Текст книги "A Lot Like Love"

Автор книги: Julie James

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Six

IT IS A truth universally acknowledged that an FBI special agent in possession of great skill and talent is likely to engage in trash talk every now and then.

Nick – being possessed of said skill and talent – was, on that Thursday night, partaking in this practice, along with his coworker Jack Pallas, Davis’s supposed other “top” special agent. The two of them had just finished working out in the state-of-the-art gym located on the building’s second floor that was open twenty-four/seven. Some agents fell out of shape after graduating from the Academy, but not in Davis’s field office. He held his agents to high physical standards and, as he bluntly told everyone in their welcome-to-Chicago speech, expected to see their asses in the gym.

Sweaty in their T-shirts, Jack and Nick grabbed towels from the shelf as they entered the locker room. They’d completed a seven-mile run on the gym’s indoor track only moments earlier. While subtly trying to outpace and outdistance each other, they’d caught up on various odds and ends that Nick had missed during the six months he’d worked undercover on Fivestar. Eventually, their conversation turned to the arrests of Roberto Martino and the other members of his organization, and the investigation into Xander Eckhart.

“I hear you’re taking orders from Seth Huxley nowadays,” Jack said as they edged their way through the crowded locker room. The end of the workday, not surprisingly, was the gym’s busiest time, with most agents squeezing in a workout before heading home. “How’s that going?”

“If by ‘taking orders’ you mean providing my much-learned undercover expertise as a favor to our boss, then I’d say it’s going great.” Nick feigned confusion. “What I’ve been trying to figure out is why Davis had to bring me in on this case in the first place. I could’ve sworn another agent was already running the Martino investigation … Oh, wait – that would be you, Jack.”

Jack took a seat on the bench in front of their lockers. “I’ve been a little busy these days. Thirty-four arrests in the last four months, McCall. That’s a new record for me.”

Nick stripped off his damp T-shirt, baring his chest. “Try twenty-seven arrests in the last week. That’s a new record for the office.”

“You’re still seven arrests behind me, buddy.”

Not for long, if Nick had anything to say about it. “It’ll only be five after Eckhart and Trilani.”

Jack scoffed at this. “Eckhart is a money-laundering case. Anything from Financial only gets you half a point.” He stood up and peeled off his own T-shirt, revealing several scars, electrical burns, and a bullet wound on his chest.

Having worked on and off with Jack for several years, and given how they were both regulars at the gym, Nick had seen the other agent’s scars before – souvenirs of the two days Jack had been tortured by Roberto Martino’s men. Two days where he’d given them absolutely nothing in exchange. The scars were a quick reminder not only of the pride Nick felt in being a special agent in one of the toughest FBI field offices in the country, but also of the grudging respect he had for Jack. All trash talk aside, they understood each other’s commitment to the job.

Davis wasn’t getting any younger, and when he retired as special agent in charge, either Nick or Jack likely would be asked to fill the position. Neither was entirely sure he wanted it, although the satisfaction that would be derived from beating out the other for the job provided strong motivation to at least consider the possibility.

Nick ignored the scars on Jack’s chest, as was expected. He stripped off the rest of his clothes and slung a towel around his hips. “You know, it’s interesting what you said a moment ago about taking orders. From what I hear, you’ve been taking a lot of orders yourself these days. From the new U.S. attorney.” Actually, what he’d heard from several sources around the office was that Jack had been assigned to protect the new U.S. attorney as part of a murder investigation and had dived off a three-story stairwell to save her life. Also according to these sources – who had spoken only on condition of total anonymity – the two were now living together and Jack had subsequently “mellowed” a bit from his former days.

“We all take orders from the U.S. attorney around here,” Jack said. “She is something.” The corners of his mouth turned up as he slid out of his running pants.

Nick stared at him in astonishment. “Was that actually a smile? Shit, Pallas – all these years we’ve been working together, I wasn’t even sure you had teeth.”

“It’s part of this whole softer side Jack is trying out,” said a voice from around the corner. A younger, well-built African American man strolled over from the showers. Like Jack and Nick, he was naked except for a towel knotted around his waist. “It’s kind of nice, actually – he barely ever threatens to kill people anymore.” The young agent reached over the bench in the center of the aisle and stuck out his hand to Nick. “I’m Jack’s partner, the inimitable Sam Wilkins,” he said by way of introduction. “I’ve seen you around the office the past few days.”

