With that in mind, she folded her hands on the table. “Over the last few weeks, I’ve met with all of you individually, and we’ve had general conversations about some possibilities I want to explore with this fund. But, seeing how this is the first time we’re all sitting down together, I thought we should discuss my specific vision for this project.
“When I first began talking to the partners about the possibility of coming to work for Monroe Ellers, they asked what my strategy would be in running a successful fund. My answer was simple: I told them that I like to grow companies. I look for businesses that have potential—maybe an established company that’s struggling and needs a new direction, or perhaps a smaller business that has a marketable idea but doesn’t have the resources to expand. That’s where we come in—we find that potential and we cultivate it. And, hopefully, we make a lot of money for our clients in the process.”
Sidney saw a few smiles at that. The room was nodding along and appeared to be responding well to her speech. Then again, five out of the six people at the table had huge coffee cups in front of them, so it could’ve just been the caffeine kicking in. “So the four-billion-dollar question becomes, which companies do we believe have that kind of potential? As it so happens, I have a few ideas on that front.” She fired up the PowerPoint presentation she’d prepared on her laptop, which sat in front of her.
A photograph of a storefront popped onto the white screen in front of them. “Vitamin Boutique. Primarily a Midwest-based specialty retailer of, you guessed it, vitamins, with 125 stores across twelve states. I met last week with the investment bankers representing the company. They tell me that they’re looking for an opportunity to grow beyond the Midwest, expand into other distribution channels, and significantly bolster their online presence. They made it clear that they’re interested in a buyout.”
Sidney saw that the associates and analysts around the table had begun diligently taking notes. “By the way, you’ll be dividing into two teams and splitting this list, so start thinking about which companies you want to spend the next four weeks learning inside and out. Standard due diligence: all their financials, pending lawsuits, who their corporate lawyers are, and how big of a pain in the ass those lawyers are going to be if we do the deal.”
One of the associates, Spencer, let out a bark of laughter. Then he stopped abruptly as if uncertain.
Sidney nodded encouragingly. “No, you were right, that was another joke. Let’s not hold back here, people, we’ll be working together on this project for the next five or six years. Feel free to chuckle away at these witty little comments of mine whenever it strikes your—hey, there we go, now the room’s warming up . . .” Over their laughter, she clicked the touchpad on her computer and the logo for another company popped onto the screen. “All right. Next up, Evergreen Candles.”
The meeting continued for another thirty minutes, after which the team members dispersed. Sidney hung around the conference room for a few minutes to talk with an associate who had some questions, then made her way back to her office.
She heard a knock on her door a few minutes later and looked up just as Michael Hannigan popped his head into her office. The youngest of the three partners on the firm’s investment committee, he’d been the one who’d recruited her the most aggressively and had become a mentor to her since she’d started working at Monroe Ellers.
“I heard you killed it in your first team meeting,” Michael said.
Sidney never ceased to be amazed by the rapidity with which information could spread through an office. “How could you know that already? I just finished the meeting about five minutes ago.” She cocked her head. “Did they actually say ‘killed it’?” Admittedly, she’d been trying hard to have a good vibe with the group, but she didn’t want to look like she’d been trying hard. Kind of like a good first date. If memory served.
“Stacy has the desk right outside the conference room,” he said, referring to his secretary. “She tells me that’s what people were saying as they left your meeting.” He winked before leaving. “Can’t wait to hear your plans for the fund.”
Sidney smiled after he left, thinking that she did indeed have plans. And not just with respect to work.
This upcoming wedding had given her clarity on a few things.
• • •
AT LUNCHTIME, SIDNEY met Trish at a restaurant between their offices, eager to share her plan with her best friend. But first things first.
“How’s your first day back at work going?” she asked Trish, who’d just returned to her media relations job with United Airlines after a four-month maternity leave.
“I’ve already had three crises to deal with. I love it,” Trish said with a laugh. With her blond hair newly cut in a stylish bob, and her navy power suit, she looked ready to take on the world. “But wait, I need to get my hourly fix.” She pulled out her cell phone, and both she and Sidney aw-ed at the cute pictures of her son, Jonah, that the nanny had texted that morning.
“How was the rest of your weekend?” Trish asked, after putting her phone away.
“Quite interesting. I have some news. Isabelle is getting married.”
Trish’s expression conveyed her shock. “What? I didn’t realize your sister was seeing anyone that seriously.” Having been best friends with Sidney since the third grade, she’d known Isabelle for years.
“Actually, she and Simon haven’t been dating that long. She met him three months ago,” Sidney said.
“Three months? And they’re already engaged?”
Sidney shrugged casually. Trish was her best friend, and she didn’t like keeping secrets from her. The only thing that trumped that, however, was her loyalty to her sister—which meant keeping Isabelle’s pregnancy news on the down-low. “She says she knows Simon is her Mr. Right. They’re going to get married Labor Day weekend. At the Lakeshore Club.”
“The Lakeshore Club?” Trish studied Sidney carefully. “That’s a little odd, given your history with that place.”
Well . . . yes. “Isabelle asked if I’d be okay with her having the reception there.”
