It Happened One Wedding (9 page)

TWO WEEKS LATER,
Vaughn made his debut appearance as “Mark Sullivan,” a gun buyer who was eager to make the acquaintance of Officer Pritchett and his gang of corrupt cops.

Per his instructions, Batista had set up the meeting for that Friday afternoon at a diner in West Town. As Mark Sullivan, a man who made a pretty penny doing shady things, Vaughn looked like a guy who spent his free time hanging out at upscale strip clubs. He sported dark scruff along his jaw, a designer suit and Italian loafers, and a flashy Rolex on his wrist.

Pritchett showed up right on time, with two beefy twentysomething guys in tow. Unbeknownst to the three police officers, Vaughn also had brought guests to this party—a whole slew of them.

Crooked cops were considered dangerous targets. In addition to being armed, they had everything to lose if caught. For some criminals, going to prison was simply part of life on the streets, practically a rite of passage. But for government and law enforcement officials, being investigated by the FBI meant the end of the world—and if someone thought his world was ending, there was no end to the foolish or dangerous things he could do.

Because of that, Vaughn and Huxley had taken no chances with this meeting. Huxley and three of their squad mates stood by in cars parked close to the bar, and all agents would be listening to every word of Vaughn’s conversation via the pin-sized microphone he had attached to one of the buttons on his shirt. Also joining them was a special operations group, a team of eight agents armed with heavier weapons, who had followed Pritchett and his two cohorts—already identified as Officers James Mahoney and Ali Ortiz—to this meeting, and had confirmed that the three police officers were armed only with standard firearms and didn’t have any further backup waiting in the wings.

Pritchett spotted Vaughn at his table and walked over with officers Ortiz and Mahoney in tow. After a few minutes of posturing and feeling each other out, Vaughn and Pritchett got down to business.

He told Pritchett that he’d had a few problems transporting guns into the Chicago city limits, and that he’d been intrigued when Batista had told him about the smuggling business the cop was running on the side.

“It’s fucking genius,” Pritchett bragged to Vaughn. “I’ve got a good group here. Whatever you want, we can get it done. We rent vans or trucks, depending on the size of the job. If anybody ever stops us, we’ll just show them our badges and say we’re working off-duty to deliver items that somebody bought at an auction. Nobody’s gonna question that.”

“You get stopped a lot?” Vaughn asked, looking skeptical.

“Not once. I’m just telling you that we have a backup plan, if necessary,” Pritchett said, quick to reassure him. “This isn’t some amateur thing I’m running here. We’re
cops.
That’s the beauty of it. We know the way cops think.”

“Such as?” Vaughn asked.

“Like, we know to split up when driving a route because a large caravan of vans driving along Lake Shore Drive in the middle of the night might arouse suspicions. We know the neighborhoods and streets that cops patrol the most. We know all kinds of tricks like that.” Pritchett took a sip of coffee. “But it’s not just the police you gotta worry about. Maybe somebody else gets word that you’re moving guns and decides he wants in on the action. Maybe he thinks it’d be easy to take out a smuggler or two and steal your merchandise for himself.” He nodded to the two beefy police officers on each side of him. “We’re ready for that kind of thing. We’re like the goddamn Boy Scouts. Right, Ortiz?”

“‘Always be prepared,’” the beefy cop on Pritchett’s right answered with a sly grin.

Vaughn betrayed no reaction to that, but in his head he was thinking that the jury, and the press, was going to
love
that little exchange. Corrupt cops comparing themselves to Boy Scouts—it was sound bites like these that got blasted all over the media once a case went public.

“We have tasers, guns, and bulletproof vests,” Pritchett boasted. “Whatever you need smuggled into the city, we got it covered. No one will mess with us.”

Vaughn leaned back in his chair and studied Pritchett, as if thinking all this through. “I have a job out of Indianapolis,” he finally said. “Maybe we could consider it a tryout.”

Pritchett’s eyes lit up greedily. “What’s the cargo?”

“Firearms—a mix of assault rifles and handguns,” Vaughn said.

Pritchett shrugged. “No problem.”

“Guns are heavy. How many guys are in your crew?”

“Four, plus me.”

“All of them come with those handy badges you talked about?”

Pritchett grinned at that. “Every one.”

So they were looking at a smuggling ring with five active cops. “How do you know you can trust them? They’re cops. What if they suddenly get a guilty conscience?” Vaughn pointed emphatically. “You fuck me on this, Pritchett, and it’ll be the last fuckup you ever make.”