Nick shook his hand. “Nick McCall. You’re the new guy from Yale, right? I’ve heard about you. People say you’ve got a wardrobe that rivals Huxley’s.”

“Who’s got a wardrobe that rivals mine?” Huxley came around the corner in a towel and – big surprise – Polo shower shoes. He took his glasses out of his locker and put them on. He spotted Wilkins. “Oh. Hello … Wilkins.”

“Hello, Huxley,” Wilkins replied coolly.

Nick pointed between the two of them. “You boys have a problem?”

“No problem,” Huxley said. “Just a little friendly school rivalry.”

“Not so much a rivalry,” Wilkins corrected. “I’d call it more a mutual understanding between the two of us that Huxley here went to the other Ivy League law school; the one that follows behind Yale in the rankings.”

“And also a mutual understanding that Wilkins here went to a law school that, while theoretically Ivy League like Harvard, teaches its students wholly impractical classes like Law and the Butterfly,” Huxley noted.

With a chuckle, Jack mumbled under his breath to Nick. “It’s like watching the preppy, well-bred versions of you and me trash-talking.” He headed off to the showers.

Huxley looked offended by this. “I’m not that preppy.” Naked except for his shower shoes, he took out a pair of neatly ironed boxer briefs from his duffle bag and pulled them on.

Nick decided to redirect the conversation. “So how did your meeting with Jordan Rhodes go today?”

“Fine. We got together at her house and went over the details for Saturday. If anyone at the party asks how we met, we’re going to say that I’m a customer of her store. I know enough about wine to be able to pull that off without a problem. And I have to tell you – we couldn’t have picked a better person to help with the op. Jordan was able to give me a detailed description of Eckhart’s office. I’m not anticipating having much trouble getting the bugs placed quickly.”

“You’ll have to figure out a way to sneak away from the others,” Nick pointed out.

Huxley slid on a light blue dress shirt. “Already got it covered. Jordan is going to pull Eckhart aside and talk to him about some special wine she’s been trying to locate for him. While he’s distracted, I’ll slip away from the other guests and make my way to the office.”

He gave Nick a knowing look as he buttoned his shirt. “Look, I know Davis asked you to babysit me on this.” He held up his hand. “I get it, it’s my first undercover op. But trust me, I’ve spent three months working on this case – no one wants Saturday night to go smoothly more than I do. I’m ready for it.”

From the sound of things, Nick couldn’t disagree.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Nick crossed the parking lot to his SUV, unlocked the door, and climbed in. Damn, it was cold. Six years had taught him that New York had nothing on Chicago in terms of bitter winters. He started the car and let it warm up for a few minutes. He was just pulling out of the parking lot when his cell phone rang, the sound carrying through the speakers via the Bluetooth system in his car. Nick checked the caller ID on the radio display.

Lisa.

He hadn’t spoken to her in six months, since before he’d begun the Fivestar investigation. Frankly, he hadn’t planned on speaking to her again. Sure, they’d had a couple of fun nights, but he’d made it clear from the beginning that there wasn’t anything serious between them. Still, he didn’t want to be rude and ignore her.

He answered the phone. “Lisa, hello.”

A woman’s earthy voice sounded through the speakers. “I heard you were back in town.”

“Got your spies out?” Nick teased.

“Maya said you picked up carryout from Schoolhouse Tavern the other night,” Lisa said, referring to the waitress who’d rung up his order.

“Right, I forgot that she teaches part-time at your yoga studio.”

“She says you look exactly the same.”

“It hasn’t been that long, Lisa.”

“Six months.”

“Well, I told you it would be a while before you heard from me.” If ever.

“But now you’re back. Any chance you’re free tonight?” she asked invitingly.

Nick sensed that this was the moment where he needed to politely – but firmly – make a clean break from Lisa. Actually, he thought he’d done that six months ago.

From the start, he’d explained to Lisa the same thing he explained to every woman he got involved with: he didn’t do relationships. Working undercover for months at a time virtually precluded the possibility. Right now, he was focused on his job, and he liked being focused on his job. He’d been working undercover jobs for six years now, and he was good at it. While he reported to Davis, he generally handled his cases the way he wanted, which suited him well.

When he was a kid, Nick had seen the look of relief on his mother’s face every time his father walked through the door after one of his police shifts. Unlike his father, however, there were many nights, and weeks, and months, when he didn’t come home at all. He may have been focused on his career, but at least he knew not to inflict his unpredictable lifestyle on someone else.

“Lisa, look – we talked about this before I went undercover. This was just a casual thing,” he said.

