A Lot Like Love

  With that in mind, she'd come up with a backup plan in the event the conversation went this way. Having no choice, she resorted to the strategy she had used in sticky situations ever since she was five years old, when she'd set her Western Barbie's hair on fire while trying to give her a suntan on the family-room lamp.

  Blame it on Kyle.

  I'd like to thank the Academy ... "Sure, I'll tell you all about this new guy. We met the other day and he's ... um ..." She paused, then ran her hands through her hair and exhaled dramatically. "Sorry. Do you mind if we talk about this later? After seeing Kyle today with the bruise on his face, I feel guilty rattling on about Xander's party. Like I'm not taking my brother's incarceration seriously enough." She bit her lip, feeling guilty about the lie. So sorry, girls. But this has to stay my secret for now.

  Her diversion worked like a charm. Perhaps one of the few benefits of having a convicted felon of a brother known as the Twitter Terrorist was that she would never lack for non sequiturs in extracting herself from unwanted conversation.

  Corinne reached out and squeezed her hand. "No one has stood by Kyle's side more than you, Jordan. But we understand. We can talk about this some other time. And try not to worry—Kyle can handle himself. He's a big boy."

  "Oh, he definitely is that," Melinda said with a gleam in her eye.

  Jordan smiled. "Thanks, Corinne." She turned to Melinda, thoroughly skeeved out. "And, eww—Kyle?"

  Melinda shrugged matter-of-factly. "To you, he's your brother. But to the rest of the female population, he has a certain appeal. I'll leave it at that."

  "He used to fart in our Mr. Turtle pool and call it a 'Jacuzzi.' How's that for appeal?"

  "Ah ... the lifestyles of the rich and famous," Corinne said with a grin.

  "And on that note, my secret fantasies about Kyle Rhodes now thoroughly destroyed, I move that we put a temporary hold on any further discussions related to the less fair of the sexes," Melinda said.

  "I second that," Jordan said, and the three women clinked their glasses in agreement.

  Jordan took a sip of her wine, breathing a sigh of relief. Three more days—that's all she had to make it. Then everything would be back to normal.

  Six

  IT IS A truth universally acknowledged that an FBI special agent in possession of great skill and talent is likely to engage in trash talk every now and then.

  Nick—being possessed of said skill and talent—was, on that Thursday night, partaking in this practice, along with his coworker Jack Pallas, Davis's supposed other "top" special agent. The two of them had just finished working out in the state-of-the-art gym located on the building's second floor that was open twenty-four/seven. Some agents fell out of shape after graduating from the Academy, but not in Davis's field office. He held his agents to high physical standards and, as he bluntly told everyone in their welcome-to-Chicago speech, expected to see their asses in the gym.

  Sweaty in their T-shirts, Jack and Nick grabbed towels from the shelf as they entered the locker room. They'd completed a seven-mile run on the gym's indoor track only moments earlier. While subtly trying to outpace and outdistance each other, they'd caught up on various odds and ends that Nick had missed during the six months he'd worked undercover on Fivestar. Eventually, their conversation turned to the arrests of Roberto Martino and the other members of his organization, and the investigation into Xander Eckhart.

  "I hear you're taking orders from Seth Huxley nowadays," Jack said as they edged their way through the crowded locker room. The end of the workday, not surprisingly, was the gym's busiest time, with most agents squeezing in a workout before heading home. "How's that going?"

  "If by 'taking orders' you mean providing my much-learned undercover expertise as a favor to our boss, then I'd say it's going great." Nick feigned confusion. "What I've been trying to figure out is why Davis had to bring me in on this case in the first place. I could've sworn another agent was already running the Martino investigation ... Oh, wait—that would be you, Jack."

  Jack took a seat on the bench in front of their lockers. "I've been a little busy these days. Thirty-four arrests in the last four months, McCall. That's a new record for me."

  Nick stripped off his damp T-shirt, baring his chest. "Try twenty-seven arrests in the last week. That's a new record for the office."

  "You're still seven arrests behind me, buddy."

  Not for long, if Nick had anything to say about it. "It'll only be five after Eckhart and Trilani."

  Jack scoffed at this. "Eckhart is a money-laundering case. Anything from Financial only gets you half a point." He stood up and peeled off his own T-shirt, revealing several scars, electrical burns, and a bullet wound on his chest.

