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.