“But I thought we had fun together.”

“We did. But I’ve got a few things going on with work, and some personal days I plan to use after that, so this isn’t a good time for me.”

Lisa’s voice turned suspicious. “There’s someone else, isn’t there? You don’t have to lie about it.”

“There’s no one else. I’m just not in a position to give you what you’re looking for.”

The phone went silent for a moment. As much as Nick tried to be a stand-up guy about these things, sometimes women got a little pissed when they realized that – hot sex notwithstanding – he’d really meant it when he’d said that he wasn’t looking for a relationship.

“Fine. But being by yourself all the time is going to get lonely, Nick,” Lisa said. “When that happens, you remember the good times we had together. And give me a call.”

She hung up.

Nick exhaled in relief and made sure the call had disconnected. That hadn’t been too bad. When he didn’t call Lisa back, she’d move on. After all, it had been just sex. No sweet nothings, no endearments, no promises of the future. Soon enough, she would realize that she could get a better deal elsewhere.

He had just exited off the highway at Ohio Street when his cell phone rang again. He glanced over and checked the caller ID.

Shit.

He quickly backtracked, thinking about how long it had been since their last conversation, and realized he undoubtedly had another pissed-off woman on his hands. Perhaps this was one of the reasons he preferred to stay undercover. No accountability.

Bracing himself, he clicked the button on the steering wheel to answer. “Ma – I was just about to call you.”

“Right. I could be dead and you wouldn’t even know it.”

Nick grinned. Despite being perfectly healthy and fit at almost sixty, his mother issued frequent proclamations about her death and the ways in which people would inevitably wrong her in it. “I think Dad, Matt, or Anthony would probably call me if that happened.”

His mother, the illustrious Angela Giuliano, who had once disappointed every smitten, fiery Italian man of marriageable age in Brooklyn (as the story was frequently told to Nick and his brothers) by allowing the strong, silent, and decidedly non-Italian John McCall to drive her home from the Moonlight Lounge on a fateful New Years Eve thirty-six years ago, snorted in disagreement. “What do your brothers know? They both live less than fifteen miles from this house, and your father and I never see them.”

Nick happened to know that both of his brothers, as well as practically every living relative in New York on his mother’s side of the family, had dinner at his parents’ house at three o’clock every Sunday afternoon, no exceptions. His father had long ago accepted the weekly Italian invasion as the price one paid for marrying into the Giuliano family.

As happened every time he spoke to his parents or his brothers, Nick felt a pang of guilt. He was more independent than his two younger brothers, and in that sense, the thousand-mile separation from his parents wasn’t entirely a bad thing. But still, he sometimes missed those Sunday dinners. “You see Matt and Anthony every week. You see everyone every week.”

“Not everyone, Nick,” his mother said pointedly. Then her voice changed and turned warmer. “Well, except for this upcoming weekend.”

Nick paused at this. It could’ve been a trap. Perhaps his mother suspected something was up with her birthday and was fishing for information. Although it was surprising that she’d come to him – she usually went after Anthony, who had the secret-keeping skills of a four-year-old.

“Why? What’s happening this weekend?” he asked nonchalantly.

“Oh, nothing much. I just heard something about a sixtieth birthday party your father and you boys are planning for me.”

Fucking Anthony.

“And don’t go blaming Anthony,” his mother said, quick to protect her youngest. “I’d already heard about it from your aunt Donna before he slipped.”

Nick knew what her next question would be before the words left her mouth.

“So? Are you bringing a date?” she asked.

“Sorry, Ma. It’ll just be me.”

“There’s a surprise.”

He pulled into the driveway that led to the parking garage of his condo building. “Just a warning, I’m about to pull into the garage – I might lose you.”

“How convenient,” his mother said. “Because I had a really nice lecture planned for you.”

“Let me guess the highlights: it involved me needing to focus on something other than work, and you dying heartbroken and miserable without grandchildren. Am I close?”

“Not bad. But I’ll save the rest of the lecture for Sunday. There’s going to be a lot of gesturing on my part, and the phone doesn’t quite capture the spirit.”

Nick smiled. “Shockingly, I’m looking forward to it. I’ll see you Sunday, Ma.”

Her voice softened. “I know how busy you are, Nick. It means a lot to me that you’re coming home.”

He knew it did. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

EARLY SATURDAY MORNING, Nick received yet another call.

He opened his eyes and saw that it was still dark outside. He rolled over in bed and peered at the clock on the nightstand. Five thirty-eight A.M.