  Having worked on and off with Jack for several years, and given how they were both regulars at the gym, Nick had seen the other agent's scars before—souvenirs of the two days Jack had been tortured by Roberto Martino's men. Two days where he'd given them absolutely nothing in exchange. The scars were a quick reminder not only of the pride Nick felt in being a special agent in one of the toughest FBI field offices in the country, but also of the grudging respect he had for Jack. All trash talk aside, they understood each other's commitment to the job.

  Davis wasn't getting any younger, and when he retired as special agent in charge, either Nick or Jack likely would be asked to fill the position. Neither was entirely sure he wanted it, although the satisfaction that would be derived from beating out the other for the job provided strong motivation to at least consider the possibility.

  Nick ignored the scars on Jack's chest, as was expected. He stripped off the rest of his clothes and slung a towel around his hips. "You know, it's interesting what you said a moment ago about taking orders. From what I hear, you've been taking a lot of orders yourself these days. From the new U.S. attorney." Actually, what he'd heard from several sources around the office was that Jack had been assigned to protect the new U.S. attorney as part of a murder investigation and had dived off a three-story stairwell to save her life. Also according to these sources—who had spoken only on condition of total anonymity—the two were now living together and Jack had subsequently "mellowed" a bit from his former days.

  "We all take orders from the U.S. attorney around here," Jack said. "She is something." The corners of his mouth turned up as he slid out of his running pants.

  Nick stared at him in astonishment. "Was that actually a smile? Shit, Pallas—all these years we've been working together, I wasn't even sure you had teeth."

  "It's part of this whole softer side Jack is trying out," said a voice from around the corner. A younger, well-built African American man strolled over from the showers. Like Jack and Nick, he was naked except for a towel knotted around his waist. "It's kind of nice, actually—he barely ever threatens to kill people anymore." The young agent reached over the bench in the center of the aisle and stuck out his hand to Nick. "I'm Jack's partner, the inimitable Sam Wilkins," he said by way of introduction. "I've seen you around the office the past few days."

  Nick shook his hand. "Nick McCall. You're the new guy from Yale, right? I've heard about you. People say you've got a wardrobe that rivals Huxley's."

  "Who's got a wardrobe that rivals mine?" Huxley came around the corner in a towel and—big surprise—Polo shower shoes. He took his glasses out of his locker and put them on. He spotted Wilkins. "Oh. Hello ... Wilkins."

  "Hello, Huxley," Wilkins replied coolly.

  Nick pointed between the two of them. "You boys have a problem?"

  "No problem," Huxley said. "Just a little friendly school rivalry."

  "Not so much a rivalry," Wilkins corrected. "I'd call it more a mutual understanding between the two of us that Huxley here went to the other Ivy League law school; the one that follows behind Yale in the rankings."

  "And also a mutual understanding that Wilkins here went to a law school that, while theoretically Ivy League like Harvard, teaches its students wholly impractical classes like Law and t
he Butterfly," Huxley noted.

  With a chuckle, Jack mumbled under his breath to Nick. "It's like watching the preppy, well-bred versions of you and me trash-talking." He headed off to the showers.

  Huxley looked offended by this. "I'm not that preppy." Naked except for his shower shoes, he took out a pair of neatly ironed boxer briefs from his duffle bag and pulled them on.

  Nick decided to redirect the conversation. "So how did your meeting with Jordan Rhodes go today?"

  "Fine. We got together at her house and went over the details for Saturday. If anyone at the party asks how we met, we're going to say that I'm a customer of her store. I know enough about wine to be able to pull that off without a problem. And I have to tell you—we couldn't have picked a better person to help with the op. Jordan was able to give me a detailed description of Eckhart's office. I'm not anticipating having much trouble getting the bugs placed quickly."

  "You'll have to figure out a way to sneak away from the others," Nick pointed out.

  Huxley slid on a light blue dress shirt. "Already got it covered. Jordan is going to pull Eckhart aside and talk to him about some special wine she's been trying to locate for him. While he's distracted, I'll slip away from the other guests and make my way to the office."

  He gave Nick a knowing look as he buttoned his shirt. "Look, I know Davis asked you to babysit me on this." He held up his hand. "I get it, it's my first undercover op. But trust me, I've spent three months working on this case—no one wants Saturday night to go smoothly more than I do. I'm ready for it."