“And are you okay with her having the reception there?” Trish asked.
Yes. No. Sidney had waffled all weekend on this. But she’d given Isabelle her blessing, so now she would make the best of it. “Sure. In fact, this whole situation has given me extra incentive to get my personal life back on track. I’m kicking this plan to start dating again into high gear.”
“Glad to hear it,” Trish said enthusiastically.
“I knew you’d be on board.”
“Assuming you’re truly ready to be dating again, that is.”
Sidney pulled back in surprise. “Me? Of course I’m ready. It’s been six months. I’m thirty-three years old, I can’t wait forever before throwing myself back out there. I’ve got plans, desires, biological clocks ticking.”
Trish raised an eyebrow. “And that’s all that’s driving this new ‘extra incentive’ of yours?”
“Yes.” Sidney saw Trish’s look and conceded. “Okay, fine. Admittedly, given the circumstances, I would prefer not to show up dateless to my younger sister’s wedding. If I do, somebody is going to give me the ‘Poor Sidney’ head-tilt. And you know how I feel about the head-tilt.”
“That I do.”
The “Poor Sidney” head-tilt was her nickname for the look her former New York colleagues had given her after she’d ended her engagement. Because she and Brody both had been investment bankers in Manhattan, the scintillating tale of how she’d discovered his cheating had spread like wildfire through their professional community. After that, she’d gotten a lot of sympathetic looks around the office; and several well-meaning people had called, e-mailed, or dropped by to ask how she was “hanging in.” And while she’d known that her friends and co-workers had been simply trying to be nice, she’d found the whole thing incredibly embarrassing.
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It was not an experience she wanted to repeat at her sister’s wedding.
“I’ve got my dating profile up, and that’s a start, but I realized this weekend that I need a more specific plan of attack. Brody’s ‘excuse’”—Sidney made mocking air quotes—“for cheating was that he panicked over the idea of getting married. That he freaked out at the idea of ‘forever.’”
Trish snorted. “Have I ever mentioned how much I intensely despise the man?”
That made two of them. “So this time around, I’m not making the same mistake. No more commitment-phobic men, no more player types, no more guys with issues or drama or whatever. I knew about Brody’s reputation before we started dating, but I let his charm cloud my judgment. That’s not happening again. From now on, I’m taking the same approach that I do with work: no matter how good a candidate looks at first blush, if I spot any red flags, he’s out.”
“What kind of red flags?” Trish asked.
Sidney smiled, prepared for exactly that question. “I did some due diligence this weekend.” She took her iPad out of her purse and pulled up the list she’d created. “This is a compilation of the various articles I researched.”
Trish read out loud. “‘Signs he’s not ready for a commitment.’” She scrolled down. “Oh my gosh, there have to be thirty things on this list.”
“Thirty-four. Although a few are somewhat redundant.”
“‘If he moves too fast into the relationship, he’ll likely exit it fast, too. But if he moves too slow, he’s likely either not sure about you or still hung up on a previous relationship.’” Trish continued reading. “‘He’s not available on weekends. He doesn’t introduce you to his family or friends. He doesn’t talk about the future. He doesn’t talk about his past. He’s not settled at work.’” She looked up. “What’s that about?”
“According to my research, men need to feel confident and secure in their ability to provide before being ready to commit to a long-term relationship.”
“I see.” Trish moved farther down the list. “‘He talks poorly about his ex, he won’t talk at all about his ex, he’s not on stable emotional footing with his parents, the majority of his friends aren’t in committed relationships . . .’”
“Because men typically choose to spend their time with people whose values they share,” Sidney explained.
“Uh-huh.” Trish kept reading. “‘He doesn’t ask about your day, he doesn’t handle adversity or criticism well at work, he doesn’t call when he says he will . . . ’” She trailed off, skimming through the other items. Then she set the iPad down on the table and paused for a moment, as if thinking carefully about her next words. “This is a very . . . extensive list. And no doubt, there’s some good advice here.” She reached over and squeezed Sidney’s hand affectionately. “But Sid, sweetie, there’s never any guarantee that you won’t get hurt in a relationship. No matter how vigilant you are for red flags or how much due diligence you do.”
Sidney thought about that. She thought about the day that her life had been turned upside-down, how she’d been blindsided, how the story had spread to virtually everyone she knew, and how for months she’d felt weak and foolish and gullible and not at all like herself. Because the Sidney Sinclair she’d always known was a strong, confident, savvy woman. But in one fell swoop, Brody had managed to make her doubt all of that.
With that in mind, she looked her friend in the eyes. “This list is the closest thing I’ve got to a guarantee, Trish. I have to believe that. Because I’m sure as hell not going through another Brody experience again.”
She closed the iPad cover—as if to say the discussion was over—and then smiled. Over the last six months, she’d learned that the best way to handle any conversation that was getting a little too personal was to simply move on. “So. Is Jonah getting any teeth yet?”
• • •
ENJOYING THE WARM, early June weather, Sidney and Trish decided to walk back to their respective offices instead of taking cabs. As they strolled along one of the bridges that crossed the Chicago River, Sidney remembered something.