He reached for his phone and checked the caller ID. Huxley.

Today was the big day, and Nick could certainly appreciate the junior agent’s enthusiasm. Huxley had every right to be excited about his first undercover operation.

Just not at 5:38 A.M.

He answered the phone, his voice low and rough with sleep. “At this hour, somebody better be dead, Huxley.”

There was a tortured groan on the other end of the line. Nick sat up in bed. “Huxley?”

A weak voice answered.

“No one’s dead. But I think I might be close.”

Seven

NICK RANG THE bell to Huxley’s wood-frame duplex. As he waited on the front steps, he took a look around. Despite the blizzard that had hit earlier that week, the steps, walkway, and front sidewalk were shoveled pristinely. The yard had not one speck of litter, and the evergreens in front of the porch were shaped in a neat row of perfect triangles.

Definitely Huxley’s place.

He rang the bell again and waited a few more seconds before trying the door. Huxley had said to come in if he didn’t answer, in the event he was indisposed. Nick pushed open the front door and entered the quiet house cautiously. He instinctively reached for the gun holstered in the shoulder harness underneath his jacket, then caught himself. From the sound of things, whatever had gotten ahold of Huxley could not be stopped by bullets.

Nick paused in the entranceway. “Huxley? You alive?” There was a staircase to his left leading upstairs, and a dark hallway in front of him. No lights appeared to be on anywhere inside the place. He checked the bathroom to his right. Empty.

Then came a feeble voice. “In here.”

Following the voice, Nick cut through the hallway, the soft thud of his footsteps on the hardwood floors the only sounds in the house. The hallway opened into a spacious great room and kitchen area that looked like something out of a Pottery Barn catalog. There, he spotted Huxley.

Or at least, what he thought was Huxley.

The well-groomed agent he was used to seeing in three-piece suits and sweater vests sprawled facedown across the beige sectional couch, with one hand limply clutching a garbage can on the floor next to him. Far from a three-piece suit, he was dressed in a navy sweatshirt and checkered flannel pants. Strangely, he wore only one sock.

Nick slipped off his coat and came around the couch. Huxley weakly lifted his head. His eyes were glazed, and the hair on the left side of his head shot up into the air in a blond Mohawk.

“I wouldn’t get too close,” Huxley warned. The effort of holding up his head proved too much, and his face fell back into the pillow.

Nick took a seat on the far opposite end of the sectional. “Wow. You look awful.” He peered more closely. “What’s going on with your hair?”

Huxley spoke into the pillow, his voice muffled. “The stomach pains came on when I was in the shower. I had to get out ASAP. Mid-shampoo.”

Nick nodded. “And the missing sock?”

“In the laundry. I puked on my foot.”

“Oh.”

With painstakingly slow movements, Huxley rolled himself over. He groaned and his head lolled against the pillow. “The good news is, I haven’t thrown up for twelve minutes. Before that I only made it nine.”

“I don’t think it’s like labor contractions, Seth. Whatever you’ve got doesn’t look like something that will pass quickly. Could it be food poisoning?”

“Doubtful. I have a fever. One hundred and two.”

“The stomach flu, then.”

“It appears so.”

Before Nick could say anything further, there was a knock at the door.

Huxley closed his eyes. “That’s probably Jordan. I called her right after you and left a message saying we had a problem.”

Oh, they had a problem, all right. A couple of them. For starters, Eckhart’s party was that night and his partner clearly wasn’t anywhere near up to par. Second, there were about five thousand jokes Nick wanted to make about Huxley’s hair, and he wasn’t sure he could hold back much longer.

“I’ll get the door.” Nick cut through the hallway, working through their options. He grumbled to himself, realizing that they only had one at this point. This was supposed to be a simple assignment. A consulting job, Davis had promised. And now he was stuck.

He said a few Brooklyn-flavored curse words under his breath as he opened the front door.

Nick blinked at the sight of the woman standing before him. He’d expected to find the stylishly dressed and designer-clad sophisticate he’d met five nights ago. Instead, Jordan stood on the porch wearing a black ski jacket, black body-hugging leggings, and pink snow boots. She had her long hair pulled back in a high ponytail, with a few layers framing her face. She wore not a speck of makeup, had rosy cheeks from the cold, and her blue eyes sparkled in the winter morning sun.

Interesting.

