by Julie James
Jordan tripped over a child's boot and would've fallen if Nick hadn't caught her in his arms. He shot her a look. Stay cool.
Corinne apologized to Jordan and kicked the boot out of the way as Melinda and a man with sandy brown hair and a medium build came out of the kitchen. "Don't take it personally," the man told Nick with a chuckle. "Mel thinks everyone's a spy or secret agent these days. She's addicted to watching 24 on DVD." He shook Nick's hand. "Pete Garofalo."
Melinda punched Pete in the shoulder. "I didn't say I thought he was a spy, I said he looked James Bond-esque with the five o'clock shadow and the dress shirt and pants."
A second man, wearing a red and white checkered apron, called out to Jordan and Nick from the kitchen, throwing in his two cents. "From what we heard, it sounds like Melinda caught you two at an inopportune time on Sunday morning. Something about how long it took you to answer the door?" He grinned cheekily as he held up a pair of salad tongs, greeting Nick. "I'm Charles, by the way."
Corinne scolded her husband from the doorway. "Charles Kim—what kind of host are you? At least let the new guest take off his coat before we begin embarrassing him."
Melinda was still stuck on the 24 thing. "And I don't see you grabbing the remote away from me when that countdown clock starts chiming," she said to Pete. "Unless it's to get a quick check of the scores on Monday nights."
Nick's ears perked up at the mention of scores. Sports. Now there was a topic upon which he could wax poetic. "Too bad Monday night football is over," he lamented to Pete. "But there's always basketball. Who are you eying for the Final Four?"
Pete looked mildly embarrassed as he gestured to Melinda. "She's, um, referring to the scores on Dancing with the Stars."
"He likes it when they do the paso doblé," Melinda threw in.
"The dance symbolizes the drama, artistry, and passion of a bullfight. It's quite masculine," Pete said.
"Except for the sequins and spray tans," Melinda added.
Pete clapped his hands together, ignoring this. "How about you, Nick? Are you a fan of the reality television performing arts?"
Nick threw Jordan a look, trying to decide if his character was so smitten that he needed to feign an interest in any topic that involved sequins and spray tans that did not also involve cheerleaders.
She stood up on her toes and whispered in his ear. "Don't worry. It's like a bottle of wine that needs to breathe. They mellow out after about an hour or so."
DINNER WENT SMOOTHLY enough, particularly because Jordan's friends turned out to be a warm, welcoming group. Nick felt satisfied that to an outside eye—or eight of them—he and Jordan appeared to be simply a normal guy and girl on a date on Saturday night.
From time to time throughout dinner, he studied Jordan curiously. He was having a hard time sizing up what, exactly, was "normal" for her. A week ago, she'd been entirely in her element at Eckhart's fund-raiser, chatting it up with the crème de la crème of Chicago society while wearing a designer dress and drinking wine that cost more than what many people earned in a week. On the other hand, she seemed just as comfortable with her friends, wearing jeans and a sweater and eating homemade pizza in a house that looked like a Toys "R" Us had exploded inside it.
She surprised him. He could handle anything Xander Eckhart threw at him; was unfazed by money laundering, undercover ops, fake identities, fake condos, offices, and cars, and private investigators who followed him around the clock and watched his every move. But Jordan had managed to throw him off guard more than once already, and Nick knew that could be a dangerous thing.
A prime example was that kiss neither of them acknowledged.
Despite being much shorter in duration and objectively far more pleasant than any other assignment he had been given, this was one undercover investigation he looked forward to wrapping up. Quickly. Before anything got ... messy.
Shifting his attention away from Jordan, Nick turned to Charles, the lawyer, who sat on his right. The two of them spoke about Charles's criminal defense practice, with Nick being careful not to give away the fact that he obviously knew a lot more about the justice system than the average real estate investor.
"Does your firm handle a lot of high-profile cases?" he asked. He hadn't recognized the name of the firm when Charles had mentioned it earlier, but Chicago was a big city with a lot of lawyers.
"We get our fair share," Charles said. "I mean, nothing as high-profile as the Roberto Martino trial. Not that my firm would represent the likes of him." He lowered his voice. "At one point, we talked to Jordan's brother about handling his case, but he decided to go with a different firm. Which is a shame, given the way things turned out. I mean, Kyle gets eighteen months over at MCC for a crime that hurt no one, yet it took years for the FBI and U.S. Attorney's Office to get their acts together and arrest one of the most notorious crime lords in the country. That's our federal criminal justice system at work."
"Charles." Corinne reached over and squeezed her husband's hand with a meaningful look in Jordan's direction. "You know she worries about Kyle. Let's not bring that up tonight." She smiled. "Maybe you could tell us how you and Jordan met, Nick."
All conversation at the table stopped.
Frankly, Nick was surprised it had taken this long for someone to ask. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jordan take a nervous sip of her wine. He knew this was the part of the evening she'd dreaded, the part where they told more lies to her friends.
Perhaps he could help her out with that.
"Jordan and I met two weeks ago, at her store," he said. "On the night of the big snowstorm."
Pete chuckled. "You really must've been jonesing for wine to go out in that mess."
Nick reached across the table and linked his fingers through Jordan's. "I think Fate had a higher purpose for bringing me to her store that night." He winked at her. I've got this.
Melinda melted. "That's so sweet."
"Then what happened?" Corinne prompted.
Nick faced Jordan's friends. For her sake, he'd tell the truth—perhaps not the whole truth—but at least nothing but. "Well, I asked Jordan a few questions, some quips were exchanged, and I distinctly recall her making a sarcastic comment about chardonnay. I can't tell you exactly what happened from there, but five days later I found myself at Xander Eckhart's party drinking pink champagne."
