by Julie James
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."
Nick stole the cheese fry out of her hand. "Keep mocking me, and I'll eat every one of these."
She put on a serious face. "I'm listening."
"When we got home that night, my dad set my
brothers and me down and told us that his actions reflected on the New York Police Department, and that our actions reflected on him. And that he hoped, from that point on, that we would conduct ourselves in a manner that honored the badge he wore." He paused. "I remember thinking that someday I wanted to have a job that I was just as proud of. And that stuck with me. So I joined the NYPD straight out of college. I liked it enough, but after five years I felt like I wanted more. Which brought me to the FBI. After I graduated from the Academy, they transferred me to Chicago. That was only supposed to be for three years, but I like it here. Having a little bit of distance from my family is not entirely a bad thing."
Jordan swirled the wine in her glass. "What do they think about you working all these undercover assignments?"
Nick chuckled. "You should hear my mother go on about it." He adopted a thick New York accent. " 'My son, the FBI agent, you think he has time to call with all those big, important cases they assign him to? I could be dead and he wouldn't know it.' "
Jordan laughed, enjoying these rare insights into the real world of Nick McCall. Until now, he'd been somewhat of a mystery. "I bet you miss them all."
He shrugged. "Sure. Although I try to keep that fact from my brothers. Our relationship is more of the sarcastic, annoy-the-crap-out-of-each-other type."
"Oh, I think I know the kind," Jordan said. Her relationship with Kyle wasn't exactly defined by expressive sentimentality, either.
When they had finished eating, Nick offered to help her clean up the store.
"You don't have to help me out," she said. "I was just kidding about that earlier."
"And let you do all the hard work? If anyone's watching, my character needs to look like a helpful and supportive boyfriend."
She tossed him a dishtowel. "In that case, your character can get to work on all these dirty wineglasses."
Between the two of them, they cleaned up the store quickly. Nick had parked out front, and he drove Jordan the four blocks to her house, where he insisted on walking her to the door. Per usual, she saw him check out the other cars parked on the street.
"Were we followed?" she asked.
"Actually, I don't think so," Nick said. "We're in the clear."
"Oh, good." Jordan stopped at the top of the steps. As they stood in the moonlight on her front stoop, it struck her that this had been the first evening she'd spent truly alone with Nick. No private investigators watching them, no friends, no Xander Eckhart and company. Just them.
Almost like an actual date.
"Thanks for dinner and for helping me out tonight." She paused, struck by the truth of what she was about to say next. "I had a really good time."
Nick seemed amused by her surprise. He moved up another step, joining her at the top of the stairs. "You don't have to sound so shocked. I'm not all bad, you know."
"Maybe just mostly bad," Jordan teased.
Nick cocked his head, considering this. "Mostly bad ... I guess that's progress."
They stood very close, Jordan noticed. As in, end-of-the-date, do-I-invite-him-inside close. Which made no sense, considering this arrangement between her and Nick was all a charade.
They both fell silent for a few seconds. The night, the street, and everything else suddenly felt very still. Finally, Jordan gestured to her house. "I should probably get going inside. Subzero temperatures out here and all."
Nick pointed to his car. "Right. And I need to get home. Have to get up bright and early for my fake job."
"Okay, then."
"Great."
Neither of them moved.
"So I guess I'll see you later," Jordan said. She turned to go—if for no other reason, her feet were beginning to freeze in her boots and pretty soon she wouldn't be able to move.
Nick caught her hand. "Jordan."
He said her name so quietly, if it hadn't been for the relative silence of the night, she might have missed it. When she turned around, his eyes were looking into hers as if searching for something.
Then just like that, the moment was gone. He gave her a curt nod, his expression unreadable once again. "I'll call you later." He dropped her hand and strode down the steps without looking back.
Twenty
THE NEXT MORNING, Jordan spent her first hour at the store doing inventory and placing orders with her distributors for the following month's wine supply. She was leaving for Napa Valley on Friday, a trip she'd planned months ago. While she generally tried to make it out to wine country three or four times a year for business, she was particularly excited about this trip—she had an appointment to visit a new winery whose debut cabernet she was considering for the store's wine club.
Plus, she needed the weekend away, from Chicago, FBI undercover assignments, and everything else. A few days alone would do her some good, get her back to thinking clearly again. Maybe get her to stop wondering whether Nick had wanted to kiss her last night.
Somehow, she'd blurred the line in her head between what was real and fake in their situation. But a real date would've kissed her last night, not given her a token "I'll call you later" before hightailing it off her front porch. Yet here she was, still thinking about him.