Pritchett was quick to ease his concerns. “Don’t worry. I handpicked all these guys myself. It took me almost a year to put this group together. These guys are solid—they know a good business opportunity when they see one.”

Vaughn pulled a piece of paper out of his pants pocket and slid it across the table to Pritchett. Enough of the chitchat—it was time for them to seal this deal. “The top address is the warehouse in Indianapolis where you’ll pick up the guns. Be there a week from Monday at midnight. Park on the south side of the lot—a guy named Masso will be waiting for you. You’ll bring the guns to me at the other address.”

“What’s our cut?” Pritchett asked.

“Fifteen grand,” Vaughn said, his tone an indication that this was not open for negotiation.

Pritchett exchanged another look with the police officers at his side, then turned back to Vaughn with a nod.

“Done.”

 • • • 

LATER THAT EVENING,
after Vaughn had changed out of his swanky clothes and ditched the Rolex, he and Huxley filled Cade in on the progress of the Pritchett investigation at a pub located around the corner from the U.S. Attorney’s Office.

“So who’s Masso?” Cade asked. Eventually, after any arrests had been made, the agents would turn over the case to the U.S. Attorney’s Office for prosecution—but until that point, Vaughn, the senior agent assigned to the matter, was running the show.

“Masso is Special Agent Brent Lyons in the Indianapolis office,” Vaughn said. “On Monday night, he’ll be waiting for Pritchett’s crew with several duffle bags of guns that, unbeknownst to them, we’ve rendered inoperable.” He paused when the waitress brought their burgers, and didn’t waste any time in digging in. Undercover work always made him ravenous—perhaps it was the extra kick of adrenaline.

He continued after swallowing. “So, if everything goes as planned, in a month or so, Hux and I should have enough evidence for you to—” He stopped, seeing Cade and Huxley exchanging bemused looks. “What?”

“You really aren’t going to say anything about the situation at your three o’clock?” Huxley asked. “They’ve been looking over here since we sat down.”

Vaughn glanced out of the corner of his eye and spotted a table with three women in their midtwenties, all dressed up for a night on the town in jeans, heels, and skin-revealing tops. The brunette facing him caught his eye and boldly held it for a long moment before returning back to her conversation with her friends.

He shrugged. “Eh. They all have that fake too-tan look.”

Cade stared at him, speaking slowly. “It’s Friday night. There are three attractive women checking you out, and this is the entirety of your response? That they’re too
tan
?” He looked Vaughn over with sharp eyes. “What’s going on with you? Are you sick? Bleeding internally in the head?”

Huxley rubbed his jaw, musing. “A similar thing happened the other day,” he told Cade. “The new cute barista at Starbucks was flirting with him, and he didn’t even notice.”

“What new cute barista at Starbucks?” Vaughn asked indignantly.

Huxley gestured to Vaughn. “See? It’s like his radar is broken or something.”

“Hmm.” Cade looked Vaughn over, folding his arms across his chest. “How long has he been like this?”

Vaughn glared at them while grabbing a couple of French fries. “Any time you two want to stop talking about me like I’m not here, that’d be cool. Really.”

“Two weeks,” Huxley said to Cade, ignoring Vaughn. “Ever since he came back from that weekend at his parents’ house.”

Hearing that, Cade raised an eyebrow. “How curious. Correct me if I’m wrong, Agent Roberts, but wasn’t that the last time you saw a certain vixen maid of honor?”

“Still with the vixen jokes?” Vaughn asked him.

“Remember how much shit you gave me when I first started dating Brooke?” Cade threw back in response.

Vaughn smiled fondly. No doubt, he’d been all up in his friend’s business over that for weeks.

Crap.

“And me, when I first got together with Addison?” Huxley added, referring to his fiancée, another agent in the white-collar crime group.

“A happenstance that still remains a bigger FBI mystery than who shot JFK,” Vaughn quipped.

Both Cade and Huxley stared at him unwaveringly.

Tough crowd.

“Whatever. This is completely different,” Vaughn said definitively. “I don’t even like Sidney. She’s everything I’m
not
looking for: argumentative, not remotely easygoing, and completely open about the fact that she wants a long-term commitment. I haven’t seen her for two weeks, and trust me—it’s been two of the most peaceful weeks of my life.” In fact, it had been a relief to throw himself into work since he’d been back from his parents’ house, and to be free of a certain redhead whose kiss was
way
hotter than it should’ve been for someone so cranky and difficult.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Huxley observed. “Like you want to say more.”

“I really don’t.”

“You know we’re not letting you leave until you give us something, right?” Cade asked.

