“People meet like that all the time,” Mercks said.
Xander jabbed his forefinger on his desk for emphasis. “People don’t meet
Jordan Rhodes
like that all the time. Her father has one point two billion dollars.
Billion
. I’m calling it now—this thing is some kind of setup. Stanton’s after her money. He’s probably a con artist or something.”
He pointed at Mercks. “You stay on Stanton until I say otherwise. There’s more to this story. I can feel it.”
THE FOLLOWING DAY
in his fake office, Nick eased back in his desk chair. He grinned, amused with this latest report. “So Eckhart thinks I’m a con artist who’s after Jordan’s money. Good. That should keep him distracted for a while.”
He’d called Huxley after listening to the recording of the conversation. His partner had been stationed in the van a couple blocks from Bordeaux every day since he’d recovered from the stomach flu. Over the course of the past week and a half, they’d developed a good working relationship: Huxley listened live from the van to Eckhart’s conversations, then e-mailed for Nick’s review the digital audio files, along with notes of the minute and second markers for any conversations that were particularly relevant to their investigation.
Huxley took the day shift in the van, and they had two additional agents working the evening and early morning shifts—including Agent Simms, who, per Eckhart’s promise, had been fired from her bartending position the day after his party. The agents covering the second and third shifts similarly sent over audio files for Nick’s review, although thus far there’d been very little substantive evidence gathered through the recording devices during those hours.
They’d recorded a second conversation between Trilani and Eckhart, and this was good progress for their case. None of it, however, was particularly thrilling work. But Nick needed something to do while working at his fake office, and this kept him busy enough. Thus, they carried on: Huxley, holed up in a van seven days a week, weeding out hours upon hours of Eckhart’s tedious wine, nightclub, and restaurant-related conversations, and him, stuck in a stuffy office five days a week with two interns pretending to be “Ethan” the property manager and “Susie,” his office assistant.
Nick peered through the glass pane that separated his private office from the front office where the two interns worked. At least they were able to work remotely from their laptop computers, so the façade wasn’t a total waste of Bureau resources. Still, he could only imagine the excited looks on their faces when Davis had approached them with the chance to work undercover. A boring office job probably had not been what they’d had in mind.
“As long as you and Jordan keep Eckhart fooled about your supposed relationship, we should be fine,” Huxley said. “Still, I’ll feel better when we’re finished with the surveillance and can be done with this whole thing.”
Nick ran his hands through his hair, in agreement with that sentiment. The situation with Jordan was starting to seem too real for his comfort. This normally would be the point when he, sensing a possible attachment, would back away from the situation. But with her, he was trapped. Consequently, all he could do was carry on as usual, being that guy who didn’t let things become real, who was always handy with a quip but didn’t have feelings deeper than that.
Because he didn’t. Undercover agents didn’t allow themselves to become attached to a case or anyone involved with it.
He wasn’t complaining—he’d signed on for this. He’d worked hard to get where he was, and being the best undercover agent in the Chicago field office was a major accomplishment. It was his specialty, the thing that differentiated him from the other agents in the office. Without that distinction, he’d be just another guy with a badge, a gun, and cool facial scruff. Hell, he’d be Pallas.
That alone was more than enough motivation to get his head back in the game.
“You and me both, Huxley,” he told his partner. “The faster we can wrap this up, the better. For all of us.”
Nineteen
JORDAN FEIGNED A
pleasant smile for her customers. “What do you think?”
The couple, in their late twenties, looked at each other. “I like it,” the woman said, swirling the two-ounce pour of chardonnay.
“I like it, too,” the man agreed. “It’s not as buttery as a lot of chardonnays I’ve tasted. Let’s get a bottle.”
“Perfect.” Jordan rang them up. Then she headed over to one of the tables in the corner, where a group of women in their early forties were drinking wines by the glass. “How are you ladies doing? Can I answer any questions about the wine?” When she had finished there, she moved to the next table, then to the racks where a few additional customers were browsing, before hurrying back to the bar to ring up one of her regulars.
“Busy tonight,” he noted.
Jordan bagged up his four bottles. “Can’t complain.” Actually, she could complain—quite easily, in fact—but she wouldn’t. Not around customers, anyway.
The stomach flu had struck DeVine Cellars.
Both of her sales associates had been out sick since Monday, which meant that she and Martin had to divide all the shifts between the two of them. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem, but she had visited Kyle that morning, per usual, so Martin had opened the store and she had to work the evening shift—by far the busiest time—alone. As such, she’d been running around almost nonstop since five thirty, hadn’t eaten, hadn’t even had a chance to go to the bathroom, and was feeling more than a little crabby.
But not in front of the customers.
She plastered on another smile as she made her way around the bar and scooted toward the back hall. It looked as though everyone was content for the next thirty seconds, so this was her chance to make a run for it.
The chime on the front door rang.
Son of a bitch
. If one more friggin’ customer came through that friggin’ door before she’d had a chance to pee, somebody was going to get a corkscrew up his—
She hurried around the corner to check the door and barreled right into a tall, hard body.
Nick.
He caught her in his arms. “Whoa. Looks like somebody missed me,” he said in a teasing tone.
Jordan pleaded with her eyes. “Please help me.”
His expression turned serious. “Anything. Name it.”
“Oh, thank you.” Jordan put her hands on Nick’s hips and turned him around to face the rest of the store. “Stand here. Make sure that nobody steals anything or sneaks a glass of wine.” She took a step down the hallway before glancing back. “And don’t touch anything.” She hurried to the bathroom before her eyeballs turned yellow and floated out of her skull.
