Something About You (28 page)

AND TWO WEEKS later, they had another occasion to celebrate. Albeit, one Jack was a little less enthused about.

“Happy birthday, Jack,” Cameron said as they sat down at one of the bar tables to wait. She’d brought him to Socca restaurant that evening, a neighborhood bistro just a few blocks from her house. “Thirty-five. I think that merits a present or two.”

Jack frowned. “Cameron, I told you not to get me anything.”

“Well, I figured that was one of your seemingly endless supply of orders that I plan to ignore.” She pulled two envelopes out of her purse and set them on the table in front of him. One was large and about an inch thick, the other small but with some sort of object in it. “Choose.”

Jack picked up the larger envelope.

“Good choice,” she said.

Jack opened the envelope and found a thick, multiple-page document. He slid it out and flipped it over. The names on the caption jumped out at him:

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA v. ROBERTO MARTINO, et al

It was a criminal indictment, signed by the U.S. attorney herself, charging thirty-four members of Martino’s organization, including Roberto Martino, with over a hundred counts of federal and state law violations. It included everything from racketeering, drug, and firearm charges, to aggravated assault, attempted murder, and murder.

Jack paged silently through the indictment. When he was about halfway through, he slowed and read carefully through the counts pertaining to the murder of the DEA agent he had tried to warn, and his own torture at the hands of Martino’s men. All of which was laid out, paragraph by paragraph, in graphic detail.

“I don’t care if I don’t get them on anything else. I’ll hang them for that alone,” Cameron promised quietly. “I’m going to file it next week. I thought I might as well kick off my new position with a bang.”

Jack slid the indictment back into the envelope. It would be a bang, all right. He reached over and laced his fingers through hers. She knew what the indictment meant to him, but he needed to be certain she wasn’t doing it for the wrong reasons. “Are you sure about this?”

“Definitely. I’ve wanted to try this case for three years.”

“Things could get crazy,” Jack warned her. “You need to be careful how you handle this. Lombard and Silas are nothing in comparison to taking on Roberto Martino.”

“I’ve given a lot of thought as to how we should proceed,” Cameron said. “I’d like to bring in all the agents from the Chicago office, ones from some of the other divisions as well, and execute the arrest warrants in a simultaneous strike. Grab Martino and his guys in one fell swoop so that they don’t have time for a counter-move. I’ll need someone I can count on to lead the task force. I was thinking that should be you. I also think you should be the one to arrest Martino himself.”

Jack considered the implications of everything she had just said. Part of it had him slightly panicked.

Cameron cocked her head, misinterpreting his expression. “I thought you’d want the honor of taking down Martino.”

“Oh, hell yes.”

“Then what’s with the look?”

“It just occurred to me that as U.S. attorney, you’re now in a position of authority over me.”

Cameron raised an eyebrow. “You’re right, Agent Pallas. There is a new sheriff in town.”

“Cute. How long have you been waiting to say that?”

She laughed. “About two weeks.” She pushed the second envelope in front of him. “Don’t forget about your other present.”

Jack picked it up. “I’m thinking nothing can top my sworn enemy’s head on a platter.” He ripped open the envelope and slid out its contents.

He’d been wrong.

Keys and a garage door opener.

Momentarily caught off guard—a rare event for him—Jack looked up at Cameron. “Does this mean what I think it means?”

“I suppose that depends on what you think it means. If you think it means I’m asking you to move in with me, you’d be right.” Her expression turned more serious.

“If you also think it means that I wake up every morning wondering what I did to deserve having you back in my life, well, you’d be right about that, too.”

Jack sat there for a moment, just . . . stunned. No one had ever said anything like that to him.

“Come here,” he said huskily. He grabbed her chair and pulled it toward his. He kissed her, softly at first, then his hand moved to her back and pushed her closer as his emotions got the better of him. He pulled back to hold her gaze. “I love you, Cameron. You know that, right?”