Unfortunately, Vaughn did know this. His friends would fixate on the situation with Sidney and thoroughly annoy him until they got whatever answers they thought they were looking for. “Fine,” he said, figuring he might as well rip off the Band-Aid and get it over with. “I kissed her.”

“You kissed the maid of honor?” Huxley asked incredulously.

“No, I figured I’d plant one on the woman my brother’s going to marry,” Vaughn said dryly. “Yes, the maid of honor.” He held up his hand, seeing Huxley open his mouth. “And whatever you’re going to say, don’t. It was just an angry, impulsive thing.”

“An angry kiss, huh?” Cade asked. “How’d that go?”

Vaughn’s lips nearly curved in a smile.
She bit me
. An image flashed into his head, of him and Sidney kissing heatedly in the grass—an image that was quickly replaced by her wide-eyed reaction afterward.

Oh, no. You and I can’t . . . I mean, we so, so couldn’t . . . you know.

“Let’s just say, we agreed that it was a mistake,” Vaughn said.

With that settled, he steered the conversation away from his not-to-be-repeated dalliance with Sidney and back to the topic of his undercover operation into a group of corrupt cops transporting illegal firearms into the city.

Kind of a big deal, that.

TUESDAY MORNING, SIDNEY
sat once again at a sleek gunmetal-gray granite table in one of the conference rooms at Monroe Ellers. This time, however, there were only three pairs of eyes staring back at her, belonging to the partners who made up the firm’s investment committee.

She and her team had done their research. She’d considered all the financials, she’d weighed the pro and cons, and she believed she’d found a company that would be a great investment for her private equity fund.

Now she just had to get her firm’s most senior partners on board.

This pitch signified her first real test since she’d joined Monroe Ellers. If the investment committee approved her idea, it would be a demonstration of their confidence in her.
Not
approving her idea, on the other hand, would mean they had doubts—which most certainly would be a shaky start to her career in private equity.

“So. Tell us about Vitamin Boutique,” said Michael, one of the investment committee’s three members. He gestured to the report Sidney had prepared, which sat on the table in front of him.

“Certainly,” Sidney said, with a confident nod. She felt comfortable being in the hot seat, and trusted her instincts. She’d been a little unsettled after her trip to Wisconsin and that wild kiss with Vaughn, but that feeling had since passed. Here, she was in control and in charge—and ready to do her thing.

“A few months ago, I read an article in the
Journal
about the retail industries that had performed best during the recession. The vitamin and supplement industry was included on that list,” she began. “It’s a twenty-five-billion-dollar industry, and one of the few areas of retail that actually thrived during the economic downturn. Currently Vitamin Boutique is primarily a Midwest retailer, but I think there’s a real opportunity to grow the company into a national chain.”

She started the PowerPoint presentation she’d prepared on her laptop. On the screen in front of them, a color-coded graphic of the United States popped up. “The blue dots indicate the existing locations of Vitamin Boutique stores. But with the right strategies and management, this is where I think the company can be in five years.” She clicked the touchpad of her computer, and the screen changed, indicating a significant increase in the number of stores, spread throughout the entire country. “I think we can add roughly 400 stores in five years time.”

“And how are we going to do that?” asked Rick, the most senior of the investment committee’s members.

Sidney answered without hesitation. “First, we would expand into California and Florida, where the company already receives a significant number of mail orders through its catalog. After that, we’d use site-selection models to help us identify potential additional store locations.” After explaining the need to choose sites with high visibility—primarily endcap locations in suburban strip malls and corner stores in urban areas—she went on to discuss the need to bolster the company’s online presence and expand direct sales through its Web site. She explained how she intended to recruit top talent for Vitamin Boutique’s executive team, the need for the company to increase customer loyalty by implementing a rewards card program, and how they should employ an aggressive pricing strategy, perhaps discounting as much as twenty-five to forty percent every day.

Then she put up the final screen of her presentation, which contained the bottom line. “In five years we’d take the company public via an IPO, and I estimate that we’ll exit at ten times earnings. If that happens, I think we’ll have a group of very happy investors.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Michael said, which got a chuckle out of everyone.

Sidney folded her hands on the table, preparing to be grilled. “I’d be happy to answer any questions you might have.”

Bring it on.

 • • • 

THE FOLLOWING SATURDAY,
Sidney watched from the back of her living room as twenty-five women
ooh
ed and
ahh
ed over the serving platter Isabelle unveiled from its gift box.

The bridal shower was a success.

