A Lot Like Love (12 page)

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Authors: Julie James

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Contemporary, #General

BOOK: A Lot Like Love
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Right
, she thought as she hung up the phone. Because Nick was her
date
. And of course any woman spending Valentine’s Day with a date who looked like Nick was guaranteed a night of endless great sex.
Hot, scruffy-jawed, throw-me-down-on-the-table, mindblowing sex.
Probably with dirty words.
Perhaps not a horrible way to spend Valentine’s Day, she conceded. But it wasn’t in the cards for her.
Jordan let herself into the store and hung her coat in the back room. She changed out of her snow boots and turned on the lights and music. She loved opening the store—that time of day more than any other was when it truly felt like hers.
Mornings were typically slow until about eleven, so she had a good hour to put out the shelf talkers and signs for the closeout sale, do inventory, and clean up. She doubted, however, that much cleaning would be necessary. Martin had closed the night before, and he tended to be as much a neat freak as he was a wine snob. Not an unwelcome quality in an assistant manager.
She checked the sales receipts from the night before and saw that they’d had a good night. In addition to regular sales, they’d added four new customers to their wine club.
The wine club was something she’d started two years ago. As often as customers asked for her and Martin’s recommendations, it had seemed to be a worthwhile endeavor. Each month, she and Martin selected two wines with a combined value ranging from one hundred to one hundred and fifty dollars. She’d hesitated at first at the price, and had asked Martin whether they should consider offering more budgetfriendly wines. She’d worried that at those prices, people wouldn’t be willing to sign up for memberships.
“If I pick it, they will come,” Martin had whispered dramatically.
She’d given him six months to prove he was right.
He had been.
With nearly eight hundred members, the wine club was a huge success. They sometimes took a gamble with the wines they chose—excellent in quality, but often from boutique, lesser-known wine makers. And Martin, a traditionalist, always insisted on choosing one Old World wine, despite the fact that research indicated consumers preferred New World wines because of their user-friendly labels. Yet no one in the wine club had complained thus far.
“They love you. Seriously, when are you going to open your own store and run me out of business?” she’d teased Martin one day.
“It’s not me. It’s you,” he replied matter-of-factly.
“Hardly—you deserve the credit. If it had been up to me, this wine club would’ve been ninety percent California cabs. Ten-dollar New Zealand sauv blancs in the summer.”
“And you still would’ve had eight hundred members,” Martin said. “Let’s be honest, Jordan. Rich people like what other rich people like. They buy the wines I pick because
you
tell them to.”
She had immediately opened her mouth to object—the conversation was sounding far too
The Emperor’s New Clothes
for her tastes—but part of her suspected that Martin wasn’t entirely off the mark. Market share-wise, she knew a vastly greater proportion of wealthy Chicago wine buyers frequented her store. She may have been financially independent, but her father’s money was there nevertheless, and with that came a certain level of fascination from others.
“You’re sort of like the Paris Hilton of wine,” Martin had offered.
She’d nearly keeled over in horror.
“If you promise to never,
ever
make that analogy again, I’ll let you pick two Old World wines for next month,” Jordan had said.
Martin had rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Can I make one of them a Brunello di Montalcino?”
“You always say the quality of the Brunellos is erratic.”
“And for a lesser man, that might pose a problem,” Martin had said. “I’m telling you, Jordan, with your name and my impeccable taste, I think we can really go places with this store.”
So far, he hadn’t been wrong.
Nine
 
NICK PARKED HIS
car a half block from Jordan’s house and walked the short distance in the cold. He opened a tall wrought-iron gate and stepped onto a front patio and garden area.
He had assumed her home would be nice—very nice—and hadn’t been incorrect. The brick house stood two and a half stories above the ground, with elegant Juliet balconies curved around the arched glass windows of the main level. A large brick and limestone balcony, part of what he guessed was the master suite, looked over the front patio from the second floor.
As he climbed the stairs to the front door, he caught himself wondering if Jordan’s father had bought the house, or if she made enough money to afford it on her own. Not that it was any of his business, he was just . . . curious.
He rang the doorbell and could hear its melodic chime through the door. When a minute or two passed without an answer, he reached up to ring the bell again.
The door flew open.
“Sorry,” Jordan said breathlessly. “Zipper problems.”
Nick tried not to show any reaction as he just . . . stared. From where he stood, he saw no problems whatsoever.
The deep purple fabric of her dress hugged all the curves of her slender frame. She wore her hair up, and a few errant blond chunks swept across her smoky-lined, ocean-colored eyes—eyes that sparkled even more radiantly than the diamonds in her ears.
She braced one arm against the door frame. “That’s the longest you’ve gone without talking since we met, Brooklyn. I take it you like the dress.”
Busted.
Nick regrouped. “Don’t get too cocky. I was just trying to figure out where we’re going to stash a microphone in that thing.”
Jordan stepped aside as he entered her house and shut the door behind him.
Nick’s eyes nearly fell out of their sockets.
My God
, the back of her dress . . . it dipped invitingly low, practically begging him to stare at her ass.
“What’s this about me wearing a microphone?” she asked.
He blinked cluelessly. “Excuse me?”
“You said I’m wearing a microphone?” she prompted him.
Right
. The microphone. Undercover op. “It’s just a precautionary measure. I want to be able to hear you and Eckhart talking while I’m downstairs in his office.” Nick reached inside the pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a wireless, quarter-inch-sized microphone. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
Jordan examined it curiously. “I can’t believe how small it is.”
“It picks up voices from fifty feet away, even through clothing. All you need to do is tuck it inside your bra.” His eyes went to the V of her neckline. “Assuming you’re wearing a bra with that dress.”
“Nope. Just Band-Aids over my nipples.”
Six years working undercover for the FBI, another five years on NYPD vice, but damn if Nick had a clue how to handle that predicament.
Jordan grinned. “I’m kidding.” She twirled her finger. “Turn around.”
He complied.
Don’t think about her nipples. Don’t think about her nipples.
He was thinking about her nipples.
“Are you done yet?” he asked brusquely. Perhaps things would go faster if he lent her some assistance . . .
“I think I’ve got it,” Jordan said from behind him.
Nick turned around and watched as she adjusted her neckline, making sure her bra was hidden once again.
She straightened up and faced him. “What do you think? Good?”
His eyes roved over her.
Good
was putting it mildly. But instead of answering, he gestured to the door. He’d seen the car waiting for them out front, and it was time to go. “Ready for this?”
Jordan took a deep breath. “No. But I’ll do it anyway.”
 