  From the sound of things, Nick couldn't disagree.

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Nick crossed the parking lot to his SUV, unlocked the door, and climbed in. Damn, it was cold. Six years had taught him that New York had nothing on Chicago in terms of bitter winters. He started the car and let it warm up for a few minutes. He was just pulling out of the parking lot when his cell phone rang, the sound carrying through the speakers via the Bluetooth system in his car. Nick checked the caller ID on the radio display.

  Lisa.

  He hadn't spoken to her in six months, since before he'd begun the Fivestar investigation. Frankly, he hadn't planned on speaking to her again. Sure, they'd had a couple of fun nights, but he'd made it clear from the beginning that there wasn't anything serious between them. Still, he didn't want to be rude and ignore her.

  He answered the phone. "Lisa, hello."

  A woman's earthy voice sounded through the speakers. "I heard you were back in town."

  "Got your spies out?" Nick teased.

  "Maya said you picked up carryout from Schoolhouse Tavern the other night," Lisa said, referring to the waitress who'd rung up his order.

  "Right, I forgot that she teaches part-time at your yoga studio."

  "She says you look exactly the same."

  "It hasn't been that long, Lisa."

  "Six months."

  "Well, I told you it would be a while before you heard from me." If ever.

  "But now you're back. Any chance you're free tonight?" she asked invitingly.

  Nick sensed that this was the moment where he needed to politely—but firmly—make a clean break from Lisa. Actually, he thought he'd done that six months ago.

  From the start, he'd explained to Lisa the same thing he explained to every woman he got involved with: he didn't do relationships. Working undercover for months at a time virtually precluded the possibility. Right now, he was focused on his job, and he liked being focused on his job. He'd been working undercover jobs for six years now, and he was good at it. While he reported to Davis, he generally handled his cases the way he wanted, which suited him well.

  When he was a kid, Nick had seen the look of relief on his mother's face every time his father walked through the door after one of his police shifts. Unlike his father, however, there were many nights, and weeks, and months, when he didn't come home at all. He may have been focused on his career, but at least he knew not to inflict his unpredictable lifestyle on someone else.

  "Lisa, look—we talked about this before I went undercover. This was just a casual thing," he said.

  "But I thought we had fun together."

  "We did. But I've got a few things going on with work, and some personal days I plan to use after that, so this isn't a good time for me."

  Lisa's voice turned suspicious. "There's someone else, isn't there? You don't have to lie about it."

  "There's no one else. I'm just not in a position to give you what you're looking for."

  The phone went silent for a moment. As much as Nick tried to be a stand-up guy about these things, sometimes women got a little pissed when they realized that—hot sex notwithstanding—he'd really meant it when he'd said that he wasn't looking for a relationship.

  "Fine. But being by yourself all the time is going to get lonely, Nick," Lisa said. "When that happens, you remember the good times we had together. And give me a call."

  She hung up.

  Nick exhaled in relief and made sure the call had disconnected. That hadn't been too bad. When he didn't call Lisa back, she'd move on. After all, it had been just sex. No sweet nothings, no endearments, no promises of the future. Soon enough, she would realize that she could get a better deal elsewhere.

  He had just exited off the highway at Ohio Street when his cell phone rang again. He glanced over and checked the caller ID.

  Shit.

  He quickly backtracked, thinking about how long it had been since their last conversation, and realized he undoubtedly had another pissed-off woman on his hands. Perhaps this was one of the reasons he preferred to stay undercover. No accountability.

  Bracing himself, he clicked the button on the steering wheel to answer. "Ma—I was just about to call you."

  "Right. I could be dead and you wouldn't even know it."

  Nick grinned. Despite being perfectly healthy and fit at almost sixty, his mother issued frequent proclamations about her death and the ways in which people would inevitably wrong her in it. "I think Dad, Matt, or Anthony would probably call me if that happened."

  His mother, the illustrious Angela Giuliano, who had once disappointed every smitten, fiery Italian man of marriageable age in Brooklyn (as the story was frequently told to Nick and his brothers) by allowing the strong, silent, and decidedly non-Italian John McCall to drive her home from the Moonlight Lounge on a fateful New Years Eve thirty-six years ago, snorted in disagreement. "What do your brothers know? They both live less than fifteen miles from this house, and your father and I never see them."

  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."

  N
ick 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."