Her friends laughed. Charles raised his glass. "That's how it happens, Nick. A cute smile, a few clever words, and five years later you're watching Dancing with the Stars on Monday nights instead of football."
"Hey, don't knock it until you've tried it," Pete said indignantly.
As the group teased Pete, Nick felt Jordan squeeze his knee underneath the table.
She spoke softly as she held his gaze. "Thank you."
It took far more effort than it should have to make his tone sound as cavalier as always.
"Any time, Rhodes."
MELINDA AND CORINNE struck fast, cornering Jordan in the kitchen while she opened a bottle of Moscato d'Asti she'd brought to go with dessert.
"About your mystery man," Melinda led in. "I think he really likes you."
"I agree. This one has the legs to be around awhile," Corinne said. "And I like him. Which, of course, is the most important thing."
"We like him," Melinda emphasized.
Jordan set the corkscrew on the counter, their enthusiasm making her feel like an even bigger jerk than before. Of course they had to go and like Nick. Although she couldn't say she blamed them—he was laying on the charm a little thicker than usual tonight.
"I hope it seems like he likes me," she said, trying to walk a fine line of truth with her words. "Isn't that what's supposed to happen when people date?" She reached into the cabinet behind her and grabbed six champagne flutes.
"It's funny, though. It almost seems like he's trying to hide it. Like how he kept sneaking looks at you during dinner," Melinda said.
Corinne pointed. "I saw that, too!"
Jordan turne
d around. "I didn't notice any unusual amount of looks." She thought about this for a moment. If Nick had been looking at her, she supposed it was just part of the role he was playing that night.
"I like how he calls you Rhodes," Corinne said.
"It is my name."
"Yeah, but it sounds affectionate when he says it. Playful."
"Flirty," Melinda agreed.
"Naughty," Corinne said.
The two of them burst into giggles.
Oh boy. Jordan took a sip of the moscato, thinking she was going to need a second round pronto if Melinda and Corinne continued the post-dinner debriefing much longer. She tried to diffuse their interest without giving anything away. "Look, Nick is a complicated person. Perhaps we should let this one simmer for a while before we read too much into his every move."
Melinda leveled her with a stare. "Jordan. You don't have to pretend around us. It's okay to admit that you like this guy."
She shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I brought him here tonight. That speaks for itself, doesn't it?"
Both Corinne and Mel waited expectantly.
Jordan caved and gave them what they wanted, sensing there would be no moving on—and no peace for the rest of the evening—until she did so. "All right. Sheesh. I like the guy, okay?" She waited for the sinking feeling that would come with the knowledge that she'd just told her friends another lie.
It didn't happen.
She must've been getting better at this secret-agent-accomplice thing than she'd realized.
Eighteen
"WHAT DO YOU mean, you haven't found anything on Stanton?" Xander demanded to know. "You must not be looking hard enough." If Mercks thought he was paying four hundred dollars an hour for piss-poor surveillance, he had another think coming.
It was Sunday morning—over a week since Mercks had begun his assignment. They were back in Xander's office, where he conducted all of his business. With the security system he'd installed to protect his cellar, it was the one place he always felt secure.
"Trust me, we've been looking." Mercks was seated in one of the chairs in front of Xander's desk. "First we started with the basics: Nick Stanton has no criminal history, good credit, and a clean driving record. He owns a condo in Bucktown valued at just under a half million, and pays his mortgage on time. Between checking and savings accounts, stocks, mutual funds, convertible securities, and bonds, he's worth about another million. No outstanding debts, no unusual draws from his bank accounts.
"Next we moved on to personal information: he's an only child, both parents are deceased. No ex-wives or kids, at least none that we could find. He grew up in a midsized town just outside of Philadelphia, and went to Penn State. Majored in management through the College of Business. Nothing remarkable in his academic records. Came to Chicago about a year after he graduated and has lived here since."
"What about his job?" Xander asked. "This real estate business or whatever that he owns."
Mercks nodded. "Stanton is the sole owner of a real estate investment company that owns rental properties. He's got a small office in Lakeview that appears to be staffed with two other employees, at least from what we've seen. Stanton gets to work every morning by eight thirty, leaves at six. Takes a half-hour lunch around one, seems to favor Jimmy John's. Not sure if he likes turkey or roast beef—that didn't seem necessary to the report."
Xander scowled, not appreciating the humor. "And his relationship with Jordan?"
"We've been tailing him ever since your party, just like you asked. He spent that night at her house, and then they went for coffee in the morning. He saw her again yesterday evening—they had dinner with some of her friends who live in Andersonville. He brought her back to her house around midnight and spent about twenty minutes inside before he left."
"He didn't spend the night?" Xander asked.
"Maybe she had a headache."
"Maybe she's getting bored with him."
Mercks shrugged. "You can decide for yourself. We've taken photos of the two of them together." He tossed a manila envelope onto the desk. "They're chronological."
Xander pulled out the photographs. The first one in the stack was of Stanton and Jordan on the night of his party, judging from the purple dress he saw peeking out from underneath her coat. They were kissing on her front stoop and looked far from bored with each other.
He leafed through the remaining photos. Jordan holding hands with Stanton as they came out of a Starbucks. Stanton with his arm around her waist, whispering something in her ear as they waited on the front porch of an unfamiliar house, presumably her friends' place. The final image was of Stanton, leaving Jordan's house as she watched from the doorway.
"That last photo was taken last night," Mercks said.
Xander put the photographs back into the envelope and set them off to the side. "I'm not convinced. And let me tell you why. I know a lot of people in this city, and I've been asking around about Nick Stanton. No one's ever heard of the guy. So I'm supposed to believe that this nobody, who knows nothing about wine, comes out of the blue and just so happens to walk into Jordan's store and sweep her off her feet? I'm not buying it."
"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 wi
th 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.