by Julie James
“That’s plenty of time. Do I pay for it now or when I pick it up?” Cal asked.
“Either one. I figure you’re good for it. And now I know where to find you if you’re not.”
Okay, so she may have been flirting a little. For the last few months her family had been living under an intense spotlight because of the mess with her brother, and, frankly, dating had been the last thing on her mind. But things were finally starting to settle down—as much as things could ever settle down when one’s twin brother was locked up in prison, she supposed—and it felt good to be flirting. And if the object of said flirtation just so happened to have polished, refined good looks, well, all the better.
“Maybe I should skip out on the bill, just to make you come look for me,” Cal teased back. He stood opposite her with the counter between them. “So, since you read my restaurant reviews, I take it you trust my opinions on restaurants?”
Jordan glanced at Cal over the top of her computer as she entered his wine order. “As much as I’d trust a complete stranger about anything, I suppose.”
He laughed at that. “Good. Because there’s this Thai restaurant that just opened on Clark that’s fantastic.”
“Good to know,” Jordan said pleasantly. “I’ll have to check it out sometime.”
For the first time since entering her wine shop, Cal looked uncertain. “Oh. I meant that I thought you might like to go there with me.”
Jordan smiled. Yes, she’d caught that. But she couldn’t help but wonder how many other women Cal Kittredge had used his “Do you trust my opinions on restaurants?” line on. There was no doubt he was charming and smooth. The question was whether he was too smooth.
She straightened up from her computer and leaned one hip against the bar. “Let’s say this—when you come back next week to pick up the Excelsior, you can tell me more about this new restaurant then.”
Cal seemed surprised by her nonacceptance (she wouldn’t call it a rejection), but not necessarily put off. “Okay. It’s a date.”
“I’d call it more . . . a continuation.”
“Are you always this tough on your customers?” he asked.
“Only the ones who want to take me to Thai restaurants.”
“Next time, then, I’ll suggest Italian.” With a wink, Cal grabbed his gloves off the counter and left the store.
Jordan watched as he walked past the front windows of the store. She noticed that a heavy snow had begun to fall outside. Not for the first time, she was glad she lived only a five minute walk from the shop. And that she had a good pair of snow boots.
“My god, I thought he’d never leave,” said a voice from behind her.
Jordan turned and saw her assistant, Martin, standing a few feet away, near the hallway that led to their storage room. He walked over, carrying a case of a new zinfandel they were putting out in the store for the first time. He set the box on the counter and brushed away a few unruly reddish-brown curls that had fallen into his eyes. “Whew. I’ve been standing back there, holding that thing forever. Figured I’d give you two some privacy. I thought he was checking you out when he came in last week. Guess I was right.”
“How much did you hear?” Jordan asked as she began to help him unpack the bottles.
“I heard that he’s Cal Kittredge.”
Of course Martin had focused on that. He was twenty-seven years old, more well-read than anyone she knew, and made no attempt to hide the fact that he was a major food and wine snob. But he knew everything about wine, and frankly he’d grown on her, and Jordan couldn’t imagine running the shop without him.
“He asked me to go to some new Thai restaurant on Clark,” she said.
“I’ve been trying to get reservations there for two weeks.” Martin lined the remaining bottles on the bar and tossed the empty box onto the floor. “Lucky you. If you start dating Cal Kittredge, you’ll be able to get into all the best restaurants. For free.”
Jordan modestly remained silent as she grabbed two bottles of the zin and carried them to a bin near the front of the store.
“Oh . . . right,” Martin said. “I always forget that you have, like, a billion dollars. I’m guessing you don’t need any help getting into restaurants.”
Jordan threw him an eye as she grabbed two more bottles. “I don’t have a billion dollars.”
“Sure, just a hundred million.”
It was the same routine nearly every time the subject of money came up. Because she liked Martin, she put up with it. But with the exception of him and a small circle of her closest friends, she avoided discussing finances with others.
It wasn’t exactly a secret, however: Her father was rich. Very rich. She hadn’t grown up with money; it was something her family had simply stumbled into. Her father, basically a computer geek like her brother, was one of those overnight success stories Forbes and Newsweek loved to put on their covers: After graduating from the University of Illinois with a masters degree in computer science, Gray Rhodes went onto Northwestern University’s Kellogg School of Management. He then started his own company in Chicago where he developed an antiviral protection program that exploded worldwide and quickly became the top program of its kind on the market. Within two years of its release to the public, the Rhodes AntiVirus protected one in every three computers in America. (A statistic her father made sure to include in every interview.) And thus came the millions. Lots of them.
One might have certain impressions about her lifestyle, Jordan knew, given her father’s financial success. Some of those impressions would be accurate, others would not. Her father had set up guidelines from the moment he’d made his first million, the most fundamental being that Jordan and her brother, Kyle, earn their own way—just as he had. As adults, they were wholly financially independent from their father, and frankly, Jordan and Kyle wouldn’t have it any other way. On the other hand, their father was known to be extravagant with gifts, particularly after their mother died six years ago. Take, for example, the Maserati Quattroporte sitting in Jordan’s garage. Probably not the typical present one received after graduating business school. Even Harvard Business School.
