by Julie James
"Agent Pallas. Perfect timing," Cameron said.
"Are we all set?" he asked.
"I was just about to explain to Mr. Rhodes how this will work." She turned back to Kyle. "This is Special Agent Jack Pallas—he's going to fit you with an electronic monitoring device that you'll wear around your ankle twenty-four hours a day. Inside the device is a GPS transmitter that will tell the supervising probation officer in charge of your parole where you are at all times. You'll be able to work, and will be permitted to leave your residence for preapproved purposes like doctor's appointments, court appearances, things of that nature. Your probation officer will go over the specifics of the arrangement with you."
Kyle held up his hand, confused. "Probation officer, parole—what are you talking about? I have twelve more months of incarceration to serve."
"Not anymore. You're going home, Mr. Rhodes."
Agent Pallas moved to Kyle's side. He took keys out of his pocket and unlocked the handcuff with a snap.
Kyle stared at his free hand for a moment, then peered up at Cameron with a confused expression. "I don't understand. Why would you do this?"
Of course, three people in the room knew the true answer to that question. But Jordan maintained her poker face, as did the U.S. attorney.
"Because it's the fair thing to do, Mr. Rhodes. That's the best answer I can give you," Cameron said. "One thing, however—for appearances' sake, I think it would be best if you spent tonight at the hospital. And I'd appreciate it if you would keep a low profile over the next couple weeks."
"Not a problem. It's not like I have an active social calendar these days," Kyle said.
"Sit back and put your left leg on the table," Agent Pallas told him. He unzipped the backpack and pulled out a black ankle monitor.
Kyle lifted the leg of his jumpsuit. "I don't know what to say," he said to Cameron. "Thank you, I guess. It's good to see they've replaced Silas Briggs with someone who's a little more reasonable." He grinned. "Not to mention, someone with a much prettier face."
Agent Pallas snapped the ankle monitor on, and Kyle yelled out in pain.
"Son of a bitch, you got some skin there!" he said to Pallas.
Cameron threw the FBI agent a look. "Jack."
He shrugged. "It slipped." He turned back to Kyle with a look that could wilt plants.
"Easy there, Wolverine," Kyle grumbled. "Put the claws back in—I meant no disrespect."
There was a knock at the door. Mr. Cranky the prison guard stuck his head in. "Hey—we've got a package for Sawyer."
"You're getting deliveries at the hospital already?" Jordan asked her brother.
Agent Pallas went to the door. He took the package from Mr. Cranky, which turned out to be a blue garment bag, and brought it into the room. He hung the bag on the back of the door, unzipped it, and did a quick check of the contents.
"Clothes? Did you arrange for that?" Cameron asked Jack.
He shook his head. "Must've been one of the other agents." He stole a glance at Jordan, and she knew.
Nick.
Cameron clapped her hands together. "Well. I'm sure you two don't want us hanging around any longer." She pulled a card out of her jacket pocket and handed it to Kyle. "This is the contact information for your probation officer. He'll be expecting you to call him tomorrow when you get home. Remember, we'll be watching." She joined Agent Pallas at the door, and paused before the two of them left. "And stay away from Twitter, Mr. Rhodes. For all our sakes." With an efficient turn of her heel, she was gone.
"Are they serious?" Kyle asked Jordan. "I can just walk out of here tomorrow?"
She shrugged innocently. "Looks that way." She pointed to the garment bag. "Let's see what's inside."
Kyle got up from the hospital bed and walked over to the bag. He unzipped it and pulled out jeans and a gray long-sleeved shirt. "Jeans." He fingered the material, turning quiet. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. "Never thought I'd be so glad to see denim in my life."
He regrouped and threw Jordan a wry look. "Who'd have thought the FBI could be so thoughtful?"
She came over and rested her head against her brother's shoulder. Or one agent in particular, at least. "I think there's more to some of these FBI guys than meets the eye."
