A Lot Like Love(51)

Pallas eased back in his chair and beckoned with his hand. "All right. Let's do this."

"We found Trilani holed up with one of his ex-girlfriends in a studio apartment on the south side," Nick said. "With Eckhart, that makes twenty-nine arrests for me in the last four weeks."

"I'm still winning at thirty-four."

"I wouldn't count on holding that lead for long." Nick cocked his head. "You free to grab a drink? I'm buying."

Pallas regarded him curiously. "Sure, as long as it's not some trendy wine bar. I heard about the crowd you're running with these days."

"Does the U.S. attorney know you spend your workdays listening to office gossip?" 

Jack grinned in satisfaction. "The U.S. attorney is thrilled that there's finally someone else for this office to gossip about."

They headed out to a sports bar located across the street from the FBI offices. They ordered their drinks and discussed work for a while, mostly the Eckhart investigation and the upcoming Martino trial. Having worked undercover for so long, Nick realized that he'd missed the camaraderie between agents that arose when one was in the office on a regular basis.

Which brought him to the reason he'd wanted to speak to Jack. He'd figured out a potential way to manage his own cases and remain at the top, yet still be with Jordan every night. Or at least, the vast majority of them. "So I told Davis that I want to take a break from undercover work," he led in.

Jack took a sip of his Grey Goose on the rocks. "I wonder why that might be."

"Let's just call it an adjustment of priorities." Nick saw no reason to beat around the bush about this next part. Pallas was a good guy, and an excellent agent. "There's more. You and I both know that Davis has been thinking about retiring. I told him today that when that happens, I'd like to be considered for the special agent in charge position. I wanted you to hear it from me first. Thought you might be eying the job, too."

Jack considered this. "I've given it some thought," he admitted. "But politically, I doubt it would go over well if the special agent in charge of Chicago and the U.S. attorney of the same district were involved in a personal relationship." His expression was one of pride. "And since Cameron got there first, it looks like I'm adjusting my priorities, too." He paused. "Plus, I hear that people think I'm cranky." He rubbed his jaw, musing. "Not sure why that is."

"Maybe it's all the brooding and glowering."

"No one complains when you break out the don't-fuck-with-me face."

"True. But I have natural charm that wins people over." Nick turned serious again. "So we're good?"

"Nick McCall, special agent in charge." Jack slapped him on the shoulder. "I suppose there are worse things that could happen to this office." His eyes moved up to a television on the wall behind Nick. "Now there's a sight I never get tired of seeing."

Nick turned around to look. On the television, U.S. Attorney Cameron Lynde was holding a press conference about Xander Eckhart's arrest, the hostage situation at DeVine Cellars, and the connection to the Roberto Martino trial. The two agents watched as Cameron easily fielded the reporters' questions. Then the news piece cut to video footage of the hero of the day, "billionaire heiress and businesswoman" Jordan Rhodes. On the screen flashed an image of Jordan, looking as sleek and sophisticated as ever despite the cast on her wrist, as she stepped out of the Maserati.

Jack leaned over. "Ever get the impression that these women are way out of our league?"

"I shot the last guy who said that to me."

"And people say I'm cranky."

Nick chuckled as his eyes turned back to the television screen. As it turned out, he didn't care whose league Jordan was in. All that mattered was that she was his.





FOUR DAYS LATER, Nick sat on the oversized couch in Jordan's media room. Facing her, he placed a small black box in her hands and said three words. "Let's do this."

She looked down at the box, then back up at him. "This is a really big step, Nick."

"I'm ready."

"Are you sure? After this, there's no turning back."

"I want to make it official." He nodded at the box. "Come on-the suspense is killing me."



       
         
       
        

"All right. Just don't say I didn't warn you." Jordan pointed the small black remote control at the television. Three more clicks, and Nick heard the words that would seal his fate forever.

"LIVE! It's Dancing with the Stars!"