“We’ve had this conversation many times, Martin. That’s my father’s money, not mine.” Jordan wiped her hands on a towel they kept under the counter, brushing off the dust from the wine bottles. She gestured to the store. “This is mine.” There was pride in her voice, and why shouldn’t there be? She was the sole owner of DeVine Vintages, and business was good. Really good—certainly better than she’d ever projected at this point in her ten-year plan. Of course, she didn’t make anywhere near the hundred million her father may or may not have been worth (she never talked specifics about his money), but she did well enough to pay for a house in the upscale Lincoln Park neighborhood, and still had money left over for great shoes. A woman couldn’t ask for much more.
“Maybe. But you still get into any restaurant you want,” Martin pointed out.
“This is true. I do have to pay though, if that makes you feel any better.”
Martin sniffed enviously. “A little. So are you going to say yes?”
“Am I going to say yes to what?” Jordan asked.
“To Cal Kittredge.”
“I’m thinking about it.” Aside from a potentially slight excess of smoothness, he seemed to be just her type. He was into food and wine, and better yet, he cooked. Practically a Renaissance man.
“I think you should string him along for awhile,” Martin said. “Keep him coming back so he’ll buy a few more cases before you commit.”
“Great idea. Maybe we could even start handing out punch cards. Get a date with the owner after six purchases, that kind of thing.”
“I detect some sarcasm,” Martin said. “Which is too bad, because that punch card idea is not half-bad.”
“We could always pimp you out as a prize,” Jordan suggested.
Martin sighed as he leaned his slender frame against the bar. His bow tie of choice that day was red, which J
ordan thought nicely complemented his dark brown tweed jacket.
“Sadly, I’m underappreciated,” Martin said, sounding resigned to his fate. “A light-bodied pinot unnoticed in a world dominated by big, bold cabs.”
Jordan rested her hand on his shoulder sympathetically. “Maybe you just haven’t hit your drink-now date. Perhaps you’re still sitting on the shelf, waiting to age to your full potential.”
Martin considered this. “So what you’re saying is . . . I’m like the Pahlmeyer 2006 Sonoma Coast Pinot Noir.”
Sure . . . exactly what she’d been thinking. “Yep. That’s you.”
“They’re expecting great things from the 2006, you know.”
Jordan smiled. “Then we all better look out.”
The thought seemed to perk Martin up. In good spirits, he headed off to the storage room for another case of the zinfandel while Jordan returned to the backroom to finish her lunch. It was after three o’clock, which meant that if she didn’t eat now she wouldn’t get another chance until the store closed at nine. Soon enough, they would have a steady stream of customers.
Wine was hot, one of the few industries continuing to do well despite the economic downturn. But Jordan liked to think her store’s success was based on more than just a trend. She’d searched for months for the perfect space: on a major street, where there would be plenty of foot traffic, and large enough to fit several tables and chairs in addition to the display space they would need for the wine. With its warm tones and exposed brick walls, her store had an intimate feel that drew customers in and invited them to stay awhile.
By far the smartest business decision she’d made had been to apply for an on-premise liquor license, which allowed them to pour and serve wine in the shop. She’d set up highboy tables and chairs along the front windows and tucked a few additional tables into cozy nooks between the wine bins. Starting around five o’clock on virtually every night they were open, the place was hopping with customers buying wines by the glass and taking note of the bottles they planned to purchase when leaving.
Today, however, was not one of those days.
Outside, the snow continued to fall steadily. By seven o’clock the weathermen amended their predictions and were now calling for a whopping eight to ten inches. In anticipation of the storm, people were staying inside. Jordan had an event booked at the store that evening, a wine tasting, but the party called to reschedule. Since Martin had a longer commute than she did, she sent him home early. At seven thirty, she began closing the shop, thinking it highly unlikely she’d get any customers.
When finished up front, Jordan went into the backroom to turn off the sound system. As always at closing, the store felt eerily quiet and empty without the eclectic mix of Billie Holiday, The Shins, Norah Jones, and Moby she’d put together for this week’s soundtrack. She grabbed her snow boots from behind the door, and had just sat down at her desk to replace the three-inch-heel black leather boots she wore, when the chime on the front door rang.
A customer. Surprising.
Jordan stood up and stepped out of the back room, thinking somebody had to be awfully desperate to come out for wine in this weather. “You’re in luck. I was just about to close for the . . .”
Her words trailed off as she stopped at the sight of the two men standing near the front of the store. For some reason, she felt tingles at the back of her neck. Perhaps it had something to do with the man closer to the door—he didn’t look like her typical customer.
