A Lot Like Love

by Julie James

  He yanked the comforter off and made his way into the bathroom. He sped through his shower routine and threw on the shirt and pants he'd worn the night before, having no other options. Despite its other luxuries, Palazzo Rhodes didn't come with a spare set of men's clothes.

  He looked in the mirror and decided to skip shaving. For anyone who might be watching from a black sedan out front, Nick Stanton had just spent the night rolling around in bed with a smart, sexy woman and undoubtedly had better things to do this morning than shave.

  Nick Stanton was a lucky SOB.

  Nick McCall, on the other hand, had work to do, starting with a few phone calls. Including one in particular he dreaded.

  He went downstairs to the kitchen, found an expensive-looking espresso maker that appeared wholly unused, then poked around and saw no other machinery in the house capable of producing caffeine. This brought about a round of grumbling about damn fancy rich types and their damn fancy gadgets as he sat down at the counter and called in to the office.

  "We've got a condo for you in Bucktown," Davis told him. "1841 North Waveland, unit three-A. It'll work well for you—two bedrooms and an office, top amenities. Nice enough that it won't raise any suspicions."

  "Can't have Jordan Rhodes's boyfriend slumming it now, can we?" Nick grumbled.

  "I wasn't thinking so much about the girl, more that a successful property investor such as yourself wouldn't be slumming it," Davis said. "What's gotten into you this morning, sunshine?"

  Nick grunted. Damn pesky questions. "Just haven't had my morning coffee, boss."

  "Perfect. Because you and your girlfriend are going to make a run over to Starbucks so we can drop off your new house keys. There's one located a couple blocks from Jordan's house, at the corner of Barry and Greenview. Pallas will meet you there at ten—you know the drill. Got car keys for you, too—you'll find a Lexus waiting in the parking spot of your new condo."

  "Sounds like I'm moving up in the world."

  "As they say, you are the company you keep," Davis quipped.

  When Nick hung up with his boss, he checked his watch. It was nearly nine A.M. in New York, which meant he had only a short window to catch his mother before she left for church. He steeled himself and dialed the phone number. Heck, he already had one woman mad at him that morning because of his job; he might as well make it two.

  His mother picked up on the second ring.

  "Happy birthday, Ma," he said.

  "Nick! What a surprise to hear from you," she said in an overly dramatic tone. She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Hold on—let me go into the other room."

  There was a pause, then she came back on the line. "Okay, the coast is clear. Your father still thinks I don't know about the party. Are you at the airport? You should call Anthony or Matt to pick you up—tell them to bring you right over. Who knows how long it's been since you've had a decent meal? I've already got a pot of sauce on the stove."

  Nick closed his eyes. She was making his favorite—penne arrabiatta. Just shoot him now.

  No sense in delaying the inevitable. "Ma, there's no easy way for me to say this, but ... I'm not coming today. They put me on a new undercover assignment, and there's been an unexpected development that means I can't get to New York. But as soon as the assignment's over, I'll visit for a whole week. I promise."

  He waited. He could practically hear her thoughts.

  Your promises aren't worth very much these days, are they?

  And it would be the truth.

  "I understand," she finally said. "I know how hard you work, Nick. Your job comes first. You do what you need to do."

  He tried to explain as best he could without getting into details. "This wasn't something I planned. The case was supposed to end last night. You know that if there was any way I could make it today, I would."

  "Don't worry about it," his mother said in a short tone. "The family will be disappointed, but I'll explain it. Frankly, I don't think anyone will be too surprised you're not coming." She made some quick excuse about needing to finish getting ready for mass, told him to call soon, and hung up.

  Nick set his cell phone down on the counter and blew out a ragged breath. Plain and simple, that sucked. He would've preferred she'd just yelled at him—that he could handle. But hearing the disappointment in her voice was tough.

  He heard Jordan clear her throat from the doorway. He looked over, not having realized she was there.

  She shifted awkwardly. "I overheard your conversation when I was coming down the stairs." She walked over and took a seat in the stool next to his. "Your mother's birthday is this weekend?"

  Nick nodded. "Her sixtieth. My family planned a big party for her."

