Fourteen

FLUSH FROM THE high of her success, Victoria walked into her loft feeling like a victorious woman, indeed.

She had ridden the Blue Line a whole three stops and back, without incident. Granted, the train cars hadn’t been crowded, which was the very reason she’d chosen to ride on a Sunday morning. But it was progress, nevertheless.

In a celebratory mood, she pumped Alicia Keys through the loft’s speakers. This girl is on fire. She kicked off her shoes and headed into the kitchen, singing along with the lyrics. We got our feet on the ground, and we’re burning it down. She was no singer, far from it, but who cared? She had done something about her tiny panic issue. She could report back to Dr. Metzel, and for once he’d be able to scribble down an A+ in that little notepad of his.

The song finished when she was halfway through the banana she was slicing for a smoothie. Almost immediately, there was a knock at her front door.

She wiped her hands and crossed the room, checking the peephole.

Ford.

Great. She opened the door, wondering how long he’d been standing there.

“It is a catchy song,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Yep. Long enough.

With a sigh, she put her hand on the door. “Do you think it would possible for me to get just a bit of privacy once in a while?”

“That’s loft living for you. The sound proofing is terrible in this place.”

So she’d noticed.

He took a step toward her, his blue eyes warm with amusement. “I have a proposition for you.”

“What kind of a proposition?”

“Invite me in and I’ll tell you.”

Hmm. Not sure what this was all about, she kept one eye trained on him as she stepped back to let him inside her place. He followed her toward the kitchen.

“By the way, I like what you did with the space.” He looked around at her furniture. “Is the condo you bought also a loft?”

She went to the blender to finish making her smoothie. “No, it’s a more typical two-bedroom layout. Probably about the same square feet as this place, though.”

Ford helped himself to a seat at the counter. “Where at?”

“The Trump Tower.”

“That’s hardly a ‘typical’ two-bedroom.”

She smiled in acknowledgment. “Maybe not.” She turned on the blender and mixed the strawberries, banana, and orange juice together. “So. About this proposition of yours,” she prompted him as she poured the smoothie into a glass.

“I wanted to see if you’re free for dinner tonight.”

She blinked, not having expected that, and felt a strange flutter in her stomach. “You want to have dinner with me?”

“Yes. At Public House.”

It took her a second. “That’s the bar where Nicole met Peter Sutter.”

He nodded. “I talked to an FBI agent today about the situation. Based on some things he and I discussed, I think it would be helpful if you check out the bar with me.”

“Me?” She laughed. “What am I now? Your sidekick in this?”

“Not a sidekick. I need a front man. See, I thought about it: what if, when I go to the bar and ask around, Peter Sutter is a regular? Maybe the bartender will know him, and he’ll want to know why I’m asking. I can come up with some excuse, but it would be less suspicious to have a woman doing the asking.” He waited as she considered this. “Think of it as an adventure. An adventure that would help your client, the struggling single mom who’s really hoping to catch a break with this.”

“Now that’s just playing dirty.”

He grinned and stood up from the counter. “I’ll pick you up at six. Wear something cute—like you’d wear on a first date.”

Her eyes met his archly. “I didn’t say yes.”

He peered down at her, his voice a little huskier than usual. “You didn’t say no, either.”

*   *   *

A FEW HOURS later, Ford knocked on Victoria’s door. When she answered, he was rendered momentarily speechless.

She looked drop-dead gorgeous in a black pencil skirt, short-sleeved white shirt with a scoop neck, and the hottest pair of high heels he’d ever seen—black, with a strap that wrapped around her ankle in a way that had him thinking all sorts of naughty, decidedly non-platonic-neighbor thoughts.

“I knew it,” she said at his silence. “It looks like I’m trying too hard, right? I hate dressing for first dates—even fake ones.” She held out her hands reassuringly. “Don’t worry. I have a backup outfit.”

She turned around, but he caught her hand and stopped her.

Over his dead body would she change that outfit.

“Leave it.” His voice was so low it sounded like a growl.

Her lips quirked in a smile. “Okay,” she said, imitating his growl. “Let me just grab my purse.”

Seemingly, a comedy routine was going to be part of their amateur sleuthing tonight.

In his car, they went over their plan as they drove to the bar. Ford managed to mostly keep his mind out of the gutter, except for one brief moment when she crossed her legs, hiking up her skirt and exposing several inches of bare thigh.

“So I’m supposed to pretend I’m nervous about a blind date and trying to get intel on the guy before he shows up.” She pointed to the traffic signal ahead. “Green light.”

The cars behind Ford laid on their horns.

Christ. He hit the gas, forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand. “Yes. Act chatty. Casual. Tell the bartender your date mentioned that he’s been to the bar a few times, so you thought he or she might be familiar with him and could give you some insight.”

“Let’s say worst-case scenario here. What if the bartender is friends with him, and he’s like, ‘I don’t remember Peter saying anything about having a date tonight.’”