The door flew open and Grey Rhodes rushed in, looking harried despite his tailored sport coat and dark pants. He saw Kyle, exhaled in relief, and rested his hands on his knees like he might pass out from running. "You're here."
"Not for long." Kyle threw his arms out with a grin. "Starting tomorrow, I'm a free man."
Grey looked over at Jordan. "They didn't say he had a head injury."
Jordan smiled. "No, it's true, Dad. Kyle's been released from prison. And he was stabbed with a fork."
Her brother stared at the ceiling. "I'm going to be hearing about this for years, aren't I?"
"Kyle, dear brother of mine, you have no idea."
"EVERYTHING OKAY, XANDER?"
The question came from Will Parsons, who was once again on duty as general manager that night. Bordeaux was packed, as expected. Xander stood in the doorway between the main lounge and wine bar, a position from which he could see virtually the entire club. He wanted to watch for a few minutes. Soak it all in.
"I'm fine," he told Will. Of course, that wasn't true.
He was fucked. He should've been satisfied with being the top nightclub and restaurant owner in the city. But a year ago, he'd gotten greedy.
Sure, he could say that no one refused Roberto Martino. And this was true—at least, no one refused Roberto Martino without suffering some very serious consequences. But Xander hadn't needed to be coerced; he'd been perfectly willing to have Martino invest in his businesses as a silent partner. And now, it seemed, he would pay the price for that.
"I'm heading down to my office. I don't want to be disturbed," he told Will.
Will nodded. "Of course."
Xander cut through the VIP wine bar and entered the security code on the panel next to the door that led to the lower level. As he descended the staircase and walked along the hallway to his office, he ran over the events of his wine tasting two weeks ago—the evening that Nick Stanton, aka Special Agent Nick McCall, had infiltrated the heart of his empire.
He wasn't a fool—he had a pretty good idea what McCall had been after that night. Access to his meetings with Trilani.
If it hadn't meant that he was so thoroughly screwed, Xander could almost admire the FBI's cleverness. Using Jordan Rhodes—either with or without her knowledge—to get into his office on virtually the only night such an act was possible took careful, intricate planning.
And now he was a dead man.
Roberto Martino would kill him for letting the FBI in—inadvertently or not. That was the price one paid for doing business with Martino—mistakes were not tolerated, particularly where money was concerned. Xander foolishly had assumed he was above any such mistakes.
He entered his office and took a seat at his desk. As he sat there, knowing that the room was undoubtedly bugged, the weight of the situation pressed down on him like an anvil. He had the FBI coming in from the front, gearing up to launch a full-fledged attack, and Roberto Martino behind him, ready to slit his throat at the first sign of trouble.
He pulled his cell phone out of his jacket and called Trilani, knowing he would get his voice mail. He heard the beep.
"Carlo," he said in a strained, weak voice. "We can't meet tomorrow. I've got the stomach flu, whatever that thing is that's been going around. Trust me, you don't want to get close to this. I should be fine by next week—let's meet Tuesday instead."
Xander hung up. Got all that, you FBI pricks?
Unable to resist, he quietly ran his hand underneath the desk, searching for the bugs. He found nothing. He got up and walked over to the bookshelves on the other side of his office and gave them a thorough once-over. Again nothing. He moved next to the coffee table and chairs in the corner of the room and felt aro
und. He came up empty-handed yet again. Nick McCall apparently knew a thing or two about planting bugs in well-hidden places.
Then there was the issue of Jordan.
Xander remembered all too well how she'd pulled him away from the crowd and asked to have a drink with him on the terrace—allegedly to discuss the case of Pétrus going to auction. He didn't want to believe she had deliberately betrayed him. Maybe there was a part of him that simply didn't want to accept the fact that he so naively could have feelings for someone who had no problem stabbing him in the back.
As he'd told Mercks, he wanted to know what Jordan knew. And if it turned out that she had been involved with the FBI, she would pay for her betrayal.
That, at least, was the one part of this messed-up situation he could control.
