Love Irresistibly (FBI/U.S. Attorney) Read online

  Brooke lowered her voice, careful to make sure that none of the restaurant staff could hear her. “The name of an employee who hacked into Sterling’s expense account database.”

  That seemed to pique his interest. “I’m listening.”

  She filled Cade in on the details, pausing momentarily when the waitress brought their cocktails. He listened without interrupting, occasionally taking a sip of his drink, as she laid out the details of the investigation conducted by Sterling’s VP of security, and then explained how they’d gotten stuck after determining the hacker’s IP address.

  “Keith talked to an agent at the FBI office, who said it could take a while before anyone got back to us. I was hoping, maybe, you could speed up the process for us.”

  She waited hopefully as Cade considered this.

  He set down his glass. “I’m not going to talk to the FBI about this. It’s—”

  “—too insignificant of a case,” Brooke finished for him. She continued on, undaunted. “Look, I understand that this is small potatoes in the grand scheme of investigations the FBI and U.S. Attorney’s Office handles. This jerk—whoever he is—didn’t take any money or steal anyone’s identity or anything.” She leaned in. “But nevertheless, he broke into company records with the sole purpose of humiliating my boss. And yes, I consider Ian a friend so that ticks me off on a personal level, but it’s more than that. This hacker is a bully. Only instead of writing his homophobic crap on the bathroom walls like he probably did in high school, he’s taken the twenty-first-century approach and spewed his insults via an online database.” She locked eyes with Cade. “I’m not expecting you to press charges, or even make an arrest. But I’d at least like the guy’s name so I can fire his ass.”

  When she was done with her speech, Cade rested his arms on the table. “If you would’ve let me finish my sentence, the reason I’m not going to bring in the FBI is because I think this is something the Secret Service should handle.”

  Brooke sat back in the booth. “Oh. The Secret Service. Of course.” She cocked her head. “Because, in addition to protecting the president, the Secret Service has jurisdiction over . . . something I probably learned in law school but am totally blanking on now.”

  “Crimes involving U.S. financial institutions.”

  She snapped her fingers. “Yes. That.”

  “Your bully hacked into a Citibank database,” Cade said. “It’s not exactly a national security issue, but I’ll ask a Secret Service agent friend of mine to look into it. You said you have the IP address?”

  “Yes, right here.” She pulled a piece of paper out of her purse and handed it over.

  “Good.” Cade slid the piece of paper into his briefcase. “Give me a few days. You’ll be able to fire his ass soon. And the rest of him, too.”

  Brooke smiled at that, pleasantly relieved—and a little surprised—that it had been that easy. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Cade pointed, suddenly changing the subject. “You’ve finished your drink.”

  “So have you.”

  “Another round? My treat this time.”

  As if sensing the nature of their conversation, or perhaps simply attuned to the fact that the—gasp—general counsel was sitting with an empty glass before her, the waitress stepped up to their table. “Can I get you both another drink?”

  “We were just discussing that very question,” Cade said, still with his eyes on Brooke.

  Just say no. Brooke had gotten what she’d come for that evening, and now it was time to grab her briefcase, get up out of that booth, and walk away.

  And from the daring look in Cade’s eyes, she knew he was waiting for her to do just that.

  Never one to back down from any challenge, at least not one coming from the mighty Cade Morgan, she turned to the waitress. “Another round would be great, thank you.”

  Cade smiled slyly as the waitress hurried off. “You better pace yourself with that bourbon there.”

  Brooke eased back in the booth, not the slightest bit concerned. “I wine and dine people for a living, Morgan. You just worry about yourself.”

  * * *

  OKAY, FINE. SHE may have been a little buzzed.

  Just a smidge.

  Clearly, that had to be the case, because she felt warm and good and—shockingly—was enjoying being around Cade.

  They’d been at the restaurant for over an hour. A while back, the manager had come by to say hello to Brooke and had sent over a complimentary selection of antipasti. Brooke had ordered a glass of wine with that, and Cade had gone with another bourbon, and then somehow they’d just rolled into dinner—a hand-tossed pizza straight out of the restaurant’s wood-burning oven.

