“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.”