A Lot like Love (FBI/US Attorney #2)(87)

“Trust me—I plan to.” Kyle’s voice rose as he pointed to the corridor that led to the X-ray rooms. “Because my sister is in there with a broken wrist, and from what I’m hearing, she narrowly escaped being killed. All because the FBI put her in the line of fire. So I’d like to know why she would ever agree to help you unless—”

He stopped as a look of realization crossed his face. “No.” He pointed emphatically. “Do not say that she did this for me.”

Nick didn’t have to say anything else.

Kyle took a step back and ran his hands through his hair. He said nothing for a moment. Then he wiped his eyes as he looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head. “Goddammit, Jordo.”

Grey cleared his throat and looked pointedly at Nick. “I’d like to know more about this undercover agent who posed as my daughter’s date. The ubiquitous Tall, Dark, and Smoldering.”

Nick put on his best meet-the-parent smile. “I generally prefer to go by Nick.”

Kyle did a double take. “You? You’re the jerk-off dating my sister?”

“Is that a problem?”

“Um, yeah. It kind of is,” Kyle said dryly. “Because the last FBI agent I met nearly snapped my ankle off putting on a monitoring device. And the two agents before that threw me in prison. So no FBI agents are sniffing around my family. Period.”

Nick folded his arms across his chest, not worried in the slightest. “In what alternate reality do you think Jordan’s going to let anyone make decisions for her?” He gestured to the doors that led to the X-ray rooms. “But you should go give her that speech right now. She could use a good laugh, and that ought to do the trick.”

“My God, he’s as sarcastic as she is,” Kyle muttered under his breath to Grey.

Hearing that, Nick knew he was in.

With the Rhodes clan, that was the ultimate stamp of approval.

JORDAN SAT ON the examination table, holding up her wrist to check out her new fiberglass cast. “How long do I have to wear this?” At least her cheekbone wasn’t broken. Although thanks to Xander, she’d have a heck of a bruise for the next week.

“Six weeks,” the resident told her. “And make sure you keep the cast as dry as possible. I’d suggest baths.”

Jordan thought about the last bath she’d taken. Probably best to keep the tub free of a certain FBI agent, if dry was the goal.

“I’ve written you a prescription for Vicodin for the pain. And if your arm gets itchy, you can point a hairdryer on the cool setting down the cast,” the doctor continued. “If that doesn’t work, try Benadryl.”

After running through the rest of her discharge orders, the doctor left. Jordan was attempting to gather up her purse, coat, and the hospital paperwork she’d collected when she heard a familiar voice from the doorway.

“Already trying to do everything by yourself. Imagine that.”

She turned around and saw Kyle. He walked over and took everything out of her hands and set it on the examination table.

“You’re here,” Jordan said in surprise.

“Dad’s here, too. We rushed over when we heard that you’d been attacked in your store.” Kyle pulled up his pant leg and gestured to the monitoring device around his ankle. “Here’s a funny thing—I thought this device was supposed to alert the parole department if I go outside certain set boundaries. So the whole time I was out there in the waiting room, I kept thinking a team of U.S. marshals would come storming in with guns blazing. But nope—nothing.” He gave the ankle monitor a solid knock and shrugged. “You know, Jordo, I’m beginning to think the darn thing doesn’t work.”

Jordan leaned against the examination table. She had a feeling she was going to need that Vicodin quickly, to make it through this conversation headache-free. “All right. How much do you know, and how much do you only think you know?”

Kyle pointed at her. “I know everything. Like the fact that you are the most foolish, stubborn, overprotective . . . all-around best f**king sister in the world.” He grabbed her and pulled her into a huge bear hug. “If anything had happened to you, I never would’ve forgiven myself,” he said against the top of her head. “Why did you do it? I told you I was handling things in prison.”

Jordan thought about how best to explain. “You know the panic you felt when you heard I’d been attacked at the store?”

“Yes. It sucked.”

“Well, I felt something like that every day you were at MCC.”

“Aw, shit, Jordo.” He squeezed her tighter.

She winced. Not that she didn’t want to prolong the lovely brother-sister moment, but her arm was pinned against his chest. “Kyle . . . the wrist. Help.”

He pulled back and grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. How long do you have to wear that cast, anyway?”

“Six weeks.”

“Oh, that blows. I bet your arm is going to be all shriveled and puny when they take it off.”

And so the lovely brother-sister moment was over.

“Thanks,” Jordan said. “Did you say Dad was here, too?”

Kyle threw her a you-are-so-busted look. “Why, yes, he is. He’s out in the waiting room, grilling Tall, Dark, and Sarcastic.”

Jordan’s mouth formed a silent O. She was busted. “You’ve met Nick?”