  “I have to give credit where credit is due,” Cade said, helping himself to another slice. “You guys at Sterling know your way around food.”

  She took another piece herself. No disagreement there. “There are far worse places to work than for a restaurant company.”

  “Is this the way it is every time you eat at a Sterling restaurant?” Cade asked. “Everyone hopping around, making sure you’re happy?”

  “I don’t know if I’d say hopping, exactly.”

  He threw her a look. “Please. You know you love it.”

  “This coming from a man who brags about having the Secret Service on speed dial.”

  “Don’t forget the FBI, DEA, ATF, and IRS, too.” He grinned before taking a bite of pizza.

  “I rest my case.” Brooke chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “Actually it’s gotten better when I drop by the restaurants. In the beginning, I think everyone hated me. I was the first GC Ian had ever hired, so when I came on board people didn’t know what to expect. It took me about a year to convince them that I wasn’t looking for problems—that my job is to help them when problems do arise.”

  Cade played with his glass, thinking this over. “I’ve been wondering something. Don’t take this the wrong way.”

  “Never in the history of humankind has a man ever managed to not say something offensive after that lead-in, but if you want to take your chances, Morgan, be my guest.”

  The corners of his mouth curved in a smile. “Why are you single?”

  Well, then.

  Brooke reached for her wineglass and took a sip, making him wait before she answered. “Who says I’m single?”

  “Vaughn. He deduced it from the fact that there aren’t any pictures of a guy or kids in your office.”

  “You were talking about me with Agents Huxley and Roberts?”

  “You may or may not have come up.”

  “I see. And what else did you three scamps say when you were gossiping in your little knitting circle?”

  His eyes danced with amusement, but his gaze remained trained on hers. A prosecutor intent on getting his answer. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  No, she hadn’t. And while part of Brooke was tempted to move this conversation along to a different topic, there was another part of her that, admittedly, was a little curious herself.

  She sat back in the booth, holding her wineglass with one hand as she faced off against him. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll answer that question if you will.”

  “How do you know that I’m single?”

  “Because no man would ever ask a single woman that kind of quasi-flirtatious question if he was already seeing somebody. At least, not somebody he respected.” Brooke took a sip of her wine. “So you’re either disrespectful to women, or single.”

  The corners of his mouth curved. Touché. “I’m single.” With that admission, he waited for her answer.

  Brooke tried to appear nonchalant. “Apparently, I work too hard. According to the Hot OB, that means I’m not a ‘big picture kind of girl.’” She saw Cade’s jaw tense, but he said nothing as she continued. “Oh, and dating me is like being in a relationship with a guy, because I don’t complain about not being taken out enough.”

  “No offense, but the Hot OB sounds like an asshol
e.”

  “He wasn’t the first guy with that list of grievances.” Brooke bit her lip, not having meant to admit that last part. Must’ve been the wine. “All right. Now it’s your turn.”

  Cade took a sip of his bourbon. “I’m emotionally unavailable.”

  Brooke fought back a smile at the matter-of-fact way he said it. “Is that right?”

  “According to my ex-girlfriends, yes. And I use sarcasm as a defense mechanism.”

  Brooke pointed to herself. “What do you know? Me, too.”

  Cade tipped his glass at her. “So if you and I got together, we could probably go our entire relationship without ever saying anything meaningful at all.”

  “Yes, although you and I would never get together since we don’t even like each other.”

  “True.” Cade gazed at her across the candlelit table. “Good thing we got that straight.”

  Brooke felt a few flutters in her stomach at the way he was looking at her right then. “It sure is.”

  * * *

  WHEN THEY LEFT the restaurant an hour after that, Brooke was pretty sure they were both feeling warm and good. After the pizza, they’d had one last round of drinks while sharing lawyer war stories and, not surprisingly, trying to outdo one another with the funniest anecdotes.

