“Hold on. This is the non-harsh version?”

“Sorry,” he said, sounding sheepish. “I just think we’re looking for different things. I want—”

“A big-picture girl,” Brooke interrupted. “I got it.” She definitely didn’t need to have it spelled out for her any clearer than that.

When both of them fell awkwardly silent, Brooke glanced at the clock on her phone. “I hate to say this, since it’s apparently what makes me a small-picture kind of girl, but I have to go. I’ve got a conference call with a bunch of other lawyers in Los Angeles that can’t be rescheduled.”

“I understand. You do your thing. Good-bye, Brooke.”

After hanging up, Brooke stared at the phone for a long moment.

Another one bites the dust.

That was her third breakup since starting at Sterling. She seemed to be in a pattern with her relationships, where everything was great in the beginning, and then somewhere around the four-month mark things just kind of fizzled out. The men would give her some speech about not getting to the “next level,” or about wanting “more” than hot sex at midnight after a long workday.

“Hold on. A guy said this to you?” Her best friend, Ford, had looked both shocked and appalled by this when they’d met for drinks after Breakup Number Two. “As in, someone with an actual penis?”

“Two guys now,” Brooke had said, her pride admittedly wounded at being dumped again. “I don’t get it. I don’t put any pressure on these men, I’m happy to give them all the space they want, and the sex is good enough. What else could your gender possibly want in a relationship?”

“Beer and nachos in bed?”

“This is the advice you offer, your sage insight into the male perspective? Beer and nachos in bed?”

Ford had flashed her an easy grin. “You know I’m not good at the relationship stuff. Even other people’s relationship stuff.”

And, judging from today’s turn of events with Justin, Brooke wasn’t all that much better.

I don’t see a woman like you in that big picture.

The intercom on Brooke’s phone buzzed, interrupting her thoughts.

“I have Jim Schwartz, Eric Keller, and Paul Fielding on the phone for you,” her secretary said, referring to L.A. Arena’s in-house counsel and the two outside attorneys who represented them. “Can I put them through?”

Right. Back to work—no time for a pity party. As Brooke shoved her now-cold tacos back into the bag and reached for her phone, she spotted the note on her desk and belatedly remembered the call from the U.S. Attorney’s Office. Well, Cade Morgan would just have to wait.

She told her secretary to put the call through and forced a cheerful note into her voice. “How are my three favorite Los Angeles lawyers today?” she asked.

As they said in Hollywood, the show must go on.

Two

CADE STRODE UP to the lobby desk and presented his U.S. attorney ID to the security guard.

“Cade Morgan, along with Special Agents Seth Huxley and Vaughn Roberts,” he said, gesturing to the two men in suits who stood behind him. “We’re here to see Brooke Parker with Sterling Restaurants.”

The security guard reached for his guest list.

“She’s not expecting us,” Cade said.

“O-kay . . .” The guard shifted uncertainly as he looked at all three men. Cade waited unconcernedly, knowing exactly how this would turn out. As he’d come to realize during the eight years he’d been an assistant U.S. attorney, there were very few places a man flanked by two armed FBI agents couldn’t get into.

After a moment, the guard gestured to the guest book sitting on top of the gray marble desk. “I just need you to sign in.”

“Of course.” Cade grabbed the pen and quickly scribbled his name. “Cade Morgan. Plus two.” After he set the pen down, he noticed that the guard stared at him curiously. He was familiar with that look of recognition; his was a name many people in this city recognized—often because of the high-profile criminal cases he’d prosecuted. Although, not infrequently, people still remembered him for his other claim to fame.

The guard pointed. “Cade Morgan. Quarterback at Northwestern, right?”

Bingo.

“That’s right,” he said.

“What was that, twelve years ago?” the guard asked. “I remember watching your last game.” He grinned. “It’s not like Northwestern goes to the Rose Bowl every year, right? You carried those guys there.”

Cade brushed this off modestly. “It was a good team. We ran a really strong spread offense that year.”

The guard gestured excitedly. “That last play was beautiful. Probably one of the best moments I’ve seen in college football. Really a shame about your shoulder, though. They said you would’ve gone pro.”