This was a new side to Jordan Rhodes. Without the designer clothes, it was a good thing for him that she was still blond with ne’er-do-well relations, or he might be in danger of thinking she was quite cute. And given that his role in the Eckhart investigation had just expanded about tenfold, he didn’t need to be distracted by cuteness right then.

Seeing him standing in Huxley’s doorway, her eyes widened in surprise. “Agent McCall.”

Nick raised an eyebrow. “Nice boots.”

She leveled him with a glare. Apparently the boots were a taboo subject.

“You said that if I saw you today, it meant that something had gone really wrong with the undercover operation,” she said.

He stepped to the side of the doorway. “I think you should probably see for yourself.” He shut the door behind her, and they stood in the small entranceway. “But I warn you – it’s a little disturbing.” He led her down the hallway and into the living room, where the death-warmed-over version of his partner lay on the couch.

“Oh my gosh, what happened?” Jordan asked.

Shivering, Huxley mustered a faint smile. “I guess I look as bad as I feel.”

“It’s mostly the hair,” Nick offered diplomatically. “It’s … ridiculous.”

“I can’t deal with a comb right now. Too heavy.” Huxley sighed wearily. “I’m a little under the weather,” he explained to Jordan.

“That seems to be putting it mildly,” she said. “You’re shaking – are you cold?”

“It’s the fever.”

She spoke under her breath to Nick. “Is there a reason he’s wearing only one sock?”

“He puked on his foot.”

“Oh.” She turned back to Huxley. “Can we get you another sock? Maybe a blanket or something?”

Huxley sat up, looking pained by the effort. “That’s okay,” he groaned. “I’m heading upstairs. If you two would excuse me …” He clutched his stomach. “I think this is going to be a rough one.”

Jordan watched as Huxley clung to the railing and dragged himself upstairs. When she heard a door shut, she turned back and saw that Nick had moved into the kitchen. She followed him and watched as he began opening cabinets, searching for something.

“I know Huxley. He has to have it somewhere,” he muttered to himself. “Ah – got it.” He shut the cabinet door and held a bottle out to Jordan.

Hand sanitizer.

“Don’t say I never got you anything,” he said.

Despite herself, Jordan smiled. “Thanks,” she said, taking the bottle from him. She poured an extremely generous amount onto her hands and made a mental note to touch as little as possible inside the house.

Upstairs, she could hear the faint sounds of Huxley groaning. “Should we do something?” she asked Nick.

“I think he’d probably prefer to be alone right now.”

She nodded. She said the words first, needing to get it out there. “He’s not going to make it to the party tonight, is he?”

“No, he’s not. And that’s a shame, because I know how badly Huxley wanted this. But he’s shivering, he looks terrible, and he can’t stay out of the bathroom for more than twenty minutes.”

Jordan felt bad for Huxley. Aside from his obvious physical discomfort, she knew how much he’d put into this investigation. But selfishly, she had other issues on her mind at that moment, like the fact that this had been her one chance to get her brother out of prison. “Does this mean we’re scrapping the plan for tonight?”

Nick leaned against the counter opposite her, stretching out his tall, leanly muscular body. He wore a navy crewneck sweater, jeans, and a gun harness that made him appear even more dangerous than he had that first night in her store. She took note of his strong, angular jaw, which was once again dark and stubbled.

It wasn’t the worst look she’d ever seen on a guy. She wouldn’t go as far as to say she liked it or anything, but she supposed some women found this sort of overt … manliness attractive.

“We’re not scrapping the plan,” he said. “This may be our only chance to nail Eckhart. But this development with Huxley means we need to make certain adjustments.”

“Such as?”

His green eyes held hers. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a new date this evening.”

Balls.

“I had a feeling you were going to say that, Agent McCall.”

He shook his head. “No more Agent McCall. From this point on, I’m Nick Stanton, a self-employed real estate investor,” he said, referring to the cover story they’d planned to use with Huxley. “I own several multiunit apartment buildings on the north side of the city that I rent out mostly to college students and recent graduates. We met when I came into your store to buy a bottle of wine for my property manager, Ethan, who just got engaged to a girl named Becky, an advertising executive originally from Des Moines who used to live in one of my buildings. You helped me pick out the perfect bottle of wine, and I was so entranced that I didn’t pay any attention to what I bought.” He scratched his jaw, putting on a show of trying to remember. “What kind of wine was it again, sweetie? Something French I’d never heard of.”

Jordan noticed that he was going off the script a little. “A gamay?”

Nick snapped his fingers. “A gamay – that’s it.”

“With Huxley it was a carménère from Chile. And he picked it out.”