Jordan did a mental headshake, forcing herself to focus on work. Wanting to make up for the extra shifts she had to burden her staff with during the time she'd be in Napa, she had scheduled herself to both open and close the store that day. Luckily, Andrea was feeling better and was set to come in at one o'clock, which meant that Jordan wouldn't have to work the evening shift alone again.
After placing orders, she posted on the store's Facebook page about the special they were running through the weekend: buy three reds, get the fourth half off. Then she turned to her favorite project—paying bills. She cringed at the gas bill and cursed the ridiculous cost of keeping a large store warm in the winter. Apparently, the folks at Peoples Gas thought she had a half-billion dollars at her disposal.
A little heiress humor.
Shortly before noon, the chime on the door rang as the first customer of the day walked in. Jordan looked up from the bar and smiled at the woman, an attractive brunette wearing a North Face coat and yoga pants that showed off her fit, curvy physique.
Either on her way to or from the gym, Jordan guessed. "Can I help you?"
The woman seemed to ponder this question for a moment. "I'm just looking for now." She looked around the store, as if checking to see if anyone else was around.
Jordan wondered if Martin had finally found a woman who appreciated a light-bodied, bow-tie-wearing pinot. "Take your time. If you have any questions, let me know."
The woman paused. "Actually, the hell with it. I do have a question." She stalked over to the bar. "Is it serious between you and Nick?"
The question, completely unexpected, caught Jordan off guard. "I'm sorry?"
"Nick McCall. Is it serious between the two of you?"
Jordan took a moment to respond, thinking carefully about her answer. "I know a Nick Stanton, but not a Nick McCall." She looked the woman over. "I'm sorry—I didn't catch your name."
"Lisa. And the name of the guy who was in your store last night is Nick McCall. Trust me—I would know. I know Nick very well."
Reasonable reaction or not, Jordan caught herself bristling at the implication. "If you know Nick so well, why do you need to ask me if things are serious?"
Lisa shifted uncomfortably, seeming to hedge a little. "I haven't heard from him for a couple weeks. Then I happened to see him yesterday in his car. I followed him here and thought I'd catch him inside the store, until I spotted you two through the door. You looked cozy."
Apparently, the Nick and Jordan show was picking up viewers every day. "I think this is a conversation you need to have with Nick, not me."
Lisa laughed at that. "Maybe you don't know him that well after all. Because if you did, you'd know that you don't ask Nick questions. It's part of his whole no-strings-attached, I-don't-do-relationships routine." She raised an eyebrow. "Or hasn't he
given you that speech yet?"
Hearing the other woman's words, Jordan felt it. A pang of disappointment, strong enough that she had no choice but to acknowledge it.
Nick didn't do relationships.
It should've meant nothing. Of course he hadn't given her any such speech—there'd been no reason for him to. Because, just like she'd thought, any connection between them was imaginary.
With that in mind, she managed to maintain a nonchalant air in front of Lisa. This was her store, and no one was going to make her look like a fool in it. "You don't really expect me to tell you what Nick and I talk about, do you?" she asked coolly.
"Oh ... I get it. You haven't slept with him yet, have you?" Lisa smiled smugly. "Listen, honey, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you'll hear his speech soon enough—right before he fucks you. It's part of his code or whatever. Trust me, lots of women have been down this road with Nick."
Jordan pretended to think this over. "Thanks for the tip, Lisa. This all has been very informative. Particularly the creepy part where you said you followed Nick and stood outside my store watching us." She pointed to a wine display. "Hey—you know what I like to do after stalking an ex-boyfriend? Pour myself a nice glass of petite syrah. And you're in luck, because we're having a sale on reds today ..."
ACROSS THE STREET, Mercks's investigator, a man named Tennyson, froze with the camera in his hands when the door to DeVine Cellars flew open. The brunette in yoga pants stormed out, looking pissed. She crossed the street, heading straight toward the car he sat in.
Tennyson panicked. On a whim, he'd decided to follow Jordan Rhodes to see if she gave them something. Anything. Because after eleven days of tailing Stanton, they'd come up with nothing of any significance to report to Eckhart. By now he was familiar with Stanton's routine: the guy wouldn't leave his office for lunch until one o'clock, which meant he had plenty of time to kill.
At first, tailing Jordan Rhodes had seemed to be no less boring than following Stanton. Tennyson had parked his car across the street, and using the zoom on his camera, he could see into the wine store through the front windows. Rhodes made a lot of phone calls, worked at the bar on her laptop computer, and rearranged wine bottles. Really exciting stuff.