Twenty-four
JORDAN LEFT THE hospital shortly after midnight. She stepped outside to retrieve her car from the valet, only to discover that there was no valet. A sign informed her that parking attendants were available until eleven P.M.—information that would've been helpful an hour ago.
She went back inside the hospital, handed her ticket over at the first-floor customer service desk, and retrieved her car key. The clerk directed her to the parking garage across the street.
"The valet leaves the unclaimed cars on level two," he said.
Braving the icy wind coming in off Lake Michigan, Jordan trudged dutifully across the street. At the elevator bank, she saw that each level had been assigned a famous singer and a song to help people remember where they'd parked. Level two, her stop, was Frank Sinatra. "Chicago," naturally.
Inside the elevator, she leaned her head against the wall tiredly.
Long day. Crazy day. First the unexpected visit from Lisa, then her angry argument with Nick, then the not-so-angry moments with Nick, then her brother had been stabbed (sort of ) and released from prison.
She definitely was ready for Napa.
When the elevator arrived at her floor, she stepped out and spotted her car. She stopped in surprise when she saw Nick leaning against the Maserati, waiting for her.
Her heart skipped a beat.
An interesting fact, because she wasn't typically a heartbeat-skipping kind of girl.
"I didn't expect to see you here," she said.
He watched her approach. "I couldn't leave things the way they were between us. Hopefully you don't think I'm that big of an asshole."
Actually, she didn't think he was an asshole at all. She stepped closer. "You must be freezing from standing out here," she said softly.
He gestured to his car. "I've only been here for about a minute. I got out of my car when I saw the elevator coming up. Can we talk?"
Jordan pushed the unlock button on her key, and the Maserati's headlights blinked. "Have a seat." She walked around and slid into the driver's side of the car. Nick climbed into the passenger seat, his long legs and tall frame filling the space next to her.
She started the car and turned on the seat warmers—his first, then hers. He appeared both amused and touched by the gesture. "Thank you."
Warm air blasted all around them as the heat kicked in.
Jordan angled herself in the seat and, without saying a word, leaned forward to kiss him. A long, deep kiss.
"That was for what you did for my brother," she said when she pulled back.
His eyes shone like emeralds. "I told you I'd get him out of prison. It just took some creativity."
"But you didn't have to send him the clothes. That meant a lot to Kyle."
Nick ran a finger along her cheek, his voice husky. "We both know I didn't do it for Kyle."
She did know that. She slid her hands inside his coat and shifted closer to the warmth that radiated from him. "So tell me this, Nick McCall. Where do we go from here?"
Nick had been asking himself that very question all night. He went with the truth. "I have no idea." He tilted her chin up, wanting to look her in the eyes when he said this. "You know that my job makes things complicated. You've seen it firsthand. I go from identity to identity—gone on assignment for weeks and months at a time."
Jordan paused. "And?"
He cocked his head, not following her. "And ... that's what makes things so complicated."
"No, I get that part. I'm just waiting for the rest. According to Lisa, you're supposed to give me this whole long speech. I've been feeling a little left out."
He chucked her under the chin. Smart-ass. "You're not getting the same speech everyone else does."
"Oh." She smiled, looking extremely pleased. "Good."
"That still doesn't tell us where we go from here."
Jordan sat back and stared at him for a long moment, as if debating something. "I'm going to Napa tomorrow, for the weekend. You could come with me." She raised an eyebrow. "It even works with your character. Nick Stanton would never let his girlfriend go to such a romantic place alone."
Now it was Nick's turn to fall silent. Not because he wasn't tempted as hell by the offer—but there was something else. "I don't know what you're really asking me here," he said candidly.
She considered this. "For now, I'm just asking if you want to spend the weekend with me in Napa."
An entire weekend alone with her. In a hotel room. Christ, he got hard just thinking about it. "A man would have to be a saint not to be tempted by that offer, Rhodes."
