Grey's eyes were steely cold. "That sounds very dangerous, Agent McCall."
"It sure does." Kyle took a step closer to Nick. "Five months ago, I got a nice taste of the courtesies the FBI extends to the Rhodes family. So let's cut the bullshit. What kind of threats did you bully my sister with to get her to cooperate in your investigation?"
Normally, Nick didn't take too kindly to hotheaded excons who invaded his personal space. But this particular hotheaded ex-con happened to share DNA with his girlfriend, so he was willing to play nicer than usual. "I didn't threaten your sister, Kyle."
"Oh, I suppose she decided to help you out of the kindness of her heart," he said sarcastically.
"If you want to know Jordan's reasons for helping us, I suggest you ask her yourself."
"Trust me-I plan to." Kyle's voice rose as he pointed to the corridor that led to the X-ray rooms. "Because my sister is in there with a broken wrist, and from what I'm hearing, she narrowly escaped being killed. All because the FBI put her in the line of fire. So I'd like to know why she would ever agree to help you unless-"
He stopped as a look of realization crossed his face. "No." He pointed emphatically. "Do not say that she did this for me."
Nick didn't have to say anything else.
Kyle took a step back and ran his hands through his hair. He said nothing for a moment. Then he wiped his eyes as he looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head. "Goddammit, Jordo."
Grey cleared his throat and looked pointedly at Nick. "I'd like to know more about this undercover agent who posed as my daughter's date. The ubiquitous Tall, Dark, and Smoldering."
Nick put on his best meet-the-parent smile. "I generally prefer to go by Nick."
Kyle did a double take. "You? You're the jerk-off dating my sister?"
"Is that a problem?"
"Um, yeah. It kind of is," Kyle said dryly. "Because the last FBI agent I met nearly snapped my ankle off putting on a monitoring device. And the two agents before that threw me in prison. So no FBI agents are sniffing around my family. Period."
Nick folded his arms across his chest, not worried in the slightest. "In what alternate reality do you think Jordan's going to let anyone make decisions for her?" He gestured to the doors that led to the X-ray rooms. "But you should go give her that speech right now. She could use a good laugh, and that ought to do the trick."
"My God, he's as sarcastic as she is," Kyle muttered under his breath to Grey.
Hearing that, Nick knew he was in.
With the Rhodes clan, that was the ultimate stamp of approval.
JORDAN SAT ON the examination table, holding up her wrist to check out her new fiberglass cast. "How long do I have to wear this?" At least her cheekbone wasn't broken. Although thanks to Xander, she'd have a heck of a bruise for the next week.
"Six weeks," the resident told her. "And make sure you keep the cast as dry as possible. I'd suggest baths."
Jordan thought about the last bath she'd taken. Probably best to keep the tub free of a certain FBI agent, if dry was the goal.
"I've written you a prescription for Vicodin for the pain. And if your arm gets itchy, you can point a hairdryer on the cool setting down the cast," the doctor continued. "If that doesn't work, try Benadryl."
After running through the rest of her discharge orders, the doctor left. Jordan was attempting to gather up her purse, coat, and the hospital paperwork she'd collected when she heard a familiar voice from the doorway.
"Already trying to do everything by yourself. Imagine that."
She turned around and saw Kyle. He walked over and took everything out of her hands and set it on the examination table.
"You're here," Jordan said in surprise.
"Dad's here, too. We rushed over when we heard that you'd been attacked in your store." Kyle pulled up his pant leg and gestured to the monitoring device around his ankle. "Here's a funny thing-I thought this device was supposed to alert the parole department if I go outside certain set boundaries. So the whole time I was out there in the waiting room, I kept thinking a team of U.S. marshals would come storming in with guns blazing. But nope-nothing." He gave the ankle monitor a solid knock and shrugged. "You know, Jordo, I'm beginning to think the darn thing doesn't work."
Jordan leaned against the examination table. She had a feeling she was going to need that Vicodin quickly, to make it through this conversation headache-free. "All right. How much do you know, and how much do you only think you know?"
