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.”
Fifteen
CARRYING HER DRINK, Victoria followed her “date” back to the booth and took a seat across from him. “Peter Sutter, huh?”
Ford appeared pleased with himself for the joke. “We hadn’t discussed a specific exit strategy, so I improvised.”
They paused when the waitress came by to drop off two menus at their table. She winked approvingly in Ford’s direction. Staying in character, Victoria smiled back—Yep, I hit the blind-date jackpot with this one.
“So. We struck out,” Ford said, after the waitress left. “Although, on the upside, you didn’t have to hightail it out of here in your heels.”
This was true. Both bartenders and the waitress hadn’t seemed at all suspicious about her story; in fact, they’d been quite friendly. “None of them knew a Peter Sutter, or even any regular customer named Peter or Pete. So we’re back to our list of eleven candidates.”
“Ten, hopefully, after tomorrow. I have a contact at the FBI office who’s going to pull Peter Sutter Number One’s mug shot for me.”
“An FBI contact—aren’t you resourceful?” She raised an eyebrow when Ford handed her one of the menus. “Are we actually staying for dinner?”
“Of course, it’s part of our cover.” He gave a subtle nod in the direction of the bartenders. “They think we’re on a date, remember?”
Hmm. Interesting, how that had worked out. But, seeing how it was dinnertime and the bar’s menu had a Wagyu brisket dip on a butter roll, she decided to go with the flow. Just this once.
When she looked up from the menu, she saw that Ford was studying her. “What?”
“I’ve been wondering something. Where’s your cavalcade?”
She wasn’t following. “What do you mean, my cavalcade?”
“When we first met, you said you’re a big believer in casual dating. Yet, I haven’t seen one guy come around since you moved in. This isn’t some all-work-and-no-play kind of thing, is it?”
She gave him a look. “No, it’s not an all-work-and-no-play kind of thing. It’s just . . . been an off couple months for me.”
“How so?”
“For starters, back in May, two guys broke into my townhome while I was sleeping.”
Ford frowned. “Did they hurt you?”
“No. But regardless, I didn’t feel comfortable living there afterward, so I put my townhome on the market, bought the condo in the Trump Tower, and then moved into the loft. Between all that, and work”—and starting therapy for this little panic problem—“I guess my social life has been on the back burner.”
“I didn’t know about the break-in,” he said after a moment.
“Why would you? Besides, it’s in the past now.” With the exception, of course, of the tiny, aforementioned panic problem—a subject that most definitely would not be coming up tonight.
He seemed about to say something, then changed his mind. “All right. But how about pre-break-in? Just how casual of a dater are we talking here? Heartless love-’em-and-leave-’em type, or more a serial monogamist?”
Victoria took a sip of her cocktail. “You’re awfully curious tonight.”
“It’s the journalist in me.”
So they were doing this now, getting personal. Okay, good. Come to think of it, after these couple of weeks of living next door to each other, she was a little curious about him, too. “How about option C, neither heartless love-’em-and-leave-’em type nor serial monogamist? I like keeping things simple and fun. No obligations, no expectations, no endgame of a marriage, two-point-five kids, and a minivan in the suburbs. I have self-selected out of the happily-ever-after rat race, so to speak.”
“You don’t believe in marriage?”
“I don’t think every marriage is doomed. But these days, you’ve got as good of odds as a coin flip of finding one that will go the distance. And in the eight years I’ve been a divorce lawyer, I haven’t seen much that inspires me to try my luck.”
Ford was giving her an amused look.
“What?” she asked in exasperation.
“I’ve just never had a woman say that before on a date.”
“It’s a fake date. And welcome to 2015.”
He laughed. “You’re just so . . .” He trailed off, his expression a mixture of frustration and something else she couldn’t read.
“Beguiling? Irresistible?” she offered.
“Not exactly the words I had in mind.”
They were interrupted when the waitress dropped by to take their orders. Starving after her first foray into undercover work—and a darn good performance, if she did say so herself—Victoria ordered the hand-cut fries with dips as an appetizer along with her brisket sandwich.
“Make that two,” Ford told the waitress, then picked up right where their conversation had left off. “Okay, so marriage doesn’t inspire you. What about kids? Is that something you’re considering down the road?”