He had chestnut brown hair, and scruff along his jaw that gave him a dark, bad-boy look. Right off the bat, something about his demeanor, the way he commanded one’s attention, made her think he was a man used to getting his way. He was tall, and wore a black wool coat over what appeared to be a well-built physique. He was good-looking, no doubt, but unlike Cal Kittredge, he seemed rather . . . rough. Unpolished. Except for his eyes. Green as emeralds, they stood out brilliantly against his dark hair and five o’clock shadow as he watched her intently.
He took a step forward.
She took a step back.
A slight grin played at the edges of his lips, as if he found this amusing.
She wondered how fast she could make it to the emergency panic button underneath the bar.
The shorter man, the one wearing glasses and a camel-colored trench coat, cleared his throat. “Are you Jordan Rhodes?”
She debated whether to answer this. But the blond man seemed safer than the tall, dark one. “I am.”
The blond man pulled a badge out of his jacket. “I’m Agent Seth Huxley, this is Agent Nick McCall. We’re with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
This caught her off guard. “The FBI?” The last time she’d seen anyone from the FBI had been at Kyle’s arraignment.
“We’d like to discuss a matter concerning your brother,” the blond man said. He seemed very serious and slightly tense about whatever it was he needed to tell her.
Jordan’s stomach twisted in a knot. She forced herself not to panic. Yet.
“Has he been hurt?” she asked. In the four months he’d been in prison, there already had been several altercations. Apparently, some of the other inmates at Metropolitan Correctional Center figured a millionaire computer geek would be an easy mark.
Kyle, being Kyle, assured her he could hold his own whenever Jordan asked about the fights during one of her visits. But every day since he’d begun serving his sentence, she’d worried about the moment when she got a phone call saying he’d been wrong. And if the FBI had come to her store on the night of a blizzard, whatever they had to tell her couldn’t be good.
The dark-haired man spoke for the first time. His voice was low, yet smoother than Jordan had expected given his rugged appearance.
“Your brother is fine. As far as we know, anyway.”
That was an odd thing to say. “As far as you know? You make it sound like he’s missing or something.” Jordan paused, then folded her arms across her chest. Oh . . . no. “Don’t tell me he’s escaped.”
Kyle wouldn’t be so stupid. Well, okay, once he’d been that stupid, actions that had landed him in prison in the first place, but he wouldn’t be that stupid again. That was why he’d pled guilty, after all, instead of going to trial. He’d wanted to own up to his mistakes and accept the consequences.
She knew her brother better than anyone. True, he was a genius, and assuming there was a computer anywhere within reach of the inmates, he could probably upload some code or virus or whatever that would spring open the cell doors and simultaneously release all the prisoners in a mad stampede. But Kyle wouldn’t do that. She hoped.
“Escaped? Is there something you’d like to share about your brother, Ms. Rhodes?” Agent McCall asked in an amused, perhaps mocking, tone.
Something about him rubbed her the wrong way. She felt as though she was facing off against an opponent holding a royal flush in a game of poker she didn’t realize she’d been playing. And she wasn’t in the mood to play games with the FBI right then. Or ever. They’d charged her brother to the fullest extent of the law, locked him up at MCC and treated him like a menace to society for what, in Jordan’s admittedly biased opinion, was simply a really bad mistake. (By someone with no criminal record, she noted.) It wasn’t like Kyle had killed anyone, for heaven’s sake, he’d just caused a bit of panic and mayhem. For about fifty million people.
“You said this is about my brother. How can I help you, Agent McCall?” she asked coolly.
He stepped farther into the store and leaned against the bar, seeming to make himself right at home. “Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to fill you in on the details here. Agent Huxley and I would prefer to continue this conversation in private. At the FBI office.”
And she would prefer to say nothing at all to the FBI, if they weren’t dangling this bit about Kyle over her head. She gestured to the empty wine shop. “I’m sure whatever it is you have to say, the chardonnays will keep it confidential.”
“I never trus
t a chardonnay.”
“And I don’t trust the FBI.”
The words hung in the air between them. A standstill. Agent Huxley intervened. “I understand your hesitancy, Ms. Rhodes, but as Agent McCall indicated, this is a confidential matter. We have a car waiting out front and would very much appreciate it if you came with us to the FBI office. We’d be happy to explain everything there.”
She considered this. Agent Huxley at least seemed to be somewhat more amiable than his partner. “Fine. I’ll call my lawyer and have him meet us there.”
Agent McCall shook his head firmly. “No lawyers, Ms. Rhodes. Just you.”
Jordan kept her face impassive, but inwardly her frustration increased. Aside from her general dislike of the FBI because of the way they’d treated her brother, there was an element of pride here. They had come into her store, and this Nick McCall person seemed to think she should jump just because he said to.
So instead, she held her ground. “You’re going to have to do better than that, Agent McCall. You sought me out in the middle of a blizzard, which means you want something from me. Without giving me more, you’re not going to get it.”
He appeared to consider his options. Jordan got the distinct impression that one of those options involved throwing her over his shoulder and hauling her ass right out of the store. He seemed the type.
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.”
