She flashed him a sweet smile. “Lucky for you, it will all be over soon. Tomorrow you can have a fake freak-out over commitment issues that will lead to our fake breakup. After that, I think our characters will need some very real time apart.” She began walking toward the street.
Nick caught her by the sleeve of her coat. “I think we need to make sure we’re clear on something. You may be used to ordering your personal assistants around, or the minions at your wine store, but this is my investigation now. Which means that I’m in charge here—only me.”
She pulled out her cell phone and cocked her head innocently. “Should I cancel the suit, then?” When he glared at her but said nothing, she smiled. “I’ll take that as a ‘Thank you, Jordan. I appreciate you helping me out in a pinch like this.’ ”
She headed in the direction of her car, but Nick caught her by the sleeve again. “Where are you going? You’re coming with me to the Ralph Lauren store.”
“Why would I go?”
“Because I’ve got about eight hours to make sure this undercover op is successful, and you need to fill me in on everything you told Huxley on Thursday. Particularly the description of Eckhart’s office.”
Jordan pushed up the sleeve of her coat and looked at her watch. “It’s after nine. We’ll be cutting it too close if I go downtown with you. I’m supposed to open my store at ten and I need to go home and change first.”
“Can’t you get someone to cover for you?”
“Unfortunately, no,” she said. Martin and Andrea—one of the two associates who worked at DeVine Cellars—were both set to cover the store that evening while she was at Xander’s party, and her other sales associate, Robert, was out of town that weekend. Plus, they were having a closeout sale on several wines her distributors were unloading at bargain prices and she needed to get shelf talkers in place before the store opened. “Is there another time we can talk?”
Nick looked over at her car. “Does that Maserati come with Bluetooth?”
For over a hundred grand, about the only things it didn’t come with were ejector seats and a parachute. “Yep.”
“We’ll do this by phone. I have your number.”
Of course he did.
They separated at the street and climbed into their respective cars. Immediately after starting hers, Jordan pushed the button that warmed the tan leather seats. Like good wine and great shoes, heated seats on a February morning were at the top of her most-prized list of luxuries. She let the car idle for a minute before easing it out of its tight parking spot. Heading in the same direction as Nick, she took the one-way side street toward Lake Shore Drive and caught up with him at a stop sign.
She saw him glance at his rearview mirror, spotting her behind him. A few seconds later, her cell phone rang. When she answered, his whisky-rich voice came through the car’s speakers.
“So I’ve been thinking about your question. My character has decided he doesn’t want to see other people.”
“What made you change your mind? Let me guess—the Maserati.”
He chuckled. “Our cover story is that my character has been smitten from the moment he met you. He’s not about to let another man get anywhere near you.”
“Your character sounds a little possessive. Is this something my character should be worried about?”
They came to a stop at the light that would take them onto the Drive. Nick’s voice was low, even smoother than the car’s engine. “I think your character secretly likes it. You’ve been dating boring, uptight guys for too long. You’ve been looking for something different.”
Jordan looked sharply at the SUV in front of her. “I think your character presumes too much.”
His eyes caught hers in the rearview mirror. “Does he?”
The light turned green, and they drove off in opposite directions. As Jordan headed north, away from downtown and with Nick’s car safely out of sight, she decided it was time to change the subject. “What do you want to know about the layout of Xander’s office?”
“As much as you can tell me.”
As she sped along the Drive with the gray expanse of Lake Michigan on her right, Jordan filled him in on as much as she remembered. She finished the call with Nick just as she pulled into her garage. She hung up and sat in her car for a moment, thinking about his comment.
You’ve been looking for something different.
Presumptuous words. Very presumptuous. But she couldn’t help but wonder if there was any truth to them. Pushing the thought from her mind, she opened the car door and hurried into her house. There was one thing, at least, she knew without a doubt.
It was far too cold to be sitting outside thinking about Nick McCall.
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, suit in hand, Nick walked along Michigan Avenue toward the parking garage where he’d left his car. He made a phone call.
It was a truth universally acknowledged that FBI agents in possession of great skill and talent, even those who frequently engaged in the practice of trash-talking, understood that there were times when all bullshit needed to be set aside in order to get a job done.
This was one of those times.
After two rings, another agent answered Nick’s call.
“Pallas.”
“It’s McCall. I’ve got a problem.”
“The Eckhart op?”
“You got it. Huxley’s out with the flu.”
“What do you need?”