This was no small feat, considering she’d had all of three weeks to pull it together,
and
had to work within the guidelines set by both Isabelle the excited bride-to-be and the crazy pregnant lady.

We should have flowers for centerpieces on the tables. That would be so pretty! Just no roses, lilies, lavender, or anything else with a strong scent. Flowery smells make me puke.

Sid, I saw the most adorable three-tiered minicakes in
Martha Stewart Weddings
. They’d be perfect for dessert! But tell the bakery that they have to use buttercream—the thought of that pasty, sugary fondant makes me puke.

Ooh, let’s have fun drinks!

No alcohol.

Simon’s mom will be driving back to Wisconsin after the shower, so it can’t start too late.

We’d better not start too early, unless you want me to throw up all over the egg salad finger sandwiches.

Actually, nix the egg salad finger sandwiches. Yellow food makes me puke.

And so on.

From her post in the back of the room, Sidney took a sip of her ginger ale and orange juice, glad to finally have a break now that the guests had been served lunch and dessert. Maryann, one of Isabelle’s bridesmaids, was writing down the gifts brought by each guest, and the other two bridesmaids were in charge of passing Isabelle the presents and reboxing them once they’d been opened.

Trish came in from the courtyard, where the catering company had set up a bar, and walked over to Sidney.

“You planned a lovely party, dar-ling” she said, mock extravagantly, while tipping her champagne flute to Sidney’s in cheers. Then she took a sip and made a face. “Except what’s up with the virgin mimosas?”

“Half of Isabelle’s friends are either pregnant or breastfeeding,” Sidney said, going with the tiny white lie she’d prepared in response to this very question. “It seemed like the alcohol would go to waste.” Indeed, a sizable portion of the women surrounding Isabelle were wearing cute summery maternity dresses. “But I did tell the bartender to stash one bottle of champagne off to the side, if you’re interested.”

“Reid is watching Jonah, which means I have a weekend afternoon all to myself for the first time in nearly five months. Hell yes, I’m interested,” Trish said.

They sneaked out to the courtyard, giggling surreptitiously as the bartender poured them champagne. He then added a splash of orange juice to each glass so no one would realize what they were drinking.

“It’ll be our little secret,” he said, with a wink at Sidney.

Drinks in hand, Sidney and Trish returned to the back of the living room just in time to see Isabelle open a set of crystal water goblets.

Trish leaned in, whispering. “He’s cute.”

“Who?”

“The bartender. You look great in that dress—you totally should chat him up.”

Sidney glanced over her shoulder and took a second look at the bartender. Sure, he was cute, but he was also
young
. “He’s, like, twelve.”

Trish grinned wickedly. “If he’s serving alcohol, he’s legal.”

“Come on. I’m probably ten years older than that guy.” Sidney blinked as the truth of that sunk in. “Oh my god, when did I get to be ten years older than that guy?”

Trish tipped her champagne glass. “Welcome to your thirties.”

Trapped in a sea of married and/or pregnant twentysomethings, and standing next to her best friend who, while thirty-three like her, had the husband, the child, and the whole kit and caboodle, Sidney could practically hear the alarm going off on her biological clock, shrilly blaring away as she searched frantically for a snooze button.

“I’ve been meaning to ask. How’s your dating plan coming along?” Trish asked.

“I’ve gone on eight first dates in two weeks,” Sidney said.

Trish blinked. “Eight? Why didn’t you tell me about any of them?”

“I was waiting to text you with the good news that I was on a
second
date.”

“None of them worked out?” Trish asked, looking disappointed.

Sidney shook her head. “Not a one.”

“The guys you’re meeting online are that bad?”

“Actually, I’ve been pleasantly surprised by how cute some of them are. But they didn’t pass the commitment-readiness test. Something was always off.”

“Such as?”

“Well, let’s see.” Sidney ticked off the list with her fingers. “Leo from last Tuesday was obviously still hung up on his ex. Felix from last Thursday says he’s up for partner at his law firm this December, but isn’t sure he’ll make it.” She pointed at Trish. “Remember, a good candidate should be settled in his career. Then there was Jesse, who I met last Friday for dinner and asked me to go back to his place for a ‘drink’ afterward. That’s moving too fast—it means he’ll exit the relationship just as quickly as he jumped into it. As opposed to Jayden, Saturday’s dinner date, who was off to a promising start and then asked if we could get together again in two weeks, when his work schedule ‘settles down.’ The rules say that’s a big red flag that he’s married to his job.” She paused, trying to remember the rest. “Hmm, who else? Ah, Santiago on Monday. None of his friends are in committed relationships—he says they’re all still in the playing-the-field phase.” She threw Trish a knowing look. “How long before he decides what they’re doing sounds more fun than a relationship? Am I right?” She moved to her other hand, needing more fingers. “Then Wednesday, drinks with Mason. Still lives with his parents. Um, no. Then there was Vince, who I met for dinner last night. The guy stared at my boobs the whole time. Seriously, you would’ve thought I’d sewn eyeballs to my nipples.”