She kissed him back, whispering the words in his ear. “I love you, too.”

It took all of Jack’s strength not to haul her out of the restaurant and drag her home right then and there. The combination of everything she’d just said, not to mention the black sweater, slim-fit skirt, and heels she was wearing, was driving him crazy. He threw her a sneaky grin. “I hope you won’t mind skipping dessert tonight. I’ve got to get you alone. I’m dying here.”

“My God, Jack—with a look like that, you two should just get a room. And try not to pick the one with a dead body next to it this time.”

Hearing the familiar male voice, Jack swore under his breath. “Seriously, Cameron—your friends have the worst timing ever.” He turned around and saw Collin standing before him.

“Happy birthday, buddy.” Collin grinned, slapping him on the back. Behind him, Jack could see Wilkins, Richard, Amy, and her husband.

“I invited a few people to help celebrate your birthday,” Cameron said sheepishly. She threw up her hands. “Surprise.”

“We sort of come with the package,” Collin explained. “Think of it as a collective gift from all of us to you: five bona fide annoying and overly intrusive new best friends.”

“It’s the gift that keeps on giving,” Wilkins said.

Jack grinned. “I’m touched. Really. And since it appears I’m going to be moving in, let me be the first to say that all of you are always welcome at my and Cameron’s house. Subject to a minimum of forty-eight hours prior notification.”

When the hostess came by to escort them to their table, Cameron held Jack back from the rest of the group. “You’re okay with this?” she asked.

“Yes. It’s great.” He kissed her forehead. “Thank you.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck. “And in answer to your earlier question, I don’t mind skipping dessert. In fact, I already have a dessert planned for when we get home.”

Jack liked the sound of that. “Can I have a hint?”

“It involves me wearing your handcuffs.”

Christ, full-mast. The thought of her naked and at his mercy threw his body into a tailspin. Jack pulled her into a corner where they were out of sight. “The hell with dinner—we’re leaving now,” he growled.

Cameron shook her head coyly. “We can’t leave your party so early. That would be indecent.”

In response to her teasing, Jack put his hands on the wall next to her, pinning her in. “So, Ms. Lynde . . . is that how it’s going to be with you?”

Her eyes flashed devilishly.

“Always.”

Keep reading for a preview of Julie James’s next romance

A Lot Like Love

Coming Spring 2011 from Berkley Sensation!

THE CHIME RANG on the front door of the wine store. Jordan Rhodes came out of the back room, where she’d been sneaking a quick bite for lunch. She smiled. “You again.”

It was the guy from last week, the one who’d looked skeptical when she’d recommended a cabernet from South Africa that—gasp—had a screw top.

“So? How’d you like the Excelsior?” she asked.

“Good memory,” he said, impressed. “You were right. It’s good. Particularly at that price point.”

“It’s good at any price point,” Jordan said. “The fact that it sells for less than ten dollars makes it a steal.”

The man’s blue eyes lit up as he grinned. He was dressed in a navy car coat and jeans, and wore expensive leather Italian loafers—probably too expensive for the six to eight inches of snow they were expected to get that evening. His dark blond hair was mussed from the wind outside.

“You’ve convinced me. Put me down for a case. I’m having a dinner party in two weeks and the Excelsior will be perfect.” He pulled off his leather gloves and set them on the long ebony wood counter that doubled as a bar when Jordan hosted events in the shop. “I’m thinking I’ll pair it with leg of lamb, maybe seasoned with black pepper and mustard seed. Rosemary potatoes.”

Jordan raised an eyebrow. The man knew his food. And the Excelsior would certainly complement the menu, although she personally subscribed to the more relaxed “drink what you want” philosophy of wine rather than putting the emphasis on finding the perfect food pairing—a fact that constantly scandalized her assistant store manager, Martin. He was a certified level three sommelier, and thus had a certain view on things; while she, on the other hand, was the owner of the store and thus believed in making wine approachable to the customer. Sure, she loved the romance of wine—that was one of the main reasons she had opened her store, DeVine Vintages. But for her, wine was also a business.