  "She was born the year after my mother. My mom would've been sixty-one this June." She hesitated before continuing. "She died in a car accident nine years ago. Maybe you knew that already."

  Actually, he had known that from the file Huxley had pulled together. Jordan had been in business school at the time of her mother's car accident. "Yes."

  "Granted, I'm a little biased when it comes to the subject of mothers. But I would've given anything to have been able to throw a sixtieth birthday party for mine." Jordan held his gaze. "I'm sorry you couldn't make it home this weekend." She rested her chin in her hand and sighed. "What can I say? Xander's an asshat."

  Nick blinked, then laughed. And something pulled tight in his chest when he realized that was exactly what she'd intended. "I didn't realize billionaire heiresses were allowed to say asshat."

  With a slight smile, she glanced at him sideways. "You don't know a lot about billionaire heiresses, do you?"

  "No." Although he did know one in particular who looked awfully cute in her jeans and long-sleeve navy T-shirt that made her eyes seem impossibly more blue.

  Suddenly uncomfortable, Nick looked away and cleared his throat. He shook off the feeling and changed the subject. "We need coffee." He pointed to the high-tech espresso maker. "Think you can skip the homemade stuff and go for a Starbucks run? I have to get my new house keys from another agent who will be there at ten. I was thinking you could be the contact person for the drop-off."

  Jordan's eyes widened. "Ooh, that sounds very cloak and daggerish. How will I know who to get the keys from? Some sort of secret code word?"

  "Don't worry. He'll find you."

  Just then, the doorbell rang.

  Jordan looked at Nick, and he gave her the same look right back.

  "Are you expecting someone this morning?" he asked.

  "No. Are you?"

  Neither of them moved, and the doorbell rang again. Twice in quick succession.

  "Whoever it is, it sounds like he or she isn't going away." Nick stood up and pulled his gun out of the harness at his calf. He tucked it into the back of his pants, where it was more accessible. "Stay close to me while I check this out."

  Jordan gestured to the gun as she followed Nick to the front door. "Take it easy there, cowboy. I don't want you blowing a hole through some poor guy asking for donations for Greenpeace."

  "Door-to-door solicitations when it's fifteen degrees outside?" Nick asked. "I don't think so."

  The doorbell rang a third time.

  Nick gestured to the door. "You have a library, a wine cellar, an espresso machine that looks like it could launch a space shuttle, and yet no peephole. Personal security isn't a priority for you?"

  "I have another security measure that works just fine," Jordan retorted. "It's called an alarm system." Using the panel on the wall next to the door, she deactivated the security alarm before unlocking the deadbolt. She glanced over at Nick, who had moved to her side and stood behind the door.

  He nodded.

  Jordan opened the door and—

  —Panicked.

  Melinda stood on the doorstep, shivering. "Geez, took you long enough to answer. Let me in—it's freezing out here."

  Before Jordan could say anything, Melinda brushed past her and stepped inside. As her fri
end unwrapped her scarf, Jordan peeked over her shoulder and saw Nick standing behind the door. He shrugged helplessly.

  She leaned against the door, keeping it open so that she could block Melinda's view of Nick. Hopefully, whatever the reason behind this untimely visit, they could keep things short and quick. Without her moving an inch from that spot.

  "So here's the question," Melinda led in. "Who's Tall, Dark, and Smoldering?"

  Jordan gestured nonchalantly with her free hand, the one that didn't have a death grip on her front door. "I'll go with Gerard Butler in 300. Or that naked guy from the first Sex and the City movie."

