Just days ago, he thought he'd been on his way to being king of the world. His biggest concern had been a woman. What he wouldn't give to go back and freeze his life right there.
Xander stood in the kitchen, staring inside the massive subzero refrigerator that was stocked twice a week by his housekeeper—who he'd given the weekend off, using the flu excuse. At this point, he didn't trust anyone. He needed to force himself to eat, despite the constant gnawing, queasy feeling in his stomach. He had to keep his energy up so he could think.
His cell phone rang. He reached into his pants pocket, pulled it out, and saw it was Mercks. "What did you find out?"
"You mean other than what they're saying on TV?" Mercks asked.
Xander's mouth went dry. "They're talking about me on TV? Did the FBI make an announcement?"
"No, not you. I meant about Kyle Rhodes. It's everywhere—in the papers, on TV, on the Internet. How have you missed this?"
Xander headed for his library. How had he missed some irrelevant story about Kyle Rhodes? Because television sucked nowadays, that's how—all reality shows and hour-long dramas that introduced some mysterious event that was dragged out for seven seasons before coming to a wholly anticlimactic finale that explained jack shit. And while he normally read the paper, he'd been a little bit preoccupied with other matters over the last eighteen hours—primarily, how to keep himself alive and out of jail.
"Hold on—I've got the Tribune here somewhere." Sure enough, he found it on the desk in his library where he'd tossed it with his mail earlier that morning, tucked under the new Wine Spectator. He pulled the newspaper out and read the headline: "Twitter Terrorist Released After Stabbing."
"Rhodes is free?" he asked Mercks.
"Apparently, he was attacked in prison. The U.S. attorney released a statement saying that she agreed to permit him to serve the remainder of his sentence in home detention out of concern for his safety."
"And this interests me because ... ?"
"I can't help but wonder if Kyle Rhodes was released because someone else paid his debt to society."
Xander felt the sickening betrayal in his stomach. "You think Jordan made a deal? Me for her brother's release?"
"I think that's certainly a possibility."
Xander fell silent for a moment. "Where is she now?"
"She drove to the airport this morning with McCall. Tennyson followed them inside the terminal and overheard them checking in. They caught a flight to San Francisco."
Xander knew Jordan—she and McCall weren't staying in San Francisco. He'd bet half a billion dollars they were in the Napa Valley instead. "I think you've told me everything I need to know." His mouth pulled tight. "I see no reason to follow her and McCall any longer."
"I know this wasn't the information you were looking for."
"You did your job, Mercks. Don't worry, you'll still get paid."
After Xander hung up, he paced through his penthouse like a caged tiger. He felt trapped, so trapped he could barely breathe. He ran his hand through his hair—for the first time since Mercks had laid the news on him about the FBI, he felt wild, out of control.
Goddamn Jordan Rhodes had sold him out.
"Fucking bitch!" He whipped around and threw his phone at a silver-framed decorative mirror hanging on the wall in the foyer. The glass shattered and fell in large shards to the travertine floor.
He stared at the broken glass and walked over. For the past eighteen hours, he'd had no one to focus his anger on other than himself. He had been the greedy bastard. He, like many people, had naively assumed that Martino and his organization were untouchable and beyond the reach of the law. Apparently the new U.S. attorney, with her so-called war on crime, had not received the memo: this was Chicago—corruption was expected.
And while he loathed the FBI, he wasn't surprised by their actions—they were pigs; this is what they did. He was no one to them, just a name on a case file. A target.
But Jordan knew him. Knew him well enough to be able to tease him about his favorite kinds of wine. Well enough to score an invitation every year to his exclusive party. Well enough to make him have feelings for her.
Xander picked the largest shard of glass off the tile. He ran his finger along the jagged edge and winced when it pierced his skin. A drop of blood popped through, cabernet red, and he stared at it, suddenly feeling more grounded and clearheaded than he had in days.
Twenty-six
"MAYBE I SHOULD drive the rest of the way. So you can take a break."
