Behind Michigan Avenue, she could see Oak Street Beach. The sandy lakeshore was packed with people, all enjoying the sunshine and the waves.

Maybe she’d rushed out of Cade’s apartment too quickly.

As quickly as the thought popped into her head, Brooke shoved it right back out. The contracts piled on her desk weren’t going to review themselves, after all. Besides, she and Cade were keeping things casual—that meant no hanging around his place “just because,” regardless of whether she had to work or not. They’d had sex—something lots of adults did. Sure, it had been hot sex, and there’d been a few laughs, too, but that didn’t mean she wanted to pick out curtains with the man. And given his well-practiced Denver omelette routine, it was safe to say she wasn’t the first woman to spend the night at Maison de Morgan. Nor would she be the last.

The thought made her feel a little . . . prickly.

Get over it, Parker.

This was exactly the way she wanted it, she reminded herself. Just her and her work, together on a Sunday afternoon. Daydreaming about her and Cade while staring longingly at the beach was pointless.

Even if it would be fun to imagine him all tanned and shirtless.

Brooke mulled that over for a moment.

Aw, hell. One fantasy wouldn’t kill her.

She was lying on the beach, with no cell phone or laptop or iPad in sight—definitely a fantasy right there—listening to the sound of the waves breaking peacefully against the shore. Cade, of the aforementioned tanned shirtlessness, sat next to her while rubbing sunscreen on her back.

Brooke closed her eyes. She could practically feel his strong hands caressing her skin . . . then the light, teasing touch of his fingers brushing her hair off her shoulders as he leaned down, his voice husky and warm in her ear, and said—

“Brooke.”

Her eyes flew open. Okay . . . she really could hear him. Slowly, she turned around in her chair, and saw, unbelievably, Cade standing in her office doorway.

This was one heck of a vivid daydream.

“You might want to think about locking the main door to the office when you’re working here alone,” he said, no hello or anything, just bossing her around.

Definitely the real Cade.

She ignored his lecture for a moment, since there was a more pressing issue at hand. “What are you doing here?”

He shifted awkwardly in the doorway, as if he wasn’t sure of the answer to that himself. “If you have to work on a Sunday, the least you can do is eat more than an energy bar,” he said gruffly. He held up a white paper bag.

Brooke stared in surprise. “You brought me lunch?”

“I was in the neighborhood.”

She checked out the label on the bag. “DMK is twenty minutes from here.”

“I was in that neighborhood, and now I’m here,” he said in exasperation. “Seriously, woman, you are impossible to feed.” He strode over and set the bag on her desk. “One cheeseburger with spicy chipotle ketchup and a side of sweet potato fries—chosen specifically for a certain spicy and sweet girl I know—and a green dill pickle for your eyes. So there.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

Brooke studied him. “You seem very ornery right now.”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” he huffed. “Just . . . eat your Brooke Burger. Stop asking so many questions. Sometimes a guy just wants to buy a girl lunch. Any objections to that? Good. Enjoy your Sunday, Ms. Parker.”

He strode out of her office, gone as quickly as he’d appeared.

Brooke stared at the doorway and blinked.

No clue what that was all about.

Eighteen

A WEEK LATER, Cade sat across a conference table from Charles Torino and two of his defense attorneys. As the federal prosecutor who’d filed the charges against Senator Sanderson, Torino, and the other three defendants, Cade had made certain predictions to himself as to who the first defendant would be to approach him about a guilty plea. He’d gone with Torino, mostly because he’d guessed that a hospital CEO who lived in a four-million-dollar home would try to do anything to avoid serving time in a federal prison. And the fact that his lawyer had literally broken out in a sweat during the arraignment made Cade think that the Torino defense team wasn’t feeling all too confident about their case.

His suspicions were confirmed that Friday morning.

“We’d like to talk about the charges our client is facing,” said Owen Lockhart, the lead defense attorney for Charles Torino, who’d called Cade earlier in the week to request a meeting.

“Conspiracy to bribe a government official,” Cade said matter-of-factly. “And as I told you on the phone, Mr. Lockhart, I’m afraid there isn’t much for us to discuss.”

Lockhart gestured. “My client is considering changing his plea.”

“A wise idea, given the evidence,” Cade said. “We can call the clerk’s office and set up a change of plea hearing anytime you’d like.”

“But what am I going to get in exchange?” Torino blurted out, ignoring the looks of his attorneys.

Cade rested his arms on the table. “I apologize if this wasn’t made clear to you, Mr. Torino, but I’ve already told your lawyer that I don’t intend to cut any deals with respect to the charges against you.”

Torino’s other attorney, James Wheeler, was younger and seemingly more aggressive than Lockhart. “We know your primary target is the senator, Morgan. You seem to have a hard-on for politicians these days.”