  Melinda pointed. "Good answers. But neither is correct today." She pulled a folded newspaper out of her oversized purse. "This just in from Anne Welch's Scene and Heard column in the Sun-Times, the weekend roundup." She read out loud from the paper. " 'Millionaire restaurateur Xander Eckhart's annual charity fund-raiser at uber-swanky restaurant and nightclub Bordeaux raised over a hundred thousand dollars for Children's Memorial Hospital and proved once again the place to be seen by Chicago's social elite.' "

  She held up her finger for emphasis as she read the next part. " 'Gorgeously attired in an amethyst-colored backless dress, wine entrepreneur Jordan Rhodes, daughter of billionaire Grey Rhodes and sister of the illustrious Kyle Rhodes, who made headlines worldwide five months ago when he ...'" Melinda cleared her throat. "Well, I think we can skip over that part, Twitter, prison, et cetera, et cetera. Ah, here we go: 'Ms. Rhodes attended the party with an unknown man who sources describe as tall, dark, and smoldering. Sources also say that the couple appeared quite close. Here's hoping, for all our sakes, that this Rhodes twin is luckier in love than her brother.' "

  Melinda refolded the paper and stared expectantly at Jordan. "So I repeat: who is 'tall, dark, and smoldering'?"

  Jordan swore to herself—potently vile, offensive curse words that undoubtedly were not in the vocabulary of most billionaire heiresses. She knew that Melinda would never, ever in a million years let this go until she had some answers. The jig was officially up.

  She pushed the door closed, revealing Nick.

  He grinned and held out his hand in introduction. "Nick Stanton."

  "Interesting." Melinda's eyes went wide as she slowly shook his hand. "Melinda Jackson." Coming in at a flat five feet tall, she let her gaze travel up and up before she got to Nick's face. She seemed to take particular note of his unshaven jaw and casually untucked dress shirt.

  She turned to Jordan with a grin that spoke volumes. Somebody got la-id. "Now I know why it took you so long to get to the door."

  "Nice, Mel. We were simply ..." Jordan looked at Nick for help.

  "Trying to start her espresso machine," he offered.

  Melinda raised an eyebrow. "Is that what you kids call it nowadays?"

  "Did you come here this morning solely to harass me about my date?" Jordan asked.

  "Actually, after reading the paper, I came over to drag you out to brunch. I didn't realize the date was still going. So tell me all about yourself, Nick. I'm eager for the details, since Jordan is being so circumspect these days."

  Nick opened his mouth, but Jordan promptly cut him off. She had to set some rules here: no lies, or as few as possible, to her friends and family. "Actually, Mel, we'll have to take a rain check on the meet and greet. Nick and I were just about to run out. Can I call you later?"

  Melinda studied her suspiciously. "You're acting awfully odd. What's going on here?"

  Nick came to her rescue. "It's my fault. I roped Jordan into coming with me to meet a friend for coffee. My sneaky way of keeping the date going." He slid his arm around Jordan's waist and pulled her close.

  "Aw, aren't you two just the cutest?" Melinda smiled at Nick. "Some other time, then. Oh, I know—Jordan should bring you to dinner at Corinne's on Saturday. That way you can meet everyone at once."

  Jordan shook her head. No way, no how—that would mean lying to her friends all evening. "Oh, unfortunately, Nick already has plans for Saturday." She spun around to face him, which put her body smack up against his firm—really firm—chest.

  Wow.

  She pled with her eyes for him to play along. "You know, that thing you mentioned earlier that you have to do. On Saturday."

  "You mean that meeting with the developer I told you about," Nick said without hesitation. "The one who's building the new apartment complex in Old Town for me."

  She could've kissed him right there. Handy, these undercover FBI agents, when one needed a lie on the spot.

  Jordan turned back to Melinda with a reluctant shrug. "Darn developer." She patted Nick affectionately on his cheek. "Doesn't he know how much I want to show off this tall, dark, and smoldering guy to all my friends?"

  Nick threw her a look that said she needed to shut up. Fast.

  Jordan clapped her hands together, not disagreeing with that. "So. I don't mean to rush you out, Mel"—of course she did—"but Nick and I really should get going."

  She somehow managed to get her friend out without any more deceit or trickery, and shut the door behind Melinda with a groan. "I hate that I had to lie to her like that. Thanks for helping me out when she invited you to dinner on Saturday. This secret-agent stuff is not my thing."

  "Just hang in for twenty more minutes and then you can be free of all secret-agent responsibilities for the rest of the day." Nick pointed in the direction of the door. "Starbucks. My treat."

  "Are you sure I don't need a code word or something?" Jordan asked. "Maybe we should have one just in case."

