A Lot Like Love

  "Oh, right," Martin said. "I always forget that you have a billion dollars. I'm guessing you don't need any help getting into restaurants."

  She threw him an eye as she grabbed two more bottles. "I don't have a billion dollars." It was the same routine virtually 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 generally avoided discussing finances with others.

  It wasn't exactly a secret, however: her father was rich. Okay, extremely rich. She hadn't grown up with money; it was something her family had stumbled into. Her father, basically a computer geek like her brother, was one of those success stories Forbes and Newsweek loved to put on their covers: after graduating from the University of Illinois with a master's degree in computer science, Grey Rhodes went on to Northwestern University's Kellogg business school. He then started his own company in Chicago where he developed an antiviral protection program that exploded worldwide. Within two years of its release to the public, Rhodes antivirus protected one in every three computers in America (a statistic her father made sure to include in every interview). And then came the money. A lot of it.

  One might have certain impressions about her lifestyle, Jordan knew, given her father's financial success. Some of these 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 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 nine years ago. Take, for example, the Maserati Quattroporte Jordan had sitting in her garage. Probably not the typical present one received for graduating business school.

  "We've had this conversation before, 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 obvious pride in her voice. She was the sole owner of DeVine Cellars and business was good. Really good, in fact—certainly better than she'd ever projected at this point in her ten-year plan. Of course, she didn't make anywhere near the 1.2 billion her father may or may not have been worth (she never confirmed specifics about his money), but she did very well for herself on her own merit. She made enough to pay for a four-thousand-plus square foot house in the upscale Lincoln Park neighborhood, to treat herself to fine hotels when she traveled, and she still had plenty of 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 generally true. Although I do have to pay, if that makes you feel any better."

  Martin sniffed. "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." True, there was the slight excess of smoothness to think about. But on the upside, he was into food and wine, and he cooked. Practically a Renaissance man.

  "I think you should string Kittredge along for a while," Martin mused aloud. "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," Jordan suggested. "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."

  Martin sighed as he leaned his slender frame against the bar. His bow tie of choice that day was red, which Jordan thought nicely complemented his dark brown tweed jacket.

  "Sadly, I'm underappreciated," he 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 fullest potential."

  Martin considered this. "So what you're saying is ... I'm like the Pahlmeyer Sonoma Coast Pinot."

  Sure, exactly what she'd been thinking. "Yep. That's you."

  "They're expecting great things from the Pahlmeyer, you know."

  Jordan smiled. "Then we all better look out."

  The thought seemed to perk Martin up. In good spirits once again, he headed off to the cellar for another case of the zinfandel while Jordan returned to the back room 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, the 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 store. 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. Martin had a longer commute than she did, so she sent him home early. At seven thirty, she began closing the store, thinking it highly unlikely she'd get any customers.

  When finished up front, Jordan went into the back room to turn off the sound system. The store felt eerily quiet and empty without the eclectic mix of Billie Holiday, The Shins, and Norah Jones she'd put together for the day's soundtrack. She grabbed her snow boots from behind the door and had just sat down at her desk to replace the black leather boots she wore when the chime rang against the front door.

  A customer. Surprising.

  She 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. Her eyes immediately fell upon him—he didn't look like her typical customer. He had chestnut brown hair and scruff along his angular jaw that gave him a dark, bad-boy look. He was tall, and wore a black wool coat over what appeared to be a well-built physique.

  This was no Italian-loafer wearer. Unlike Cal Kittredge, this man was good-looking in a rugged, masculine way. There was something a bit ... rougher about him. 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.

  Jordan took a step back.

  A slight grin played at the edges of his lips, as if he found this amusing. Jordan wondered how fast she could make it to the emergency panic button underneath the bar.

  The blond man, the one wearing glasses and a camelcolored 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."

  He 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 continued. He seemed very serious about whatever it was he needed to tell her.

  Jordan's stomach twisted in a knot. But she forced herself not to panic. Yet.

  "Has Kyle been hurt?" she asked. In the four months her brother had been in prison, there already had been several altercations. Apparently, some of the other inmates at Metropolitan Correctional Center figured a wealthy computer geek would be an easy mark. Kyle assured her that he could hold his own whenever she asked about the fights during her visits. But every day since he'd begun serving his sentence, she'd worried about getting that phone call that said he'd been wrong. And if the FBI had sent two agents to her store during 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.

  "Your brother is fine. As far as we know, anyway."

  Jordan cocked her head. That was an odd thing to say. "As far as you know? You make it sound like he's missing or something." She paused before folding 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 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 technology 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 release all the prisoners in a mad stampede. But Kyle wouldn't do that. She hoped.