“Oh my gosh, with the conversation about Isabelle’s wedding and everything else, I completely forgot to tell you about Vaughn.”
“Who’s Vaughn?” Trish asked.
“Simon’s brother. And you are not going to believe this.” She filled Trish in on all the details about her and Vaughn’s Meet So-Not-Cute at the coffee shop and their awkward reunion at dinner with Isabelle and Simon.
“An FBI agent, huh?” Trish’s expression turned sly. “Is he foxy?”
“That whole story, about the strange coincidence, and my glorious Speech of Many Insults, and the fact that I’m going to be stuck running into this dude forever, and that’s your first question? ‘Is he foxy?’” Sidney shook her head. “Trishelle . . . on behalf of womankind, I was expecting a more enlightened discourse.”
Trish simply waited.
“Totally foxy,” Sidney said. Hell, Trish was going to see him at the wedding, there wasn’t much sense in denying it. “When he walked up to my table, my first thought was Criminy. Unfortunately, then he spoke.”
Trish threw her arm around Sidney. “Somewhere out there, waiting for you, is the total package. A Criminy guy who’s just looking for his Ms. Right to settle down with.”
Sidney smiled at that, not wanting to ruin the mood. But the pragmatist in her said not to pin her dreams on that. Actually, the pragmatist in her said not to pin her dreams on any man, Criminy or otherwise.
Such a skeptical bitch these days, her inner pragmatist. But not a fool.
Never again a fool.
Four
ACROSS TOWN AT the Chicago FBI building, Vaughn rode the elevator up to the twelfth floor with his partner, Special Agent Seth Huxley. They’d just returned from lunch and were on their way to meet their boss, the special agent in charge—or “SAC” as he was referred to around the office—about a new investigation.
“Who’s it going to be this time? The mayor?” Huxley asked, being wry.
“Hope not. I like the guy,” Vaughn said. Although in his line of work, he’d learned to never trust any politician’s public persona.
In the past year, he and Huxley had developed something of a specialty in undercover sting operations involving dirty government officials—part of the U.S. Attorney’s fight against corruption in the city of Chicago. Over the course of the last twelve months, they’d taken down a state senator, a state representative, and three aldermen, all for bribery. On top of that, they’d recently arrested an Illinois state prison guard who’d been selling assault rifles to ex-felons.
In his eight years with the FBI, Vaughn had worked on several different squads before being transferred to white-collar crime. Nick McCall, Vaughn’s boss, had been the most senior undercover agent on the squad before being promoted to special agent in charge two years ago, and the office had needed to fill Nick’s former spot with an agent, like Vaughn, who had similar undercover experience.
All FBI special agents were qualified to handle brief “walk-on” roles—undercover jobs in which the agent had only a couple of interactions with the suspects. But as the only agent on the white-collar crime squad who’d gone through undercover school at Quantico, Vaughn was the go-to guy whenever an investigation required a more extensive UC role. Which was fine with him—he found the work to be interesting and challenging, and he also liked the behind-the-scenes planning that came with every investigation. Whenever he took on a new identity, he needed to think about how his character would act, what he would look like, what he would wear, the kind of car he would drive and, if necessary, the type of gun he would carry. By all outward appearances, he needed to be whatever bad-guy type he was playing—because without that attention to detail, he could blow the entire investigation. Or get himself killed.
Standing in the elevator, Vaughn fought back a smi
le while watching Huxley carefully adjust the pocket square in the breast pocket of his custom-tailored suit. Unlike his fastidious partner, Vaughn had neither a pocket square nor a custom-tailored suit. In fact, on many days he didn’t even have a tie, having yanked it off in annoyance by ten A.M.
He’d been skeptical when Huxley had first been assigned as his partner two years ago. All he’d known at the time was that the younger agent had gone to Harvard Law School, joined the Chicago white-collar crime squad immediately after graduating from Quantico, and wore Ralph Lauren shower shoes in the FBI locker room.
Yep.
But he’d since come to see why the SAC had put them together. Vaughn’s undercover assignments involved a lot of variables and unknowns, and the best way to handle those variables and unknowns was to plan for every possible contingency. That was where Huxley came in—undoubtedly, he was the most organized, efficient, and detail-oriented agent Vaughn had ever met. Because of that, surprisingly, their partnership actually . . . worked. Vaughn was the front man out in the field, assuming various undercover roles, while Huxley deftly micromanaged all the behind-the-scenes details.
“We start training today,” Vaughn said.
The elevator arrived at the twelfth floor and they both stepped out.
“Morgan is going to meet us in the locker room?” Huxley asked.
Vaughn nodded. “Six o’clock.” A week ago, he’d declared that he and his closest friend, Assistant U.S. Attorney Cade Morgan, were going to run in the Chicago triathlon. He’d made this decision for two reasons: one, he enjoyed pushing himself physically, and Cade, a former college football star, was of a similar mind-set; and two, he’d sensed that Cade had needed some sort of activity to distract him ever since his formerly estranged father had passed away after a tough eleven-month battle with brain cancer. Cade had jumped quickly on the triathlon idea, and then Huxley had come on board, and today the three of them would begin an eleven-week training program for the big day.