  "You'll be fine, Rhodes. Trust me."

  ON THEIR WAY to Starbucks, Jordan noticed that Nick kept a watchful eye out as they walked the few blocks from her house—presumably checking to see if they were being followed. How surreal that this was her life now, she thought. Making up a fake boyfriend, lying to her best friend, and looking out for shady private investigators who had been hired by a money launderer.

  Ah, to go back to simpler times, when she was merely the sister of the world's most infamous Internet terrorist and daughter of a billionaire.

  Nick held the door open for her when they arrived at Starbucks. She hurried into the coffee shop, savoring the warmth inside and the anticipation of getting her much-needed caffeine fix. She checked out the other customers, looking for anyone who might be their FBI contact. She shivered, a combination of nerves and excitement, and decided that she'd become quite the badass these days. She had an FBI contact.

  Nick hadn't told her anything about how this drop-off would go down, so she followed standard protocol and acted normal. She ordered her drink at the counter. "I'll take a tall, one-pump, sugar-free vanilla soy latte please."

  Nick seemed to find her order amusing. Of course he did.

  "Just a grande coffee for me," he said.

  Jordan stepped to the side to wait for her drink to be called, when someone bumped her from behind.

  A firm hand on her shoulder steadied her. "Sorry. My bad," said a man's voice.

  "No worries." She glanced up at the man with nearly black hair who smiled apologetically as he left the coffee shop. She pulled her cell phone out of the pocket of her coat. Not unexpectedly, she had a text message from Melinda:CALL ME LATER—I WANT ALL THE DETAILS ABOUT NICK.

  BTW, HE'S SEX ON A FUCKING STICK.

  Subtlety always had been one of Melinda's strengths.

  Jordan tucked the phone away when her drink was called. Nick walked over with his coffee.

  "Ready?" he asked.

  She cocked her head, confused. "Don't we have that thing you need to take care of?"

  "Already done." Nick took her gloved hand in his and leisurely led her out of the store. To anyone watching, they were just an average, everyday couple getting coffee on a Sunday morning.

  Jordan studied him as they stopped at the street corner outside Starbucks. Finally, she caught on. "The guy who bumped me."

  "Yep. The keys are in your left coat pocket."

 
"Son of a bitch, that's good."

  Nick grinned confidently. "I told you, Rhodes. This is what we do."

  NICK DROPPED JORDAN off at her house and told her that he'd call her later. Not seeing the black sedan that had followed them the night before, nor anyone else who looked suspicious, he decided they could forgo the aren't-we-the-loving-couple good-bye kiss. As he strode down her front steps, he caught himself momentarily wishing they had been followed.

  The introspective side of him—which luckily didn't exist—would've had a field day with that one.

  Halfway down the block, he spotted his car, still parked on the street where it had been all night. He kept right on walking—he couldn't risk that someone would see him driving it and trace the license plate. He headed to the nearest intersection to hail a cab, making a mental note to arrange to have someone from the office pick up his car and bring it back to his condo. His real condo.

  He found a cab easily and gave the driver the address that would be his home for the next week or two. He checked his phone and listened to two messages from Huxley, who apologized profusely for forcing him into the assignment and screwing up his plans to fly to New York. Although Nick appreciated the messages, they weren't necessary. No one had forced him into anything, and he had no doubt that every other agent in the Chicago office would've made the same decision he had. It was part of the job they'd all signed up for. If he'd expected to be pampered and coddled through his undercover assignments, he would have gone to work for the CIA.

  His phone rang just as he was tucking it back into his coat. He saw that it was his brother, Matt, and answered. "I had a feeling you'd call."

  "Anyone ever tell you that you're a douchebag?"

  Nick grinned at the inside joke. Back when he and his brothers were younger, they'd once gotten carried away and "accidentally" tossed three footballs through Tommy Angolini's second-floor apartment windows after he'd claimed during recess that Scottish douchebags couldn't throw for shit. Tommy had been wrong on two counts: first, in not knowing that they were only half-Scottish douchebags, and second, in doubting the athletic prowess of the McCall brothers.