  "Escaped? That's an interesting thing to say." Agent McCall looked her over. "Is there something you'd like to share with us, Ms. Rhodes?"

  Something about this special agent rubbed Jordan the wrong way. She felt as though she were 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 her 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.

  "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 trust a chardonnay," Agent McCall said.

  "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. "Fine. I'll call my lawyer and have him meet us there."

  Agent McCall shook his head. "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 so.

  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."

  Three

  THE DRIVE TO the FBI office took longer than expected given the weather. The roads were terrible, but the SUV made the eight-mile journey without too much trouble. Comfortable behind the wheel despite the ice and snow, Nick took his eyes off the road long enough to steal a glance in the rearview mirror at the passenger in the backseat.

  Jordan Rhodes. A billionaire heiress, riding in the backseat of his Chevy Tahoe. Not the way he typically capped off a workday.

  She stared silently out the window. Her blond hair fell past the shoulders of her black coat, and she absentmindedly brushed a stray lock out of her eyes. She wore a cream cashmere scarf around her neck—at least he guessed it was cashmere—and matching gloves.

  He'd seen photographs of her before, even beyond those Huxley had included in his highly thorough presentation. Given the wealth of her family, and the public's general interest in her brother's case, nearly every paper, television, cable, and Internet media outlet had extensively covered Kyle Rhodes's arrest and guilty plea. Nick recalled seeing several photos of Jordan and her father walking in and out of the courtroom at Kyle's side.

  Objectively speaking, Nick knew she was stunning. No doubt, the long, blond hair, svelte figure, and Caribbean blue eyes would appeal to many a man. With her obviously expensive coat and wholly impractical-for-snow high-heeled boots, she reminded him of the ultra-chic, designer-clad Manhattanites he'd occasionally come across back in his New York days.

  Not his type.

  First of all, he preferred brunettes. And curves. And women without direct relations locked up in a maximum-security prison. Or an inheritance that rivaled the gross national income of a small country. That kind of wealth had to make a person ... weird. Probably snobby and flashy, too. The impractical high-heeled boots seemed to be confirmation of this.

  From the tight set to her jaw, he could tell that she knew he was watching her.

  She didn't seem to like him very much. He was not particularly troubled by this. The beauty of this assignment was that Jordan Rhodes didn't have to like him. Huxley was going to be her date at Eckhart's party—he could be the one to work his charm routine. Assuming Huxley had a charm routine.

  Nick's responsibility, on the other hand, was simply to secure Jordan Rhodes's cooperation. And to do that, he had to resolve a few unanswered questions first.

  "So how's the wine business these days?" he asked, breaking the silence.

  Jordan turned her head away from the window and met his gaze in the rearview mirror. "You don't need to make small talk with me, Agent McCall. I realize this isn't a social call."

  He shrugged. "What can I say? I'm not much for uncomfortable silences."

  "What's your position on uncomfortable conversation?"

  Nick had to check his grin at that. Christ, she was a sassy one.

  "This is some
weather we're having," Huxley said, quickly interjecting to keep things light. "Good thing you've got four-wheel drive, Nick."

  "True," he agreed. "Although a Chevy Tahoe can't be nearly as fun to drive as a Maserati Quattroporte."

  Jordan stared at Nick with a mixture of surprise and annoyance. "You know what kind of car I drive?"

  "I know lots of things. Trust me, I have files worth of annoying small-talk questions I can ask as we creep through this blizzard at ten miles an hour. I figured the subject of wine seemed the most innocuous."

  She sighed, as if resigned to her fate. "The wine business is good."

  "I'm curious: who's your typical customer?" he asked. "Do you get a lot of hard-core collectors or more locals from the neighborhood?"

  "I get all types. Some people are just beginning to dabble in wine and looking for a comfortable place to learn more. Others are more experienced drinkers who like to come in and relax while sampling the wines we have open. Then there's a third group, who I would describe as serious collectors."

  As Nick had guessed, she relaxed when discussing the subject of wine. Good. "I don't know much about wine myself. I did hear a story a few weeks ago about some collector from Chicago who spent over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars on a case of wine." He turned to Huxley. "Can you believe it? Two hundred and fifty thousand." He checked back in the rearview mirror. "You're the expert, Ms. Rhodes—in the wine world, what does one get for a quarter of a million dollars?"

  "A 1945 Chateau Mouton-Rothschild."

  "Wow. You came up with that awfully fast. I take it you heard about the auction, too?"

  "Actually, I helped that particular collector locate the wine," she said. "I knew it was going to auction and that he would be interested."

  "The guy had a strange name ... I think he owned a restaurant or something."

  Huxley looked over at Nick but remained silent, having realized that their interrogation of Jordan Rhodes had begun.

  "Xander Eckhart," Jordan said.