A Lot like Love (FBI/US Attorney #2)(65)
She did know that. She slid her hands inside his coat and shifted closer to the warmth that radiated from him. “So tell me this, Nick McCall. Where do we go from here?”
Nick had been asking himself that very question all night. He went with the truth. “I have no idea.” He tilted her chin up, wanting to look her in the eyes when he said this. “You know that my job makes things complicated. You’ve seen it firsthand. I go from identity to identity—gone on assignment for weeks and months at a time.”
Jordan paused. “And?”
He cocked his head, not following her. “And . . . that’s what makes things so complicated.”
“No, I get that part. I’m just waiting for the rest. According to Lisa, you’re supposed to give me this whole long speech. I’ve been feeling a little left out.”
He chucked her under the chin. Smart-ass. “You’re not getting the same speech everyone else does.”
“Oh.” She smiled, looking extremely pleased. “Good.”
“That still doesn’t tell us where we go from here.”
Jordan sat back and stared at him for a long moment, as if debating something. “I’m going to Napa tomorrow, for the weekend. You could come with me.” She raised an eyebrow. “It even works with your character. Nick Stanton would never let his girlfriend go to such a romantic place alone.”
Now it was Nick’s turn to fall silent. Not because he wasn’t tempted as hell by the offer—but there was something else. “I don’t know what you’re really asking me here,” he said candidly.
She considered this. “For now, I’m just asking if you want to spend the weekend with me in Napa.”
An entire weekend alone with her. In a hotel room. Christ, he got hard just thinking about it. “A man would have to be a saint not to be tempted by that offer, Rhodes.”
Sensing his hesitation, Jordan rested her elbow against the smooth, tan Italian leather of her seat. “I’m a big girl, Nick. And I’ve been fully briefed on your ‘issues’ with relationships, so you can consider me duly warned.” She grinned mischievously. “Frankly, I don’t think it’ll matter. There’s at least a fifty percent chance you’ll annoy me so much on this trip that I’ll be glad to see you go afterward.”
Nick laughed at that and hooked his finger into her coat. He pulled her closer. “And if by some miracle I fail to accomplish that?”
Her voice was low and throaty, anticipating his kiss. “Then we’ll deal with that when we get there.”
Something in Nick’s chest pulled tight. Xander Eckhart had been right about one thing: Jordan Rhodes was out of his league. Hell, she was out of everyone’s league.
The aforementioned saint would probably walk away, knowing that a man with a job like his had no business getting in deeper with a woman like her. Because a saint would also know that whatever he could give Jordan, she would always deserve more.
So call him a devil. Because walking away from her right then was not something he could do. Instead, he slanted his mouth over hers, taking his time with this kiss. No need to rush now—starting tomorrow, she was his for two nights. Days, too. The possibilities . . .
“I should mention one thing,” Jordan said.
“Hmm?” he said distractedly. His mouth broke away from hers to trail a path along her throat. The hell with wine—she reminded him instead of the smoothest, richest bourbon he’d ever tasted. And she was definitely making him burn.
“This is a business trip for me,” she continued. “So you’ll have to go to some wine tastings.”
Nick swore, his mouth going still at her neck. “I knew there’d be a catch.”
She laughed. “You’ll live.” She pulled back and cocked her head. “Can I ask you something? It’s been bothering me all night.”
“Fire away.”
“Puchalski is a federal agent? That’s some cover.”
“We placed him inside MCC two months ago. His cell-mate is one of the leaders of a south side gang—somebody we think is responsible for a string of murders. We’re hoping the cell-mate will get chatty and start bragging about his so-called accomplishments.”
“How’d you convince him to go along with stabbing my brother? Poor Puchalski. He’s probably in disciplinary segregation because of all this.”
Nick snorted. “To get him into the right cell, we had to coordinate with MCC. The guards know who he is. Your friend ‘Puchalski’ will be just fine. He’s probably hanging out in the warden’s office right now, drinking beer and watching TV while pretending to be in disciplinary segregation.”
“Well, I’m very impressed that you pulled it all off.” Jordan smiled slyly. “You know . . . this special-agent thing is kind of sexy at times.”
Nick grinned to himself. Good. Let the douchebag try to top that.
Twenty-five
XANDER HAD BEGUN to panic.
He was trapped in his home, under the guise that he was recovering from the stomach flu. Granted, his home was a three-bedroom, four-thousand-square-foot condo in the luxurious Trump International Hotel & Tower, so being trapped there wasn’t exactly a hardship. But all that alone time had given him hours upon hours to reflect on the gigantic, steaming pile of shit the FBI had just dumped on his doorstep.