Risk It All. Anna Perrin
dressed in a white cotton blouse, short flared skirt and ankle socks. She gave him a friendly smile, even though he saw signs of fatigue: dark circles under her eyes, a yellowish stain on her shoulder and mussed hair that had barely been brushed today. As she placed the menus on the table, he noticed a light stripe on her ring finger.
“Two decaf coffees,” he said.
Her smile faded, probably anticipating a poor tip, yet another disappointment for a new mother whose marriage or engagement had broken down. Her next words were a valiant effort to change his mind. “Our sandwiches are like nothing you’ve ever tasted. We use the highest-quality ingredients as well as bread baked daily by a local, award-winning bakery.”
His stomach responded to the mention of food with a few hunger pangs, and the diner’s offerings sounded infinitely better than the take-out meals he’d eaten over the past few days. “Okay, your sales pitch has won me over. I’ll take three sandwiches. A BLT, a grilled cheese and a roast beef. Hold the mustard.” Brooke was welcome to eat whatever appealed to her, or she could ask for something else.
The waitress’s smile was back in full force as she jotted down his order. “I knew you looked hungry when you walked in. Your meal won’t take long. In the meantime, I’ll get your beverages.”
The coffees had been delivered by the time Brooke returned from the restroom. He watched her add a generous helping of cream and three packets of sugar to hers.
“Don’t judge,” she muttered. “I need a pick-me-up.”
“When did you last eat?”
“I had an apple when the sun came up.”
“That’s hours ago. I’ve ordered enough food for both of us.”
“Thanks, but Latschenko’s gun pointed at my stomach killed my appetite.”
“You should eat whether you feel like it or not. Low blood sugar is probably the reason you passed out in your SUV.”
She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t pass out—I fell asleep. And that only happened because I pulled an all-nighter for work.”
Now probably wouldn’t be a good time to mention the coffee he’d ordered her was decaf. He and insomnia had been keeping each other company till the wee hours of the morning lately, so he’d started cutting out caffeine after noon. “What kind of work keeps you up all night?”
She took a moment to answer him. “I’m a PI.”
He noticed her fiddling with her mug, not meeting his eyes. “You seem reluctant to mention it. Why is that?”
“My profession has a somewhat sleazy reputation.”
He could tell that bothered her. It surprised him a no-nonsense woman like her cared about other people’s opinions. Or maybe it was his opinion she cared about. After all, it was his eyes she was avoiding. It wouldn’t take much to ease the awkwardness she was feeling.
“I don’t consider your work as sleazy.” He added, deadpan, “Even if you were sneaking around with a camera trying to get an X-rated shot.”
She laughed, her whole face lighting up. Damn, she had a pretty smile. Up until now, it had been understandably absent, but he hoped she’d have reason to smile more in the not-too-distant future. “By the way, I was impressed by your fancy camera, even if Latschenko wasn’t.”
“A tool of the trade that cost me a small fortune. I’m grateful it wasn’t confiscated, although I guess if it had been, that would have been the least of my worries.” She tapped the table with her fingers, unconsciously keeping rhythm with the song on the jukebox. “Thankfully, my clients aren’t all jealous spouses wanting proof their significant others are cheating on them. I do jobs for insurance companies, lawyers, whoever needs info and is willing to pay for it.”
The waitress arrived with a platter of sandwiches cut into wedges. He transferred a few roast-beef wedges to his plate, then nudged the platter closer to Brooke. She didn’t take the hint. Instead, she took a sip of her coffee, grimaced at the decaf’s mild taste and set down the cup. “Enough about me. How long have you worked for the FBI?”
“Twelve years.” He took a bite of his sandwich.
“What office do you work out of?”
His mouth was full of roast beef and bread, so he didn’t respond immediately. The food was delicious, and he was going to take his time savoring it. His companion should take a break from talking and do the same. An apple at dawn wasn’t enough to keep a mouse going for hours, much less a tall, athletic woman. But because she was stubborn, the only way he was going to get her to eat was to insist. “The waitress wasn’t kidding about these sandwiches. They’re fantastic. You really should try one...especially if you want me to give up information.”
“I guess that’s a bargain I can accept.” She looked as if she was trying not to smile, but her lips wouldn’t cooperate and curved upward as she selected a grilled-cheese sandwich from the platter. One bite later, she was devouring it with relish. “These are exceptionally good,” she admitted, reaching for another wedge. “I taste a couple of different types of cheese.”
“Then I don’t regret nagging—I mean negotiating—for you to eat.” He added, “I work out of the Cincinnati office.”
She wiped her fingers on a paper napkin. “What did Sidorov do to become a person of interest in your missing-person case?”
He shook his head. “Can’t answer that one.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Take your pick. The matter is off-limits.”
“Okay, but you can’t blame a girl for trying, especially when a member of her family was threatened by your ‘person of interest.’”
“Trevor is the one you need to grill for answers, not me.”
She nodded. “Oh, I plan to. In the meantime, I want to thank you again and also to apologize. I realize by coming to my rescue, you ruined your cover. I’m sorry about that.”
She sounded sincere, but sorry didn’t fix the damage her presence at Sidorov’s place had done. Sorry was just a word people used when they screwed up. He’d heard that word uttered by his brother more times than he could count over the years, and each time it irritated him more than the last. But it wasn’t Brooke’s fault he had a bad history with the word. They finished eating in silence, and there wasn’t enough remaining to need take-away containers.
The waitress came by to clear the table and deliver the bill, telling them to take their time settling up. A few minutes later, a woman entered the diner, dressed in a floral skirt, pink frilly blouse, high heels and silver bangles on her wrists. She waved away the hostess and strode purposefully toward their table. As she got closer, she called out in an annoyed voice, “What’s the big emergency, Brooke?”
This had to be Savannah, the jealous sister who had unknowingly sent her sibling on a perilous errand. The designer clothes she wore were on the opposite side of the fashion spectrum compared to Brooke’s tank top, jeans and sneakers, but the family resemblance was unmistakable. Savannah was a shorter, plumper version of her sister with a wider face and green eyes.
Brooke looked past her to the diner’s entrance. “Where’s Trevor?”
Savannah huffed out a breath. “I suggested he wait in the car while I talked to you. His color is off, and he’s not acting like himself at all. I think he’s picked up a flu bug and should be home in bed.”
The banker might be feeling unwell, but a virus was hardly to blame. Jared addressed the banker’s wife. “Trevor isn’t sick. He’s terrified.”
“What? Who are you?” Her lip curled as she took note of his grass-stained shirt and jeans. Her gaze settled on the embroidered name on the shirt’s pocket. “What are you talking about, Joe?”
Brooke