Ford shrugged. “Play it off. Say you just texted him back confirming the date a half hour ago. Or, act flighty and say you must’ve gotten the day wrong. A male bartender isn’t going to think you’re suspicious. Men are always clueless about what’s really going on in a woman’s head.”

“True enough. But what if it’s a female bartender? What if I say I’m meeting Peter Sutter for a date and Peter Sutter is her boyfriend?”

He thought about that. “Then you’d better run.”

“Run?” She looked appalled. “That’s your suggestion?”

“And you’re not going to get far in those heels, so I hope you know how to throw a decent punch.” He grinned when he caught her look. “I’m kidding. Look, think about what we do know about Peter Sutter. He’s good-looking, and he’s the kind of guy who ditches a woman while she’s sleeping after picking her up at a bar. Sounds like a player to me—odds are, he doesn’t even have a girlfriend.” Seeing a parking spot on the street about a half block away from their destination, he pulled to the side and reversed in.

He turned off the car and angled in the seat to face her. “Don’t be nervous.”

“I’m not nervous. Just . . . out of my element.”

He smiled, having a feeling that was a rare occurrence for her. “You’ll do great, Victoria.”

She tilted her head to the side, as if considering this. “Probably, yes.” Then she gave him a little smile to say she was joking. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

They both got out of the car, and he walked over to feed the parking meter. She leaned her hip against the hood, watching as he put the receipt on the dashboard.

“I’ll walk in ahead of you and find a spot away from the bar,” he told her. “Wait for my text, then you go in. If the bartender does know Peter Sutter, you’ll have to improvise a bit. Don’t seem too eager, but try to find out where he lives. Anything that we can cross-reference against our list. Say something like, ‘I think he mentioned that he lives close to here,’ that kind of thing.”

Victoria blew out a breath of air. “Okay. I just thought of another worst-case scenario.”

He hid a smile, thinking she was kind of cute when out of her element. “Technically, I think there can only be one worst-case scenario.”

“What if I walk in and ask about Peter Sutter, and the bartender points to some guy and says, ‘Sure, that’s Pete, right over there!’”

Hell, they should be so lucky. “Not exactly sure what’ll happen then. But it’ll probably include me saying a few four-letter words to the dickhead.”

That settled, Ford strode off in the direction of the bar.

*   *   *

LOCATED IN THE heart of the River North neighborhood, Public House, a so-called gastropub according to the online research Ford had done, was bigger and trendier than most sports bars he’d frequented. Sure, there was the requisite wood paneling and TVs on the walls, but the crowd seemed more “urban professional hoping to hook-up” than actual sports fan.

He told the hostess he was meeting someone and asked for a quiet booth away from the bar. Once seated, he surveyed the scene. There were two bartenders working that evening, a man and a woman, and only a couple of open seats at the bar.

A waitress stopped by his table to take his drink order. Bypassing the self-serve beer taps built right into the booth, he ordered a bottle of Robert the Bruce.

All set, he texted Victoria after the waitress left. Take the open seat on the left side of the bar. From there, he would have the quickest access in case he needed to step in, in the highly unlikely event that anything went awry once she began asking questions about Peter Sutter.

Moments later, she walked in.

Ford pretended to be distracted by his phone, but out of the corner of his eye he watched as she took a seat at the bar and crossed one high-heeled leg over the other.

The female bartender approached Victoria and took her order. After she walked away, Victoria checked out the other patrons seated at the bar, pretending as though she was looking for someone. After her drink arrived—something in a cocktail glass—she began chatting up the bartender. Ford couldn’t hear what was being said, but from Victoria’s smile, and her gestures, and the way the female bartender chuckled and nodded along, the conversation appeared to be going well.

He guessed the moment Victoria mentioned Peter Sutter’s name, judging from the way the bartender furrowed her brow as if thinking and then shook her head. Then the female bartender gestured for the male bartender to come over, and there was more gesturing and explaining the situation, and more smiles from Victoria, and then the male bartender shook his head.

The waitress, who’d been standing at the bar to pick up an order, joined the conversation, and although she, too, shook her head no at what Ford presumed to be the Peter Sutter question, she launched into some story that had all of them laughing. Then she headed off in the opposite direction, carrying a tray of drinks, and the bartenders got back to work.

Victoria pulled out her phone, as if checking her messages. A moment later, Ford’s phone chimed with a new text.

No luck.

He wasn’t surprised—it had been a long shot, but a lead worth checking out nevertheless. He set his phone on the table and looked up, just in time to see the male bartender moving closer to Victoria. The guy gestured to her phone, making a big show of looking indignant, and Ford had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. He could only imagine the lame line the guy was giving her. Where is this Peter Sutter, anyway? What kind of jerk leaves a beautiful woman like you waiting?

When Victoria smiled in return, Ford decided to head over. Time for this twentysomething bartender with the spiky blond hair to go . . . make a gin and tonic or something.

He tapped her on the shoulder. “Excuse me. Are you Victoria?”

She turned around and gave him a curious look—they hadn’t discussed this part of the plan. “I am.”

Ford held out his hand and smiled. “I’m Peter Sutter.”