Instead, he pushed away from the bar and stepped closer to her, then closer again. He peered down at her, his brilliant green-eyed gaze unwavering. “How would you like to see your brother released from prison, Ms. Rhodes?”
Stunned by the offer, Jordan searched his eyes cautiously. She looked for any signs of deceit or trickery, although she suspected she wouldn’t see anything in Nick McCall’s eyes that he didn’t want her to.
A leap of faith. She debated whether to believe him.
“I’ll grab my coat.”
Three
THE DRIVE TO the FBI office took longer than expected given the weather. The roads were terrible, but the SUV made the eight-mile journey without too much trouble. Comfortable behind the wheel despite the ice and snow, Nick took his eyes off the road long enough to steal a glance in the rearview mirror at the passenger in the backseat.
Jordan Rhodes. A billionaire heiress, riding in the backseat of his Chevy Tahoe. Not the way he typically capped off a workday.
She stared silently out the window. Her blond hair fell past the shoulders of her black coat, and she absentmindedly brushed a stray lock out of her eyes. She wore a cream cashmere scarf around her neck—at least he guessed it was cashmere—and matching gloves.
He’d seen photographs of her before, even beyond those Huxley had included in his highly thorough presentation. Given the wealth of her family, and the public’s general interest in her brother’s case, nearly every paper, television, cable, and Internet media outlet had extensively covered Kyle Rhodes’s arrest and guilty plea. Nick recalled seeing several photos of Jordan and her father walking in and out of the courtroom at Kyle’s side.
Objectively speaking, Nick knew she was stunning. No doubt, the long, blond hair, svelte figure, and Caribbean blue eyes would appeal to many a man. With her obviously expensive coat and wholly impractical-for-snow high-heeled boots, she reminded him of the ultra-chic, designer-clad Manhattanites he’d occasionally come across back in his New York days.
Not his type.
First of all, he preferred brunettes. And curves. And women without direct relations locked up in a maximum-security prison. Or an inheritance that rivaled the gross national income of a small country. That kind of wealth had to make a person . . . weird. Probably snobby and flashy, too. The impractical high-heeled boots seemed to be confirmation of this.
From the tight set to her jaw, he could tell that she knew he was watching her.
She didn’t seem to like him very much. He was not particularly troubled by this. The beauty of this assignment was that Jordan Rhodes didn’t have to like him. Huxley was going to be her date at Eckhart’s party—he could be the one to work his charm routine. Assuming Huxley had a charm routine.
Nick’s responsibility, on the other hand, was simply to secure Jordan Rhodes’s cooperation. And to do that, he had to resolve a few unanswered questions first.
“So how’s the wine business these days?” he asked, breaking the silence.
Jordan turned her head away from the window and met his gaze in the rearview mirror. “You don’t need to make small talk with me, Agent McCall. I realize this isn’t a social call.”
He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m not much for uncomfortable silences.”
“What’s your position on uncomfortable conversation?”
Nick had to check his grin at that. Christ, she was a sassy one.
“This is some weather we’re having,” Huxley said, quickly interjecting to keep things light. “Good thing you’ve got four-wheel drive, Nick.”
“True,” he agreed. “Although a Chevy Tahoe can’t be nearly as fun to drive as a Maserati Quattroporte.”
Jordan stared at Nick with a mixture of surprise and annoyance. “You know what kind of car I drive?”
“I know lots of things. Trust me, I have files worth of annoying small-talk questions I can ask as we creep through this blizzard at ten miles an hour. I figured the subject of wine seemed the most innocuous.”
She sighed, as if resigned to her fate. “The wine business is good.”
“I’m curious: who’s your typical customer?” he asked. “Do you get a lot of hard-core collectors or more locals from the neighborhood?”
“I get all types. Some people are just beginning to dabble in wine and looking for a comfortable place to learn more. Others are more experienced drinkers who like to come in and relax while sampling the wines we have open. Then there’s a third group, who I would describe as serious collectors.”
As Nick had guessed, she relaxed when discussing the subject of wine. Good. “I don’t know much about wine myself. I did hear a story a few weeks ago about some collector from Chicago who spent over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars on a case of wine.” He turned to Huxley. “Can you believe it? Two hundred and fifty thousand.” He checked back in the rearview mirror. “You’re the expert, Ms. Rhodes—in the wine world, what does one get for a quarter of a million dollars?”
“A 1945 Chateau Mouton-Rothschild.”
“Wow. You came up with that awfully fast. I take it you heard about the auction, too?”
“Actually, I helped that particular collector locate the wine,” she said. “I knew it was going to auction and that he would be interested.”
“The guy had a strange name . . . I think he owned a restaurant or something.”
Huxley looked over at Nick but remained silent, having realized that their interrogation of Jordan Rhodes had begun.