“Sounds delicious. I take it you like to cook,” she said to the man with the great smile. Great hair, too. Nicely styled, on the longer side. He wore a gray scarf wrapped loosely around his neck that gave him an air of casual sophistication.

He shrugged. “It comes with the job.”

“Let me guess—you’re a chef.”

“Food critic. With the Tribune.”

Jordan cocked her head, suddenly realizing. “You’re Cal Kittredge.”

He seemed pleased by her recognition. “You read my reviews.”

“Religiously. With so many restaurants in this city to choose from, it’s nice to have an expert’s opinion.”

Cal leaned against the counter. “An expert, huh . . . I’m flattered, Jordan.”

So, he knew her name.

Unfortunately, a lot of people knew her name. Between her father’s wealth and her brother’s recent infamy, rare was the person, at least in Chicago, who wasn’t familiar with the Rhodes family.

Jordan headed behind the counter and opened the laptop she kept there. “A case of the Excelsior—you’ve got it.” She pulled up her distributor’s delivery schedule. “I can have it in the store by early next week.”

“That’s plenty of time. Do I pay for it now or when I pick it up?” Cal asked.

“Either one. I figure you’re good for it. And now I know where to find you if you’re not.”

Okay, so she may have been flirting a little. For the last few months her family had been living under an intense spotlight because of the mess with her brother, and, frankly, dating had been the last thing on her mind. But things were finally starting to settle down—as much as things could ever settle down when one’s twin brother was locked up in prison, she supposed—and it felt good to be flirting. And if the object of said flirtation just so happened to have polished, refined good looks, well, all the better.

“Maybe I should skip out on the bill, just to make you come look for me,” Cal teased back. He stood opposite her with the counter between them. “So, since you read my restaurant reviews, I take it you trust my opinions on restaurants?”

Jordan glanced at Cal over the top of her computer as she entered his wine order. “As much as I’d trust a complete stranger about anything, I suppose.”

He laughed at that. “Good. Because there’s this Thai restaurant that just opened on Clark that’s fantastic.”

“Good to know,” Jordan said pleasantly. “I’ll have to check it out sometime.”

For the first time since entering her wine shop, Cal looked uncertain. “Oh. I meant that I thought you might like to go there with me.”

Jordan smiled. Yes, she’d caught that. But she couldn’t help but wonder how many other women Cal Kittredge had used his “Do you trust my opinions on restaurants?” line on. There was no doubt he was charming and smooth. The question was whether he was too smooth.

She straightened up from her computer and leaned one hip against the bar. “Let’s say this—when you come back next week to pick up the Excelsior, you can tell me more about this new restaurant then.”

Cal seemed surprised by her nonacceptance (she wouldn’t call it a rejection), but not necessarily put off. “Okay. It’s a date.”

“I’d call it more . . . a continuation.”

“Are you always this tough on your customers?” he asked.

“Only the ones who want to take me to Thai restaurants.”

“Next time, then, I’ll suggest Italian.” With a wink, Cal grabbed his gloves off the counter and left the store.

Jordan watched as he walked past the front windows of the store. She noticed that a heavy snow had begun to fall outside. Not for the first time, she was glad she lived only a five minute walk from the shop. And that she had a good pair of snow boots.

“My god, I thought he’d never leave,” said a voice from behind her.

Jordan turned and saw her assistant, Martin, standing a few feet away, near the hallway that led to their storage room. He walked over, carrying a case of a new zinfandel they were putting out in the store for the first time. He set the box on the counter and brushed away a few unruly reddish-brown curls that had fallen into his eyes. “Whew. I’ve been standing back there, holding that thing forever. Figured I’d give you two some privacy. I thought he was checking you out when he came in last week. Guess I was right.”

“How much did you hear?” Jordan asked as she began to help him unpack the bottles.

“I heard that he’s Cal Kittredge.”

