A Lot like Love (FBI/US Attorney #2)(21)

Then came a feeble voice. “In here.”

Following the voice, Nick cut through the hallway, the soft thud of his footsteps on the hardwood floors the only sounds in the house. The hallway opened into a spacious great room and kitchen area that looked like something out of a Pottery Barn catalog. There, he spotted Huxley.

Or at least, what he thought was Huxley.

The well-groomed agent he was used to seeing in three-piece suits and sweater vests sprawled facedown across the beige sectional couch, with one hand limply clutching a garbage can on the floor next to him. Far from a three-piece suit, he was dressed in a navy sweatshirt and checkered flannel pants. Strangely, he wore only one sock.

Nick slipped off his coat and came around the couch. Huxley weakly lifted his head. His eyes were glazed, and the hair on the left side of his head shot up into the air in a blond Mohawk.

“I wouldn’t get too close,” Huxley warned. The effort of holding up his head proved too much, and his face fell back into the pillow.

Nick took a seat on the far opposite end of the sectional. “Wow. You look awful.” He peered more closely. “What’s going on with your hair?”

Huxley spoke into the pillow, his voice muffled. “The stomach pains came on when I was in the shower. I had to get out ASAP. Mid-shampoo.”

Nick nodded. “And the missing sock?”

“In the laundry. I puked on my foot.”

“Oh.”

With painstakingly slow movements, Huxley rolled himself over. He groaned and his head lolled against the pillow. “The good news is, I haven’t thrown up for twelve minutes. Before that I only made it nine.”

“I don’t think it’s like labor contractions, Seth. Whatever you’ve got doesn’t look like something that will pass quickly. Could it be food poisoning?”

“Doubtful. I have a fever. One hundred and two.”

“The stomach flu, then.”

“It appears so.”

Before Nick could say anything further, there was a knock at the door.

Huxley closed his eyes. “That’s probably Jordan. I called her right after you and left a message saying we had a problem.”

Oh, they had a problem, all right. A couple of them. For starters, Eckhart’s party was that night and his partner clearly wasn’t anywhere near up to par. Second, there were about five thousand jokes Nick wanted to make about Huxley’s hair, and he wasn’t sure he could hold back much longer.

“I’ll get the door.” Nick cut through the hallway, working through their options. He grumbled to himself, realizing that they only had one at this point. This was supposed to be a simple assignment. A consulting job, Davis had promised. And now he was stuck.

He said a few Brooklyn-flavored curse words under his breath as he opened the front door.

Nick blinked at the sight of the woman standing before him. He’d expected to find the stylishly dressed and designer-clad sophisticate he’d met five nights ago. Instead, Jordan stood on the porch wearing a black ski jacket, black body-hugging leggings, and pink snow boots. She had her long hair pulled back in a high ponytail, with a few layers framing her face. She wore not a speck of makeup, had rosy cheeks from the cold, and her blue eyes sparkled in the winter morning sun.

Interesting.

This was a new side to Jordan Rhodes. Without the designer clothes, it was a good thing for him that she was still blond with ne’er-do-well relations, or he might be in danger of thinking she was quite cute. And given that his role in the Eckhart investigation had just expanded about tenfold, he didn’t need to be distracted by cuteness right then.

Seeing him standing in Huxley’s doorway, her eyes widened in surprise. “Agent McCall.”

Nick raised an eyebrow. “Nice boots.”

She leveled him with a glare. Apparently the boots were a taboo subject.

“You said that if I saw you today, it meant that something had gone really wrong with the undercover operation,” she said.

He stepped to the side of the doorway. “I think you should probably see for yourself.” He shut the door behind her, and they stood in the small entranceway. “But I warn you—it’s a little disturbing.” He led her down the hallway and into the living room, where the death-warmed-over version of his partner lay on the couch.

“Oh my gosh, what happened?” Jordan asked.

Shivering, Huxley mustered a faint smile. “I guess I look as bad as I feel.”

“It’s mostly the hair,” Nick offered diplomatically. “It’s . . . ridiculous.”

“I can’t deal with a comb right now. Too heavy.” Huxley sighed wearily. “I’m a little under the weather,” he explained to Jordan.

“That seems to be putting it mildly,” she said. “You’re shaking—are you cold?”

“It’s the fever.”

She spoke under her breath to Nick. “Is there a reason he’s wearing only one sock?”

“He puked on his foot.”

“Oh.” She turned back to Huxley. “Can we get you another sock? Maybe a blanket or something?”

Huxley sat up, looking pained by the effort. “That’s okay,” he groaned. “I’m heading upstairs. If you two would excuse me . . .” He clutched his stomach. “I think this is going to be a rough one.”