my desk?”
“I wasn’t strutting,” she defends, her mouth falling open.
“You were strutting. The hips were swinging, and you had an extra spring in your step. Total strut.”
Isabelle smiles at me. “I’m glad you took such detailed notes of my performance.”
Her smile grows when I rub at the thump her whack to my bicep caused. For a girl, she has a lot of power behind her fists.
Our banter has me forgetting there’s a man lodged between us—a man we’re supposed to take down—however, Izzy is quick to remind me of my error. “I need a favor.”
“Anything.” I’m hoping my fast reply will assure her she can tell me anything.
What I’m not anticipating for her to say is, “I need access to a sealed file from the DA’s office in New York.”
“I can’t, Izzy.”
During the process of trying to keep her out of Alex’s trap, I shared many stories of my life with her. Some incidents, like Melody cheating on me, then subsequently assisting me with a fraudulent charge I left out, but she’s aware where things stand between us now. She knows Melody and I are not on speaking terms, so why the fuck is she asking me to do this?
The sexy-kitten look in Isabelle’s eyes switches to a begging puppy when she pleads, “Please, Brandon, you know I wouldn’t have asked you if it weren’t important.”
Her expressive eyes answer my unvoiced question more than her words. This isn’t for the Bureau. It’s for him—Isaac. The desperateness coating her skin is telling enough, much less the name on the file she’s seeking. Hugo Marshall. That’s the name she logged into the Bureau database the day following her sleepover at Isaac’s apartment. She didn’t make her discovery public knowledge, so she’s either casting her own net with the hope of proving she’s a valuable member of Alex’s team, or she’s out to prove not everyone with a tragic backstory is a bad person.
I’m hoping it’s a bit of both.
Nothing but honesty rings in my tone when I say, “I haven’t had any contact with her in years, Izzy. She’ll probably hang up the instant she realizes who’s calling.”
As I scrub my hand down my face, Grayson’s words ring on repeat in my ears.
We’re not doing anything illegal.
Everything is above board.
You just need your gut to get on board with our plans.
Since I somewhat agree with him, I mutter, “I’ll try, but I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to get the file for you.”
Happiness beams out of Isabelle. “Thank you, Brandon, thank you.”
When she slings her arms around my shoulders, I murmur a quick, “You’re welcome,” before striving to work out the last time I’ve held someone like this.
I’m ashamed to admit, it’s been almost longer than my memory stretches.
When Isabelle inches back, I recall the reason I’m sticking my neck out for the third time in my life and put actions in place to make sure my head isn’t chopped off this time around. “It will cost you, though.” Her eager nod doubles when I add, “I need you to do a search on this lady…” but it packs up and leaves town when I say, “… and you have to go on a date with me.”
Honey Pot, Honey Pot, Honey Pot, I murmur to myself when shock is the first thing that registers on Isabelle’s face. The guilt in her eyes would have you convinced I asked a married woman to have an affair. It proves Isaac has his hooks in her more profoundly than I realized.
“One date, Izzy, that’s all I’m asking.”
She waits a beat before dipping her chin. “Okay, but it will have to be after I return. I’m going away with Harlow this weekend.”
The sting her delay caused my ego slips away when a smile stretches across my face. I still got it—even though I’m reasonably sure I don’t know what ‘it’ is anymore.
“Why don’t you come to my apartment, and I’ll cook dinner?”
I smile to hide my shock at Isabelle’s offer. This was not a path I expected her to lead us down. “Sounds great.”
She returns my smile before diverting her attention to the manila folder I handed her at the commencement of our exchange. While she peruses photographs of Megan Shroud, a woman Intelligence believes has a romantic connection with Isaac, I watch her for any tell-tale signs of a scorned woman.
She appears more unwell than jealous—even more so when she asks, “Who is this lady?”
I commence my lie with a shrug, “We don’t know. We’ve