A Lot Like Love(12)

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?"