 
BECAUSE OF ALL
the wine they’d be offered at Xander’s party, Jordan had rented a Town Car for the evening. It was what she did every year, and Nick had emphasized that it was important for her to stick to her routine as much as possible.
Sitting in the backseat next to him, she tried to ignore the butterflies in her stomach. She officially was about to take part in an undercover sting operation, and an excess of nerves could only hinder her objectives tonight. Previously, the closest to danger she had ever come had been the time a drunk, homeless man wandered into her store and knocked over a display of syrah before passing out on the floor. Really, though, the only danger had been that she would step on a piece of glass or stain her shoes as she cleaned up the mess, as the man had been so inebriated he hadn’t woken up after his dramatic entrance. And Martin had been there to protect her, standing over the man with a loaded bottle of Côtes du Rhône until the police had arrived.
Jordan looked at Nick, who she suspected was carrying something far more powerful than a Côtes du Rhône. Although where he could fit a gun in that perfectly tailored suit was anyone’s guess.
He’d shaved for the evening, and centered in his chin was a small cleft she hadn’t noticed before. The back of his dark brown hair brushed against the collar of his coat—he’d gotten a haircut as well.
When he had arrived at her house, there’d been a moment when she’d been struck by how refined and handsome he looked in his dress coat and suit. He would blend in at Xander’s party without any problem. Interestingly, however, she thought she liked him better with the scruff and jeans. Thank God he annoyed her a good ninety-five percent of the time they were together, because she had absolutely no intention of being
attracted
to Nick McCall. Stanton. Whoever the heck he was that night.
He caught her looking at him just as the car pulled up in front of Bordeaux. The driver got out and walked around the car to Jordan’s door. Nick studied her carefully, as if gauging her mood.
“So this is it.” She tried to sound nonchalant, but there was a slight shake to her voice. The driver opened the door and she shivered when the cold, February air rushed into the car.
Nick leaned forward to address the driver. “We’ll need just a moment.” He pulled the door shut to give them some privacy.
He spoke quietly. “Jordan, look at me.”
She did, and he held her gaze.
“You’ll be fine. Trust me.”
She nodded, finding comfort in his steady tone. “Okay.”
Then he put his hand on her chin and moved closer—
wait, was he going to
kiss
her?
—and she felt the warmth of his breath against her neck as he whispered in her ear.
“But if anything goes wrong tonight, find the red-headed bartender. She’s a friend.”
Jordan’s eyes flew open.
Wrong?
She didn’t have time to ask what could possibly go wrong, because Nick pushed open the door and the driver automatically reached for her hand. So she put on her game face and stepped out of the car. Nick followed, and together they walked to the restaurant’s front door and stepped inside.
Jordan had been to Bordeaux several times before, but the elegant décor continued to impress her. Soaring eighteenfoot ceilings, crystal chandeliers emitting a warm glow, and creamy silk wall panels all gave the place a light, airy feel. To their right, across the dining room, was a cream-lacquered arch that led to the VIP wine bar. On the opposite end of the dining room was an outdoor terrace that overlooked the river and another bar, which Xander maintained at comfortable temperatures via heat lamps in the winter months. According to the plan, she would invite Xander to join her for a drink on the terrace to discuss a wine she’d located for him, and that was when Nick would make his move.
She and Nick checked their coats with the hostess and made their way into the restaurant. Jordan immediately spotted several guests she knew, but hesitated before heading over.
Just one more minute.
That’s all she wanted before she introduced her “date” to the world, and this game of theirs became very real.
Nick seemed to read her mind. “Why don’t we get a drink?” He caught the eye of a waiter passing by.
“Cristal?” the waiter asked, offering them each a flute. Jordan took note of the bottle as he poured—a 2002 Louis Roederer Cristal rosé. As always, Xander had spared no expense.
Focus on the wine, she told herself. Nick had the challenging part of this assignment, not her. Over the course of the next few hours, she didn’t need to do much except smile her way through several glasses of the beverage she’d spent the last several years becoming a semi-expert on.
Nick eyed his drink skeptically after the waiter left. “Conveniently, when you invited me tonight, you failed to mention there would be pink drinks.”
She felt some of the tension leave her. She hadn’t known what to expect with the whole pretending-to-be-dating routine, but so far it seemed to be business as usual between them. “It’s a rosé.”
This appeared to register with him. “Oh, like white zinfandel. My grandmother used to drink that.”

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