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.