Kyle pointed at her. "I know everything. Like the fact that you are the most foolish, stubborn, overprotective . . . all-around best fucking sister in the world." He grabbed her and pulled her into a huge bear hug. "If anything had happened to you, I never would've forgiven myself," he said against the top of her head. "Why did you do it? I told you I was handling things in prison."
Jordan thought about how best to explain. "You know the panic you felt when you heard I'd been attacked at the store?"
"Yes. It sucked."
"Well, I felt something like that every day you were at MCC."
"Aw, shit, Jordo." He squeezed her tighter.
She winced. Not that she didn't want to prolong the lovely brother-sister moment, but her arm was pinned against his chest. "Kyle . . . the wrist. Help."
He pulled back and grinned sheepishly. "Sorry. How long do you have to wear that cast, anyway?"
"Six weeks."
"Oh, that blows. I bet your arm is going to be all shriveled and puny when they take it off."
And so the lovely brother-sister moment was over.
"Thanks," Jordan said. "Did you say Dad was here, too?"
Kyle threw her a you-are-so-busted look. "Why, yes, he is. He's out in the waiting room, grilling Tall, Dark, and Sarcastic."
Jordan's mouth formed a silent O. She was busted. "You've met Nick?"
"Yep, we've met, all right. He was kind enough to inform me that I have absolutely no say in whether you two date."
"Well, you don't."
"You know, you all could at least pretend that my opinion makes a difference." Kyle shot her a sideways glance. "You like this guy, don't you?"
Jordan couldn't keep the smile off her face. "Yeah, I like this guy. He rescued me from a crazed man with a gun, he makes me laugh, and he calls his mother Ma. I'd say he's a keeper."
NICK HAD SURVIVED the grilling from Jordan's father about the honorability of his intentions, and he'd told her that he'd loved her without so much as an eye twitch. Now there was only one thing left to do to make the relationship official.
He used the controls on the car steering wheel to dial his cell phone. It felt good to be back in his real car, and a few minutes ago it similarly had felt good to be back in his condo. He'd stopped there to pick up a few things after dropping Jordan off at her house. Her friends, and Martin, had heard the news about the attack and had descended upon the house in a chaotic, concerned swarm. With them there, Nick had felt comfortable enough leaving Jordan for a quick trip.
She'd asked him to stay at her house for a while-teasingly saying she needed an assistant while she got used to the cast on her wrist-and he'd agreed. Frankly, he'd planned to stay with her all along. Now that she'd sucked him into this boyfriend thing with those tricky feminine wiles, she'd better believe that he was going to do it right.
The person on the other end of the line answered after three rings. Her tone was dry. "So you do remember this phone number. Imagine that."
Nick grinned. Some things never changed. "Does this mean you're speaking to me again?"
His mother sniffed reluctantly. "I suppose. They still keeping you busy at the Bureau? Working on any important cases?"
Nick felt a tug of emotion. Sure, his mother could be a lot to handle at times, but her pride in the work he did never wavered. "Actually, I just made an arrest today. Took down a hotshot restaurant owner in an investigation that's connected to the Roberto Martino case you've probably read about in the papers. Which means that my undercover assignment is over."
"Do you know what they'll assign you to next?"
"No clue. But I'm going to ask to be taken off undercover work."
His mother's shock could be heard through the speakers. "You're giving up undercover work? Why?"
Nick took a deep breath and braced himself for the interrogation. "Well, Ma, see . . . there's this girl."
Silence.
He checked to make sure the call hadn't been dropped. "You still there, Ma?"
A sniffle.
"You can't be crying already," he said. "I haven't told you anything about her yet."
"It doesn't matter, Nick," his mother said through her tears. "Those are the three words I've been waiting thirty-four years to hear."
Thirty-three
AROUND SIX O'CLOCK the following evening, at the end of Nick's first day back in the office, he knocked on Jack Pallas's door and stuck his head in. It'd been a long day, complete with an arrest and paperwork and statements pertaining to Eckhart (shooting a suspect, even a dickhead one, had its bureaucratic drawbacks), and he was ready for a break.