When she returned, she found Nick still at his post.
He pointed to the door. “Is it okay that these two guys came in with a wheelbarrow and took off with a couple crates of wine? They only took the pink stuff, so I figured no one would kick up much of a fuss.”
“Ha, ha.” Jordan scooted around him and slid behind the bar. “Thanks for keeping an eye out. What are you doing here, anyway?” She checked herself, aware there were others around. “I mean, this is such a pleasant surprise. Sweetie.”
Nick shrugged. “I worked late this evening and was about to drive home when I was overcome with the sudden urge to see my girlfriend.”
Code for being followed,
Jordan guessed. “I’m closing in twenty minutes. We could grab something to eat after that.”
Nick checked his watch. “You haven’t eaten dinner yet? It’ll be after nine thirty before you get out of here.”
She threw him a charming smile. “Nine
twenty
if I have help cleaning up the store from my sweetheart of a boyfriend.” She saw a customer approach the bar on the opposite end and left Nick grumbling to himself. A few minutes later, when she came up for air, she noticed that he was gone. She looked around the store, not seeing him anywhere, but didn’t have time to focus on that until after the last customer had left the store.
Jordan shut the door and locked it with a flourish. She’d survived.
No offense to all her wonderful customers, whose business she appreciated so much, but she thought they’d never get the hell out. She drew the shades on the front windows and looked around the store.
Crap, it was a disaster.
She heard a knock on the door. She walked over, ready to tell whoever it was that the store was closed for the day. Instead, she saw Nick through the glass. She unlocked the door and let him in.
He was
still
grumbling. “You’re already too skinny,” he said gruffly. “If my mother saw you, she would handcuff you to the kitchen table and make you eat lasagna for a week.” He held up two bags from Portillo’s. “I didn’t know if billionaire heiresses preferred hot dogs, burgers, or Italian beef—I’ll skip the obvious joke there—so I got one of each.”
Jordan went weak in the knees at the sight of the red and white striped bags. Chicago dining at its finest. “Please tell me you have cheese fries in there,” she whispered.
“Yep.”
She nearly ripped the bags out of his hands. “You are a god.”
They chose a table nestled between the wine racks. As Nick unpacked the food, Jordan grabbed an open bottle of zinfandel and poured herself a glass.
“You?” she asked.
He raised an eyebrow. “Wine with cheese fries? No thanks.”
“Wine with everything. Because wine means the responsible part of the day is over.” After finishing her pour with a flourish, Jordan checked out her options and decided that billionaire heiresses liked burgers best with their cheese fries. She sighed happily as she took a seat, getting off her feet for the first time in hours. She took a bite of her burger and actually moaned.
Nick gestured with his Italian beef sandwich. “That tops your reaction to the wine we had at Eckhart’s party. The Château Seville or whatever.”
“Sevonne. And nothing beats burgers like this. When I was a kid, we used to get Portillo’s almost every Saturday night.” She took another bite and closed her eyes. “God, I haven’t had this in years.”
When she opened her eyes, she saw Nick watching her intently. “What?”
“It’s just . . . when you eat and drink, you make these faces that are—” He stopped himself and exhaled. “Never mind. What were we talking about?”
Jordan pointed to her burger. “Food. Wine.”
He nodded. “Right. So wine means the responsible part of the day is over, huh? That’s catchy. You should put that on a bumper sticker and slap it on the Maserati.”
She smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Nick took a sip of his soft drink. “What got you interested in wine, anyway?”
Jordan dipped a French fry into the cheese sauce. “My mom. She was really into wine. When I was in high school, my dad had a skybox at the United Center, and during the summer, he and Kyle would go to Bulls games on weekday nights. He offered to take me, too, but sports”—she made a face—“not really my thing.”
“A travesty.”
“I’d say the same thing about you always passing up good wine.”
“Hmm.” Nick didn’t look convinced.
She continued on with her story. “So on those nights, my mom and I would go out to dinner. She called them our girls’ nights out. She’d let me have a glass of wine with dinner—which, of course, made me feel extremely grown-up. I wasn’t allowed to tell my dad or Kyle about that part. The wine was our secret, something just my mom and I shared.”
She smiled at the memory before taking another sip of wine.
“I’m sorry she never got to see this place,” Nick said gently. “I’m sure she would’ve been very proud.”
Jordan nodded and felt her eyes sting. She cleared her throat and kept things light. “It’s just because I look so good in comparison to Kyle. He’s currently setting the bar very, very low for the Rhodes twins.”
Nick laughed. “I think you look pretty good in comparison to anyone.”
Jordan pulled back in surprise. “Wow. Was that actually a compliment?”
He paused midchew, as if just having realized what he’d said. He took a moment, finished chewing, then shrugged. “Sure. Even I can give my fake girlfriend a compliment when the role requires it.” He winked. “And you should hear me when I whisper sweet nothings.”
“I’m sure it’s a real treat.” Jordan reached for another fry and dipped it into the tub of melted cheesy goodness. “What about you? How did you end up at the FBI?”
“Well, that goes back to the time I was ten years old and thrown in jail,” Nick said.
She laughed. “
Ten?
Oh, Nick, you little troublemaker. What did you do?”
“My brothers and I broke a couple of windows after this kid called us douchebags. My father, who was an NYPD sergeant at the time, brought us down to the stationhouse and locked us in a cell for six hours. Scared the crap out of us.”
“I bet,” Jordan said with a smile. “Sorry. I’m sure it was quite a traumatic experience.”