  At some point as he walked her home, Brooke realized that her non-date with Cade had been the most datelike evening she’d had in a long time. Granted, she’d met him for work purposes, but she felt more relaxed and at ease with him than she had since . . . she couldn’t remember when. She hadn’t been worrying about where things between them were going, or any of that other relationship rigmarole, nor had she been trying to impress him. And, given Cade’s seemingly endless ability to irritate her, it was pretty safe to say he felt the same way. They’d just been two people, having drinks and sharing good stories and a pizza on a Friday night.

  “Lucky you, being able to walk to work from home,” Cade said in the elevator, heading up to her floor.

  “Where do you live?”

  “Lakeview.”

  “My first apartment in the city was in Lakeview. I still miss—” Brooke stopped, suddenly realizing something. “Wait. Why are you in this elevator?”

  “Because . . . it’s the one going up to your apartment?”

  “And why are you going up to my apartment?” They’d been so busy talking when they’d walked into her lobby, she hadn’t paid any attention to the fact that he’d come up with her instead of saying good-bye downstairs.

  Cade contemplated her question. “Huh. That’s curious.”

  With a ding! the elevator arrived at Brooke’s floor. She stepped out. When he followed her, she knew.

  “Which one is you?” he asked.

  The butterflies in her stomach, the ones that had started fluttering around back at the restaurant, were now doing cartwheels. Still, she kept it cool, determined not to let him see that, yes, he had her a little flustered. “2506.”

  She led the way, digging around in her briefcase for her keys. When she got to her apartment, she turned around and faced Cade. “I’m not inviting you in.”

  He stepped closer. “That’s not why I got on the elevator. You know that.”

  Yes, she did. Otherwise, she would’ve stopped him in his tracks before he’d gotten off. She raised her chin. “Then why?” she asked, even though she already had a feeling she knew the answer.

  He closed the gap between them, his eyes dark blue and smoky. “I got on that elevator for this.”

  He lowered his mouth and kissed her.

  Quickly, Brooke realized that despite any other faults, Cade Morgan knew how to kiss. He teased her lips open, his mouth seductively moving over hers in a way that left her tingling down to her toes. She slid her hands up his chest—wow, he had some serious muscles—and allowed herself one teeny, tiny moment to give in to this . . . whatever between them.

  He reached up to cup her face, deepening the kiss as his tongue wound hotly around hers. He explored her mouth possessively, a low rumble in his chest when she responded by nipping playfully at his lower lip.

  They heard a ding! down the hallway, as an elevator arrived at her floor.

  Cade pulled back, his gaze heated as he traced his thumb along her bottom lip. “Good night, Brooke Parker.”

  He turned and left just as a middle-aged couple, Brooke’s neighbors in 2508, passed by. Cade nodded at them with a pleasant “Hello,” then strode off with the strap of his briefcase slung over his shoulder.

  Brooke watched him leave, silently admiring his tall, broad-shouldered frame, and trying to muster up more irritation over the fact that he’d somehow managed to get in the last word once again.

  Twelve

  THE NEXT WEEK, not surprisingly, was a busy one for Brooke. On the first of the month, Sterling would be taking over the food service at the Staples Center, which meant she needed to work nearly ’round the clock to complete the employment contracts for the managerial employees they’d hired.

  That was her project for this week. Next week, she would have to oversee the company’s yearly anti-harassment and discrimination training, which was mandatory for all staff at Sterling’s eight Chicago restaurants. After that, it would be something else—there was always something else. Not that she was complaining.

  Well, not mostly, anyway.

  Shortly after four o’clock that afternoon, Ford called to check in on her. “You’re still planning on making it to the game tomorrow, right?”

  Brooke balanced the phone against her shoulder, so she could talk while signing off on the expense reports that Lindsey had prepared for her. “I should be good to go. I’m trying to wrap everything up tonight so that I only need to work on Sunday this weekend.”