Jordan settled in next to him on the couch as the parade of "stars" sashayed their way down a grand staircase and onto the screen. She glanced over to see his reaction. "Hanging in there?"

Nick stared at the television.

There were no words.

"It's . . . even worse than I'd imagined," he whispered. "Is there a reason none of these men have buttons on their shirts?" Horrified, he took in the spray tans. The sequins and feathers. The caked-on makeup and the plunging necklines. And those were the guys. He pointed. "Is that dude wearing eyeliner?"

Jordan patted his knee affectionately. "It's not too late. There's probably a basketball game on somewhere."

Nick eyed the remote control that sat on the coffee table in front of them. It was tempting. But he'd promised.

He turned his attention back to the screen, so shocked and awed by the foreign sights and sounds that he barely noticed when Jordan got up from the couch and headed over to the wet bar behind them. He heard her open a bottle and pour a drink. Then she wrapped her arms around him and placed a glass in his hand.

"Here. Maybe this will help."

Nick looked down, expecting to find a glass of wine. Instead, he saw a familiar amber-colored liquid in a rocks glass.

Bourbon.

"You are a god," he said to her.

Jordan smiled. "I even carved out a slot in my wine cellar for the bottle."

Nick set the rocks glass on the coffee table and pulled her into his lap. "A whole slot? Now that's the sign of a serious relationship." He kissed her, biting her lower lip teasingly. When she opened her mouth to his, he pulled her closer and slipped his hands underneath her shirt. He closed his eyes as her lips traced a path along his neck.

Her voice was throaty and seductive. "You know, I think it's really sexy that you'd watch this show just for me."

Ding!

Just like that, a light clicked on in Nick's head. He opened his eyes and grinned knowingly. "Oh, now I get why guys watch it." He exhaled in relief, his faith in men restored. Whew.

Jordan smiled at his reaction. "And all was right with the world."

Nick peered down into her teasing eyes as she lay snug in his arms.

Indeed it was.





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One




TAYLOR DONOVAN MAY have been new to Los Angeles, but she certainly recognized a line of bullshit when she heard one.

It was 8:15 on a Monday morning-frankly, a bit early, in Taylor's mind anyway, to be dealing with this latest round of nonsense coming from her opposing counsel, Frank Siedlecki of the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. But hey, it was a gorgeous sunny morning in Southern California and her Starbucks had already begun to kick in, so she was willing to play nice.

Frank's call had come in just as Taylor had pulled into the parking garage of her downtown L.A. office building. After answering, she had let her opposing counsel go on for several minutes-without interruption, she might add-about the righteousness of his clients' position and how Taylor and her utterly nonrighteous client should consider themselves lucky to be given the chance to make the whole lawsuit go away for a paltry $30 million. But at a certain point, one could only take so much nonsense in one Monday-morning phone call. Luscious Starbucks or not.

So Taylor had no choice but to cut Frank off mid-rant, praying she didn't lose the signal to her cell phone as she stepped into the lobby elevator.

"Frank, Frank," she said in a firm but professional tone, "there's no way we're going to settle at those numbers. You want all that money, just because your clients heard a few four-letter words in the workplace?"

She noticed then that an elderly couple had gotten into the elevator with her. She smiled politely at them as she continued her phone conversation.

"You know, if the EEOC's going to ask for thirty million dollars in a sexual harassment case," she told Frank, "at least tell me somebody was called a 'slut' or a 'whore.' "

Out of the corner of her eye, Taylor saw the elderly woman-seventy-five years old if she was a day-send her husband a disapproving look. But then Frank began rattling on further about the so-called merits of the plaintiffs' position.

"I have to be honest, I'm not exactly impressed with your case," she said, cutting him off. "All you've got is a sporadic string of some very minor incidents. It's not as if anyone slapped an ass or grabbed a boob."

Taylor noticed that the elderly couple was now subtly but quickly moving away from her, to the opposite end of the elevator.