A Lot like Love (FBI/US Attorney #2)(49)
Corinne apologized to Jordan and kicked the boot out of the way as Melinda and a man with sandy brown hair and a medium build came out of the kitchen. “Don’t take it personally,” the man told Nick with a chuckle. “Mel thinks everyone’s a spy or secret agent these days. She’s addicted to watching 24 on DVD.” He shook Nick’s hand. “Pete Garofalo.”
Melinda punched Pete in the shoulder. “I didn’t say I thought he was a spy, I said he looked James Bond-esque with the five o’clock shadow and the dress shirt and pants.”
A second man, wearing a red and white checkered apron, called out to Jordan and Nick from the kitchen, throwing in his two cents. “From what we heard, it sounds like Melinda caught you two at an inopportune time on Sunday morning. Something about how long it took you to answer the door?” He grinned cheekily as he held up a pair of salad tongs, greeting Nick. “I’m Charles, by the way.”
Corinne scolded her husband from the doorway. “Charles Kim—what kind of host are you? At least let the new guest take off his coat before we begin embarrassing him.”
Melinda was still stuck on the 24 thing. “And I don’t see you grabbing the remote away from me when that countdown clock starts chiming,” she said to Pete. “Unless it’s to get a quick check of the scores on Monday nights.”
Nick’s ears perked up at the mention of scores. Sports. Now there was a topic upon which he could wax poetic. “Too bad Monday night football is over,” he lamented to Pete. “But there’s always basketball. Who are you eying for the Final Four?”
Pete looked mildly embarrassed as he gestured to Melinda. “She’s, um, referring to the scores on Dancing with the Stars.”
“He likes it when they do the paso doblé,” Melinda threw in.
“The dance symbolizes the drama, artistry, and passion of a bullfight. It’s quite masculine,” Pete said.
“Except for the sequins and spray tans,” Melinda added.
Pete clapped his hands together, ignoring this. “How about you, Nick? Are you a fan of the reality television performing arts?”
Nick threw Jordan a look, trying to decide if his character was so smitten that he needed to feign an interest in any topic that involved sequins and spray tans that did not also involve cheerleaders.
She stood up on her toes and whispered in his ear. “Don’t worry. It’s like a bottle of wine that needs to breathe. They mellow out after about an hour or so.”
DINNER WENT SMOOTHLY enough, particularly because Jordan’s friends turned out to be a warm, welcoming group. Nick felt satisfied that to an outside eye—or eight of them—he and Jordan appeared to be simply a normal guy and girl on a date on Saturday night.
From time to time throughout dinner, he studied Jordan curiously. He was having a hard time sizing up what, exactly, was “normal” for her. A week ago, she’d been entirely in her element at Eckhart’s fund-raiser, chatting it up with the crème de la crème of Chicago society while wearing a designer dress and drinking wine that cost more than what many people earned in a week. On the other hand, she seemed just as comfortable with her friends, wearing jeans and a sweater and eating homemade pizza in a house that looked like a Toys “R” Us had exploded inside it.
She surprised him. He could handle anything Xander Eckhart threw at him; was unfazed by money laundering, undercover ops, fake identities, fake condos, offices, and cars, and private investigators who followed him around the clock and watched his every move. But Jordan had managed to throw him off guard more than once already, and Nick knew that could be a dangerous thing.
A prime example was that kiss neither of them acknowledged.
Despite being much shorter in duration and objectively far more pleasant than any other assignment he had been given, this was one undercover investigation he looked forward to wrapping up. Quickly. Before anything got . . . messy.
Shifting his attention away from Jordan, Nick turned to Charles, the lawyer, who sat on his right. The two of them spoke about Charles’s criminal defense practice, with Nick being careful not to give away the fact that he obviously knew a lot more about the justice system than the average real estate investor.
“Does your firm handle a lot of high-profile cases?” he asked. He hadn’t recognized the name of the firm when Charles had mentioned it earlier, but Chicago was a big city with a lot of lawyers.
“We get our fair share,” Charles said. “I mean, nothing as high-profile as the Roberto Martino trial. Not that my firm would represent the likes of him.” He lowered his voice. “At one point, we talked to Jordan’s brother about handling his case, but he decided to go with a different firm. Which is a shame, given the way things turned out. I mean, Kyle gets eighteen months over at MCC for a crime that hurt no one, yet it took years for the FBI and U.S. Attorney’s Office to get their acts together and arrest one of the most notorious crime lords in the country. That’s our federal criminal justice system at work.”
“Charles.” Corinne reached over and squeezed her husband’s hand with a meaningful look in Jordan’s direction. “You know she worries about Kyle. Let’s not bring that up tonight.” She smiled. “Maybe you could tell us how you and Jordan met, Nick.”
All conversation at the table stopped.
Frankly, Nick was surprised it had taken this long for someone to ask. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jordan take a nervous sip of her wine. He knew this was the part of the evening she’d dreaded, the part where they told more lies to her friends.