Sensing his hesitation, Jordan rested her elbow against the smooth, tan Italian leather of her seat. "I'm a big girl, Nick. And I've been fully briefed on your 'issues' with relationships, so you can consider me duly warned." She grinned mischievously. "Frankly, I don't think it'll matter. There's at least a fifty percent chance you'll annoy me so much on this trip that I'll be glad to see you go afterward."
Nick laughed at that and hooked his finger into her coat. He pulled her closer. "And if by some miracle I fail to accomplish that?"
Her voice was low and throaty, anticipating his kiss. "Then we'll deal with that when we get there."
Something in Nick's chest pulled tight. Xander Eckhart had been right about one thing: Jordan Rhodes was out of his league. Hell, she was out of everyone's league.
The aforementioned saint would probably walk away, knowing that a man with a job like his had no business getting in deeper with a woman like her. Because a saint would also know that whatever he could give Jordan, she would always deserve more.
So call him a devil. Because walking away from her right then was not something he could do. Instead, he slanted his mouth over hers, taking his time with this kiss. No need to rush now—starting tomorrow, she was his for two nights. Days, too. The possibilities ...
"I should mention one thing," Jordan said.
"Hmm?" he said distractedly. His mouth broke away from hers to trail a path along her throat. The hell with wine—she reminded him instead of the smoothest, richest bourbon he'd ever tasted. And she was definitely making him burn.
"This is a business trip for me," she continued. "So you'll have to go to some wine tastings."
Nick swore, his mouth going still at her neck. "I knew there'd be a catch."
She laughed. "You'll live." She pulled back and cocked her head. "Can I ask you something? It's been bothering me all night."
"Fire away."
"Puchalski is a federal agent? That's some cover."
"We placed him inside MCC two months ago. His cell-mate is one of the leaders of a south side gang—somebody we think is responsible for a string of murders. We're hoping the cell-mate will get chatty and start bragging about his so-called accomplishments."
"How'd you convince him to go along with stabbing my brother? Poor Puchalski. He's probably in disciplinary segregation because of all this."
Nick snorted. "To get him into the right cell, we had to coordinate with MCC. The guards know who he is. Your friend 'Puchalski' will be just fine. He's probably hanging out in the warden's office right now, drinking beer and watching TV while pretending to be in disciplinary segregation."<
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"Well, I'm very impressed that you pulled it all off." Jordan smiled slyly. "You know ... this special-agent thing is kind of sexy at times."
Nick grinned to himself. Good. Let the douchebag try to top that.
Twenty-five
XANDER HAD BEGUN to panic.
He was trapped in his home, under the guise that he was recovering from the stomach flu. Granted, his home was a three-bedroom, four-thousand-square-foot condo in the luxurious Trump International Hotel & Tower, so being trapped there wasn't exactly a hardship. But all that alone time had given him hours upon hours to reflect on the gigantic, steaming pile of shit the FBI had just dumped on his doorstep.
His first thought had been to shred every account statement, financial record, and tax document connected to Bordeaux and his other clubs and restaurants. Then he realized this would be a worthless endeavor—his accountants, the banks, and the IRS all had their own copies and records of everything he'd ever filed. Not to mention, he kept most of that information in his office at Bordeaux, and he certainly didn't want the FBI hearing him cleaning out his files. The one and only advantage he had right then was that no one except for Mercks knew he was onto them.
His second thought had been to turn himself over to the Feds and try to work out some kind of deal to testify against Martino. There was one problem with this: there was a hundred percent chance that Martino would try to have him killed before he ever got to testify, and about a ninety-five percent chance that he would succeed even if the Feds placed him under protective custody.
Not good odds.
Simply put, Xander didn't want to die.
It seemed strange to be thinking in those terms. Of course he didn't want to die; no one wanted to die. But in the last twenty-four hours, it had occurred to him that this was a very real, imminent possibility. And if Roberto Martino ever discovered that he had practically handed over the evidence of their money laundering to the FBI—for fuck's sake, he'd given Nick McCall a tour of the lower level—that death was not only going to be imminent, but extremely painful.
