospital to go.”

Torino, not surprisingly, sounded worried. “Do you think you could convince them otherwise?”

“I’m a pretty convincing guy. But you understand how these things work, Charles. If I ask some of the other senators for a favor, then I owe all of them a favor in return. And for something like this. . . well, that’s a lot of favors. I need to be sure this is a cause that’s worthy of my support.”

“I assure you, Senator. This would be a very worthy cause.”

“How worthy?”

Cade exchanged a silent look with Vaughn, who sat across from him in the back of the van. Come on, Senator, Cade thought as the adrenaline began pumping. Don’t be coy.

There was a pause, and then a soft thud, possibly the senator setting down his port glass. “Two hundred thousand.”

The words were met with a long silence before Torino spoke again.

“Two hundred thousand, and you can guarantee that Parkpoint stays open?”

“I know you’ve got the money, Charles. I’ve seen photos of that four-million-dollar house of yours in Lincoln Park. So just think of this as a onetime state tax to keep you in that cushy CEO job of yours.”

A short pause, and then Torino answered. “All right. Let’s do it.”

There was a rustle of clothing—as the video would later show, when the two men shook hands. A picture was indeed worth a thousand words.

The senator sounded pleased with himself. “You just bought yourself a hospital.”

Hearing those magic words, Cade nodded at Vaughn. “We got it.”


* * *


A SHORT WHILE later, Cade stepped into the empty offices of Sterling Restaurants. The space was quiet, and only one panel of lights was on in the reception area, likely to conserve energy since there was only one Sterling employee working right then.

Cade cut through the hallway that would lead him to Brooke’s office. He’d texted her earlier from the van, asking if they could meet.

They had some unfinished business to attend to.

When he got to her doorway, he found her sitting at her desk, reviewing documents. Nine thirty on a Sunday evening and still going, he thought. This woman bested him in terms of hours spent on the job, and that said a lot.

The desk lamp gave her just enough light to work, casting the rest of her office in soft, dim shadows. She’d changed her hair since this morning; now it tumbled long and loose over her shoulders in dark golden waves. Cade knocked softly on the door with the back of his knuckles.

“I hear you have a soft spot,” he said when she peered up from her papers.

It took her a second, then she blushed. “I assume you’re referring to the champagne I sent over to the couple celebrating their anniversary.” She stood up from her desk and packed the documents she’d been reviewing into her briefcase. “Just business. You needed me to get Torino and Senator Sanderson to their table without some big scene. I was simply upholding my end of the agreement.”

Cade took a few steps into her office, not buying the “just business” routine. Huxley had reported in after he and Agent Simms left the restaurant, and explained how Brooke had handled the situation while simultaneously making the day for some couple celebrating their twenty-fifth anniversary. Which, naturally, had brought about another round of effusive praises from Huxley and Vaughn—Oh, that was so sweet of her and Oh, Brooke’s been so great to work with, and, frankly . . . Cade was beginning to think there wasn’t much he could say to disagree with that. “My office would be happy to reimburse you for the champagne.”

She waved this off. “It’s fine.” She rested her hip against the edge of her desk. “So? Did you get your man, Mr. Morgan?”

“Now, Ms. Parker. You know I can’t tell you that.”

“I suppose I’ll find out when I hear about Senator Sanderson being arrested in the news.”

Cade leaned against the bookshelves across from her desk. “Hmm,” he said noncommittally.

She threw him a look. “After everything I’ve done, you’re really not going to give me anything else?”

Funny, how Cade was going to miss frustrating her like this. He’d rather enjoyed going a few rounds with Brooke these past couple of days. “Nope. But I am going to take something from you.”

Her eyes flashed—with curiosity, perhaps. “That would be . . . ?”

“The video of Sanderson and Torino.”

She blinked. “Right. I’d forgotten about that.”

“I’ve arranged for an FBI forensic specialist to come by your office tomorrow,” Cade said. “He’ll need access to the computer where the security footage from Sogna is stored. He’ll make a copy of the video, and then we will be officially out of your hair.”

With that said, he held out his hand in farewell. And gratitude. All teasing aside, she’d been a tremendous help to him this weekend. “Thank you. For everything.”

“You’re welcome.”

As her hand slid softly against his, their eyes met and held.

“About that favor I allegedly owe you . . .” Cade paused deliberately, his gaze still locked with hers. “Call me sometime. We’ll talk.”

Brooke’s lips parted in surprise—likely trying to discern whether there was any hidden meaning in his words—before she answered. “I’ll do that. To talk about the favor you do owe me. Not alleged.”

Cade leaned in, the two of them standing close in the intimate setting of her dimly lit office. Behind them, the windows showcased a view of a vibrant city at night. His voice was suddenly husky.

“I look forward to it, Ms. Parker.”