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.”