“Well, Huxley knows a lot more about wine than I do. Since I don’t have time to learn, my character is going to be more of a novice.” He grinned. “Your character finds this refreshing in contrast to all the stuffy wine snobs you usually meet.”

“But my character probably won’t emphasize that fact tonight, since most of those stuffy wine snobs will be at this party,” she threw back.

The two of them looked over as Huxley stumbled his way into the living room and sank onto the couch.

“I overheard you talking. You’ll take my place, then?” he asked Nick.

“It’s our only option at this point.”

Huxley shook his head dejectedly. “Three years working for the FBI and I’ve never had to take one sick day. Today of all days, this happens.” He leaned back against the pillows and looked Nick over. “You’re going to need a suit.”

“I have several suits,” Nick said, appearing offended.

Huxley did not seem impressed. “A real suit.” He held up his hand, cutting off Nick’s objection. “No offense, but Men’s Wearhouse or whatever isn’t going to cut it tonight. You want to blend, remember? Every person at the party will be checking out the guy walking in with Jordan Rhodes. You need to look like someone they would expect to see her with.”

“Hey. I would date a guy who wore a suit from Men’s Wearhouse,” Jordan said indignantly.

Nick sized her up. “Huxley’s right. I better get a new suit.”

Jordan folded her arms across her chest, on the defensive. “You two are way off base with these assumptions about me.”

Nick turned to face her, taking the bait. “Okay, I’ll eat my words right now if you can honestly say that you’ve dated anyone in the last three years who wore a suit from Men’s Wearhouse.”

Jordan stared him in the eyes, wanting to prove him wrong like nothing else.

But.

She sniffed reluctantly. “Just to be clear, it’s not a criteria I have. True, I tend to meet mostly men who have white-collar jobs. And if they want to spend their money on expensive suits, well, that’s their business.”

Nick shrugged. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, princess.”

Jordan’s eyes widened in surprise. She stepped over to him, pulling herself up to her full five foot five inches. “Listen, I don’t know who you are, or where you came from, but nobody’s calling anybody a princess around here.”

“Brooklyn.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m from Brooklyn.” The edges of Nick’s lips curled up in a grin. “Your majesty.”

Jordan stared him in the eyes for another moment, and then turned to Huxley. “Doesn’t the FBI have some sort of top-secret vitamin shot they can give agents in these circumstances? Something that can get you up and running by tonight? Anything?”

“Sorry. I’m afraid you’re stuck with Nick.”

Lovely.

“Trust me, I’m not exactly thrilled about it, either,” Nick said. “No offense, but being cooped up in a van for seven hours sounds more fun than hanging around with some elitist wine crowd.” He glanced at his watch and swore under his breath. “We don’t have a lot of time to pull this all together. Now that I’m taking your place, I need to find a backup man and get him up to speed,” he said to Huxley. “And I need to go shopping, too.”

He was so bent out of shape about the darn suit. Because of that, Jordan was tempted to hold her tongue and let him figure things out by himself. But like it or not, for Kyle’s sake, the two of them were in this together. So she pulled out her cell phone.

“I’ll take care of the suit.” She scrolled through her contacts list, found the person she was looking for, and dialed.

A man’s voice on the other end answered. “Please tell me you’re coming in to shop. We’ve been dead this whole week because of the blizzard.”

Jordan smiled. Two years ago she’d discovered Christian, a personal shopper at the Ralph Lauren store, and he’d never let her down no matter what the fashion emergency. “Are you working this morning? I need a man’s suit. Fast.”

“No problem. I’m at the store already.”

“Perfect. He doesn’t have a lot of time to shop, so do me a favor – pull some suits in advance. Shirts and ties, too. Nothing too trendy, something classic. I need a size …” She looked expectantly at Nick.

He didn’t look thrilled that she was taking charge, but he didn’t object either. “Forty-four long.”

She repeated the information to Christian, who sounded intrigued.

“You’ve never sent me a man before,” he said. “This forty-four long must be special.”

“Oh, he’s special all right. And he’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Wait,” Christian said before she hung up. “I’m dying here, Jordan. You’ve got to give me something. Who is this mystery man?”

She hesitated for a second, then realized she had to bite the bullet and start the lies at some point. Might as well cut her teeth on Christian.

“His name is Nick. He’s … my boyfriend.”

ON THEIR WAY out, Nick held Huxley’s front door open for her. “Boyfriend, huh? I didn’t realize we had taken things to that level.”