Jordan took her eyes off the road to look over at Nick. "We're five miles from the resort. I'm pretty sure I can make it."
"But these roads are very hilly. Winding. Wouldn't you feel more comfortable with me driving?"
"I've been doing just fine for the last three and a half hours."
Actually, Nick had been doing just fine, too. He'd rather enjoyed being chauffeured by Jordan during their drive from the airport. It had given him plenty of time to enjoy the gorgeous view: the long, blond hair pulled back in a sophisticated knot, the crisp white summer dress, the silk scarf wrapped elegantly around her neck, and the many inches of sleek, slender legs.
And the picturesque rolling hills dotted with white and pink blossoming flowers weren't half bad, either.
"But perhaps I would be more comfortable if I drove the rest of the way," he said. Clearly, she wasn't picking up on his subtle message.
Jordan pulled the car to a stop in the left turn lane of the divided highway, about to take them onto a side street that led into a canyon. She turned to face him. "Okay. What's going on? Why would you suddenly be more comfortable driving?"
"We're not supposed to stand out, remember? We're still undercover. And I suspect that ritzy places like this are accustomed to seeing the man driving the car. People are going to think I'm your assistant or something."
She pointed. "Now that would be a fun cover—let's do that one for a change. I get to be in charge, and you have to call me Ms. Rhodes all weekend."
"No."
"I'll even get you a little notepad, and you can follow me around taking dictation. And I'll make you drive ten miles to the nearest Starbucks to get me a latte, which I'll send back three times until you get it just right. Because that's what all the rich women do."
"You're joking about this."
"Of course I'm joking," Jordan said. "Otherwise, I'd have to take your comment seriously about the man needing to drive the car, and I'm in far too good of a mood to lecture you on the fact that sexual politics have changed somewhat since the 1950s."
"Speaking of the 1950s, has anyone ever told you that you look like Grace Kelly?"
Jordan relaxed, smoothing back her hair. "Actually, my grandfather used to say that. You're trying to change the subject, aren't you?"
"Definitely. In hindsight, that assistant comment probably wasn't so slick. I should warn you—I may have these momentary Cro-Magnon lapses from time to time. Bygones."
Jordan opened her mouth to say something, then shut it. She threw her hands into the air. "How do you always do that? You tiptoe right to the edge of thoroughly pissing me off, then somehow you sweet-talk your way out of it."
Nick grinned. "Aha. I told you when we met that you'd know if I was sweet-talking you."
Jordan stared out the front windshield, shaking her head. "Seriously, I must've killed somebody's prized goat or something in a former life. And this is my penance."
He laughed. "Oh, admit it. You love it."
"That's the penance part. My slow descent into madness."
Seeing the grin curling at the edges of her lips, Nick leaned forward in his seat to kiss her. "Aw, you say the sweetest things." And he wouldn't have it any other way.
They continued their drive, and as the trees grew even thicker, he began to wonder about this resort she was taking him to. They turned a corner, and she veered the car onto a one-lane street that took them over a narrow bridge.
"What's the name of this place we're
staying at?" He realized how odd it was that he needed to ask. Since they'd landed in San Francisco, Jordan had been calling the shots. Both the FBI agent and Cro-Magnon in him felt somewhat unsettled by this. He was used to taking charge of a situation—any situation.
With another glance at Jordan, he decided to go with the flow. For now. At the very least, it gave him a few more minutes to enjoy the view.
"Calistoga Ranch," she answered him.
"It seems off the beaten path," he said.
"It's meant to have a rustic, one-with-nature kind of feel," Jordan said. They drove around another bend, and then pulled into a clearing at what appeared to be the main lodge. Several cars lined the driveway ahead of them, and Nick did a quick tally: two Mercedes, one Porsche 911, a BMW 6 Series, and an Aston Martin.
Nick raised an eyebrow as Jordan parked their rental car behind the Aston Martin. "Rustic?"