This was true. Cade very well may have gone on to play professional football, if a two-hundred-and-thirty-pound linebacker hadn’t taken him down hard in an attempted sack just a half second after he’d released the ball. When they’d hit the ground, the linebacker’s full weight had come down on Cade’s right shoulder, his throwing arm, and he’d known immediately that the situation was bad. A couple of hours later, after being rushed to the emergency room, X-rays had confirmed he’d suffered both a broken collarbone and a torn rotator cuff.

A career-ending injury, as it turned out.

Cade nodded in the direction of the elevators. “Which floor for Sterling?” he asked the guard.

“Oh. Right. Third floor. Offices are on the north side of the building, at the end of the hall.”

After thanking the guard, Cade and the two FBI agents made their way to the elevators. Agent Roberts waited until the elevator doors closed. “How old does that get?”

Cade shrugged. “It’s one of those sports moments people like to talk about.” He eyed the Starbucks cup that Vaughn carried, deliberately changing the subject. “Did you get another chance to flash your badge at the cute barista?”

He and Vaughn had known each other for seven years, ever since they’d worked on their first case together, a simple single-defendant bank robbery trial. It’d been the first time both of them had been in front of a jury—Cade as the prosecutor and Vaughn as the testifying agent—and for the most part, neither of them had any clue what they were doing. Still, they’d somehow managed to get a guilty verdict, and afterward they’d gone out for celebratory drinks and had spent most of the time making fun of each other’s courtroom screwups. They’d been good friends ever since.

In response to Cade’s question, Vaughn shot a look at Agent Huxley, who’d been his partner in the white-collar crime division for the past year. “You told him about that?”

“Of course I told him about that. It was one of the least suave pickup moves I’ve ever seen.” Huxley pulled out his badge, pretending to be Vaughn. “‘I’ll pay for that skinny vanilla latte with my Starbucks card, which—well, look at that—just so happens to be right here next to my FBI badge.’”

“That’s not how it went down. I told you, she asked to see the badge.”

“How’d she know that you’re an agent?” Cade asked.

“I may have mentioned it at some point.” Vaughn grinned innocently. “What? The job impresses the ladies.”

The elevator arrived at the third floor. “Right. I’m sure she thought you were a real badass with your skinny vanilla latte.” Cade stepped out of the elevator, leading the other two men as they headed down the hallway. Quickly, the dynamic between them turned more businesslike as they approached Sterling’s offices.

“How do you think Brooke Parker is going to react?” Huxley asked Cade.

Well, if Cade were a betting man, he’d hazard a guess that the general counsel of Sterling was going to be a wee bit ticked off at the sudden and unexpected appearance of an assistant U.S. attorney and two FBI agents on her office doorstep.

Actually, this was probably something that most people would not enjoy.

But unfortunately, time was of the essence. They had barely more than forty-eight hours to pull everything together, and he needed to speak with Brooke Parker before she left work for the weekend. He’d had no choice but to take things up a notch. “Once I explain the situation, I’m sure that Ms. Parker will see the value in cooperating with us.”

Huxley raised an eyebrow. “And if she doesn’t?”

“Then I’ll explain it again.”

Granted, Cade knew that what they were asking of Ms. Parker was a bit . . . unusual. For that reason, he had every intention of being gracious and polite during this meeting. At the end of the day, however, he harbored little doubt that she would agree to play ball with them. Some of this confidence stemmed from the fact that he generally believed—and maybe this was simply the idealistic prosecutor in him—that reasonable, law-abiding citizens understood the value of doing their civic duty when called to action.

And the more practical, cynical side of him said that even unreasonable people knew not to get on the bad side of the U.S. Attorney’s and FBI offices.

Cade pushed through the glass door etched with Sterling Restaurants’ name, and stepped into the office. It was a sophisticated space, modern and airy with cream marble floors and lots of natural light streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. In front of him, a receptionist sat behind a frosted-glass desk, waiting expectantly. Presumably, the lobby guard had alerted her that they were on their way up.

“You must be Cade Morgan.” Her gaze shifted as Agents Huxley and Roberts followed him into the office. “And there’s the plus two.” She picked up the telephone on her desk. “I’ll let Ms. Parker know you’re here.”