  “Do you want to meet for lunch before the game?” he asked.

  “Yes. But not at Murphy’s,” she said. “I got two beers dumped on me last time we went there before a game.”

  “All part of the experience.”

  “She who giveth the skybox tickets gets to picketh the restaurant.”

  Ford grumbled at that. “Fine. But not Southport Grocery,” he said, referring to a cute brunch spot a few blocks from Wrigley Field, one she’d dragged him to on several occasions.

  “Come on. They do awesome egg-white omelettes.”

  “Remember that best-friend straw you pulled, the one with the penis attached? That straw does not do brunch before the Cubs/Sox game.”

  Lindsey stuck her head into Brooke’s office, interrupting the debate. “You have a visitor. A Mr. Cade Morgan.”

  That was a surprise. Brooke had been expecting a phone call, not a personal visit. They hadn’t spoken since their non-date last Friday, although Cade had crossed her mind a time or two. That kiss had been good—really good—but realistically, it wasn’t as if things were going anywhere between them. Like her, he obviously had issues with relationships, given the things he’d told her the other night about his so-called “emotional unavailability.”

  “Send him in,” she told Lindsey, before turning back to her conversation with Ford. “I have to run. I’ve got a business meeting to get to.” Technically, that wasn’t even a lie. She and Cade did have a professional relationship. Mostly. “I’ll e-mail you later about lunch tomorrow.”

  She hung up the phone, then caught herself checking her hair in the window’s reflection before remembering—oh, right—she wasn’t trying to impress Cade.

  “Here you go, Mr. Morgan,” she heard Lindsey say, followed by a familiar rich, masculine voice thanking her secretary. Cade strolled into Brooke’s office a half second later, looking dashing and handsome as ever in his gray three-piece suit.

  Oh, Lord.

  She’d always had a weakness for three-piece suits.

  From the doorway, Lindsey smiled at Brooke. “If you need anything, Brooke, just let me know.” Behind Cade’s back, she silently mouthed one word: Wow.

  “Thank you, Lindsey.” Yes, fine, the man was hot. Br
ooke stood up from her desk, thinking it would be best to keep the door shut. She assumed Cade was there to talk about Sterling’s hacker, which she’d been keeping on the down-low.

  As soon as she shut the door, Cade flashed her that thousand-watt smile. “Ms. Parker. How good of you to see me.”

  She so was going to regret kissing him, she could already tell. Clearly, he felt that momentary indiscretion gave him leave to look her over, right there in her office, with a very bold, very familiar gaze.

  “Mr. Morgan,” she said, emphasizing with her tone that they needed to keep this professional. “I assume you have some information for me?”

  He eased back against her bookshelf, making himself right at home. “I have that name you were looking for. Eric Hieber.”

  Eric Hieber. Brooke rubbed her hands together eagerly. Ooh, she so was going to fire his computer-hacking, homophobic ass.

  As soon as she figured out who in the heck he was.

  “Eric Hieber . . . that’s not ringing any bells,” she mused to herself, passing by Cade to look up the name on her computer.

  “He’s a waiter at Reilly’s on Grand,” Cade told her. “Twenty-four years old, no priors, been with Sterling for two years. Good friends with Darrell Williams, one of the tech support guys here in the corporate office, who let it slip about a month ago that he’d been bombarded with work doing a software rollout that, among other things, temporarily switched everyone in corporate over to a default password. Hieber insists that Williams has no idea that he’d hacked into the company’s database. He claimed at first that the whole thing was just a joke, although, when pressed, he admitted that he waited on Ian Sterling and a male guest at Reilly’s about five weeks ago, observed that the two men were openly affectionate with each other, and said he was shocked that, quote, ‘A cool dude like Ian Sterling was into that homo crap.’”

  When he’d finished, Brooke stared at him in amazement. “How do you know all this?”

  “The Secret Service picked up Hieber this morning. I’m told he started crying during questioning when they mentioned the words ‘federal charges’ and ‘bank fraud.’”