"Well ... call it 'rich-person rustic,' " she conceded. She opened her door and slid out of the car, all long, slim legs and heels and her golden blond hair shining in the warm California sun. In an instant, she looked like she belonged.
"Welcome back, Ms. Rhodes," said the valet as he took the keys from her. "Did you have a pleasant flight?"
"Very pleasant. Thank you."
"I'll load the bags into the cart while you check in." With an efficient nod, the valet took off.
Nick came around the car and took Jordan's hand. "The cart?"
"Cars aren't allowed on the resort grounds, so they shuttle us to and from our room in a golf cart."
"Rich-person rustic doesn't include walking?"
"Our room is a mile away. Uphill." She pulled him closer. "I know it's asking a lot, sweetie, but try to enjoy yourself. You might be surprised and actually like it here."
Nick took a look around. His first thought was that it was a good thing he hadn't taken a vacation in a while, because he definitely was going to need the extra cash to pay for his half of the trip. If Jordan thought he was letting her foot the bill, she could think again. Where he came from, men did not mooch off their girlfriends. Even their obscenely wealthy heiress girlfriends.
Girlfriend.
His left eye began to twitch.
Jordan looked over. "You okay?"
"Just a little pollen or something." He rubbed his eye for emphasis.
They entered a large, Western-style main lodge, where a front desk clerk greeted them. She seemed to recognize Jordan immediately, confirmed her reservation for a one-bedroom hillside lodge, and produced an actual set of keys. Apparently, rich-person rustic didn't include key cards, either.
Within minutes, they were in a golf cart, cruising along a small paved road with a thickly forested cliff on one side of them and a lake on the other. Along the way, they passed by several bungalow-style guest lodges set a good distance apart for privacy.
From behind his sunglasses, Nick studied the valet in the front seat of the golf cart. No more than twenty-three years old, the blond, tanned guy looked like he should be sitting on the beach in a lifeguard chair. Instead, he chatted animatedly with Jordan about a winery he'd recently discovered.
After a several-minute drive, the valet parked the cart at the edge of a walkway that led up a hill. "You know the drill, Jordan. Gotta hoof it from here. I'll grab the bags."
"I'll grab the bags." Nick gave the valet a tip and a look that said that no further assistance, questions, comments, or wine chitchat was necessary. Jordan looked on with amusement, but said nothing as she led him up a path with stairs that led to a bungalow on a hill. She unlocked a gate, and they stepped onto a large covered patio complete with a fireplace, an outdoor living area, and an incredible view of the canyon below them.
She used a second key to unlock a glass door that took them inside the lodge and into a living room with a marble-surround fireplace and state-of-the-art entertainment center.
"So this is rich-person rustic." Nick set the bags down and looked around. Through the windows, he could see that the master suite was an entirely separate space on the opposite end of the patio. He walked back outside, cut across the deck, and opened the door to the bedroom. He took in the king bed covered with plush pillows and the dark cherry dressers and nightstands. Adjacent to the bedroom was a large stone and granite bathroom complete with two vanities, an oversized tub, and a combination steam/rain shower. French doors along one wall of the bathroom led to a private outdoor shower.
"Think it'll do?" Jordan asked from behind him.
Nick turned around, slightly embarrassed to have been caught gawking at their surroundings. He shrugged, taking on a nonchalant tone. "Sure. I've just never known anyone who could afford all this." He reached down and unstrapped the gun harness from his calf. He set it on the nightstand next to the bed, along with his wallet.
Jordan gestured to the gun. "Well, I've never known anyone who walked around with one of those strapped to his leg. So I guess this is something new for both of us."
Nick straightened up, the reality of the situation hitting him. Here he was: an FBI agent from Brooklyn, spending the weekend in wine country with a woman who would one day inherit a half-billion dollars.
He walked over to her. "What are we doing?"
She smiled slightly, as if she'd been wondering this herself. "I have no clue."
Nick peered down at her, standing close to, but not yet past, the point of no return. Jordan didn't move, just looked at him through half-lowered eyes. Waiting.