Trish laughed. “Wait—that’s only seven. I thought you said you went on eight dates.”

“I left out Karl the fireman. We had coffee last Wednesday.”

“What was wrong with him?” Trish asked.

“Nothing. Actually, he was the one guy I liked. But he, uh . . . didn’t e-mail me back after our date.”

“Oh.” Trish thought about that. “Well, obviously he’s a moron then.”

“Obviously.” The quip rolled off Sidney’s tongue, as expected.

Then, out of the blue, it happened.

Hot tears pricked at her eyes.

Mortified, she stepped around the corner and into the dining room.

Trish followed, her expression concerned. “Sid . . .”

“Don’t let Isabelle see,” Sidney said, using the wall to block them. She took a deep breath, shaking her head. “It’s so stupid.” Then she smiled at her friend, embarrassed. “It’s not about the fireman. It’s just . . . everything. Isabelle’s wedding, all these pregnant women, the fact that I can’t even get a second date.” She brushed away her tears. “Three years of my life wasted because I was dumb enough to fall for Brody’s I’m-a-changed-man routine.”

“Dumb enough?” Trish looked her in the eyes. “Sid, you do realize that
you
didn’t do anything wrong in picking Brody, right? He’s the one who screwed up.”

Sidney said nothing for a moment. Then the doorbell rang, sparing her from having to answer.

Quickly gathering herself, she stepped around the corner and saw Isabelle heading to the front door.

In walked Simon, with Vaughn right behind him.

Sidney rolled her eyes. Just what she needed—this guy.

Simon smiled at the group as Isabelle led him and his brother into the living room. “Ladies, I hope we’re not interrupting.”

“I asked Simon and Vaughn to help transport the gifts to my apartment,” Isabelle explained.

“I don’t mind being used for my muscles. As long as there’s cake in return.” Simon kissed her affectionately on the cheek.

At mention of the word
muscles
, twenty pairs of female eyes shot to the tall and broad-shouldered Vaughn, who, naturally, looked devilishly gorgeous again, in jeans that hung perfectly on his lean hips and a white collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up around his strong, corded forearms.

Arms that once had pinned Sidney to the grass, as he kissed her senseless.

Ignoring the slightly . . . flustered feeling brought on by the image, she purged the memory from her mind. No point in going there.

Trish turned to Sidney, pointing subtly at Vaughn. “
That
is Simon’s brother? The one who hit on you?” She went back for a second look. “Criminy is right.”

“Trust me, the glow fades once he speaks,” Sidney grumbled.

As if sensing that she was talking about him, Vaughn’s gaze met hers across the room. He looked her over, taking in her dress and heels. Then he clenched his jaw and turned away to greet his mother.

“What was that?” Trish demanded to know, in a hushed tone.

Sidney tried to play innocent. “What was what?”

“That look between you and Vaughn,” Trish said. “I can’t decide if you two should box a few rounds or go screw each other brainless in the pantry.”

“My god, Trish—his mother is standing right over there.”

“In that case, I’d strongly suggest locking the pantry door should you choose option B.”

Very funny
. Then Sidney spotted Amanda, Isabelle’s other single bridesmaid, noticeably eying Vaughn.

Something about that compelled her to lean in toward Trish. “If I tell you something, you can’t tell Isabelle or anyone else.”

Trish’s voice was hushed. “Ooh, I like this lead-in.”

“I just don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea,” Sidney said.

“Obviously.”

“It meant nothing.”

“Of course it didn’t.”

Sidney lowered her voice more. “That weekend I went to Wisconsin with Isabelle, I kissed Vaughn.”

“Shut
up
. Why are you just telling me this now?” Trish whispered demandingly.

“Because it shouldn’t have happened.”

Trish cocked her head. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t even like him. He’s . . . irritating. And smug. He’s too confident, too in-shape, too good-looking—and far too aware of all those things.”

“No one’s telling you to marry the guy,” Trish said. “You’ve got your plan. Rock on. But why should you feel guilty about having a little fun with Mr. Right Now until Mr. Right comes along?”