Without a word, he reached up and tugged her hair out of its knot. He watched as it spilled over her shoulders in blond waves, a wild contrast to the sophisticated dress, scarf, and designer high-heeled shoes she wore.
He stepped across the remaining space that divided them. "So what do billionaire heiresses like to do in the Napa Valley?"
She held his gaze. "Right now, probably the same thing as FBI agents from Brooklyn."
Enough said.
JORDAN KNEW, FROM the look in Nick's eyes when he scooped her up in his arms and plunked her down on top of the covers, that the time for jokes was over.
He pinned her hands in one of his against the comforter, then leaned down and kissed her, hot and demanding. She swirled her tongue around his, no playing around this time, and no teasing. When she arched against him, he released his grip and slid his hands down her arms. Then he continued over the swell of her breasts.
He grabbed hold of the V-neck collar and ripped her dress open.
She gasped against his mouth. "My, somebody is impatient."
His voice had a rough edge. "It's your fault. I've been thinking about getting you naked since the first time I saw you drink wine." He ran his thumb along her lower lip. "I've thought about a lot of things."
While holding his gaze, Jordan licked the tip of his thumb and watched as his eyes turned dark and smoldering. He pushed the dress down her arms and tossed it onto the floor, and the scarf around her neck quickly followed. Then he pulled back and looked at her.
Normally, she would've felt self-conscious, lying in her bra and panties with the bright light of the afternoon sun streaming into the bedroom. But then Nick ran one of his hands along her body, from her throat to her hip, and the undisguised wanting she saw on his face made her feel quite bold instead.
She kicked off her shoes and reached for his shirt. "Your turn."
He watched as she undid the buttons of his shirt. After she pushed it off him, he grabbed the bottom edge of his white T-shirt and pulled it over his head. He knelt above her, shirtless and stunning, his chest, arms, and stomach as toned and chiseled as a Roman god's.
He was gorgeous. Perfect. Jordan had known Nick had been hiding the goods underneath his clothes, but this went even beyond what she'd imagined.
Her voice came out in a near whisper. "And the rest?"
"If you insist."
With a devilish smile, he rose and stood at the foot of the bed. He kicked off his shoes, and then undid the button and zipper of his jeans. Without any hesita
tion, he shed his jeans, boxer briefs, and socks. He stood before her, unabashedly naked in the sunlight.
Propped up on her elbows, Jordan took in every inch of bronzed skin and sleek muscle, her eyes widening at the sight of his thick, hard erection.
"Think it'll do?" he teased, repeating her earlier question.
She crooked her finger and beckoned him back to the bed.
Nick lowered himself over her, his eyes lit with an emerald fire that made her heart pound. He skillfully snapped open the front closure of her bra with one hand and watched as her breasts tumbled free. "Now we're getting somewhere."
He eased her back onto the comforter and slid the straps of her bra over her shoulders. Jordan shivered with anticipation. "Nick," she whispered, needing him to kiss her. Their mouths came together, and she sighed when his fingers brushed across the tips of her breasts. He lowered his head, plumped up her breast, and pulled the nipple into his mouth. With his other hand, he spread her legs and sank his hips between them.
She moaned and pressed instinctively against him as he worked his tongue across each of her breasts. She curled her fingers through his dark hair as hot flames licked at her stomach, and lifted her hips eagerly when he moved his hands to her hips and slid her panties off.
"I should slow down," he said huskily as he pulled one of her nipples into his mouth and sucked gently.
Slow down? "Not a chance, Brooklyn."
He smiled, and the stubble along his jaw scraped against her breast. "Now I'm definitely going to slow down."
He used his fingers to part the soft, wet folds between her legs, spreading her open, then he teased her with his forefinger for what felt like eternity. As her tongue tangled with his, she gasped when he slid a finger into her and began to move it in and out in a slow, smooth rhythm.
He whispered wickedly in her ear. "I love seeing the look on your face when I touch you. Maybe I should watch you come just like this."