Of course Martin had focused on that. He was twenty-seven years old, more well-read than anyone she knew, and made no attempt to hide the fact that he was a major food and wine snob. But he knew everything about wine, and frankly he’d grown on her, and Jordan couldn’t imagine running the shop without him.

“He asked me to go to some new Thai restaurant on Clark,” she said.

“I’ve been trying to get reservations there for two weeks.” Martin lined the remaining bottles on the bar and tossed the empty box onto the floor. “Lucky you. If you start dating Cal Kittredge, you’ll be able to get into all the best restaurants. For free.”

Jordan modestly remained silent as she grabbed two bottles of the zin and carried them to a bin near the front of the store.

“Oh . . . right,” Martin said. “I always forget that you have, like, a billion dollars. I’m guessing you don’t need any help getting into restaurants.”

Jordan threw him an eye as she grabbed two more bottles. “I don’t have a billion dollars.”

“Sure, just a hundred million.”

It was the same routine nearly every time the subject of money came up. Because she liked Martin, she put up with it. But with the exception of him and a small circle of her closest friends, she avoided discussing finances with others.

It wasn’t exactly a secret, however: Her father was rich. Very rich. She hadn’t grown up with money; it was something her family had simply stumbled into. Her father, basically a computer geek like her brother, was one of those overnight success stories Forbes and Newsweek loved to put on their covers: After graduating from the University of Illinois with a masters degree in computer science, Gray Rhodes went onto Northwestern University’s Kellogg School of Management. He then started his own company in Chicago where he developed an antiviral protection program that exploded worldwide and quickly became the top program of its kind on the market. Within two years of its release to the public, the Rhodes AntiVirus protected one in every three computers in America. (A statistic her father made sure to include in every interview.) And thus came the millions. Lots of them.

One might have certain impressions about her lifestyle, Jordan knew, given her father’s financial success. Some of those impressions would be accurate, others would not. Her father had set up guidelines from the moment he’d made his first million, the most fundamental being that Jordan and her brother, Kyle, earn their own way—just as he had. As adults, they were wholly financially independent from their father, and frankly, Jordan and Kyle wouldn’t have it any other way. On the other hand, their father was known to be extravagant with gifts, particularly after their mother died six years ago. Take, for example, the Maserati Quattroporte sitting in Jordan’s garage. Probably not the typical present one received after graduating business school. Even Harvard Business School.

“We’ve had this conversation many times, Martin. That’s my father’s money, not mine.” Jordan wiped her hands on a towel they kept under the counter, brushing off the dust from the wine bottles. She gestured to the store. “This is mine.” There was pride in her voice, and why shouldn’t there be? She was the sole owner of DeVine Vintages, and business was good. Really good—certainly better than she’d ever projected at this point in her ten-year plan. Of course, she didn’t make anywhere near the hundred million her father may or may not have been worth (she never talked specifics about his money), but she did well enough to pay for a house in the upscale Lincoln Park neighborhood, and still had money left over for great shoes. A woman couldn’t ask for much more.

“Maybe. But you still get into any restaurant you want,” Martin pointed out.

“This is true. I do have to pay though, if that makes you feel any better.”

Martin sniffed enviously. “A little. So are you going to say yes?”

“Am I going to say yes to what?” Jordan asked.

“To Cal Kittredge.”

“I’m thinking about it.” Aside from a potentially slight excess of smoothness, he seemed to be just her type. He was into food and wine, and better yet, he cooked. Practically a Renaissance man.

“I think you should string him along for awhile,” Martin said. “Keep him coming back so he’ll buy a few more cases before you commit.”

“Great idea. Maybe we could even start handing out punch cards. Get a date with the owner after six purchases, that kind of thing.”

“I detect some sarcasm,” Martin said. “Which is too bad, because that punch card idea is not half-bad.”

“We could always pimp you out as a prize,” Jordan suggested.

Martin sighed as he leaned his slender frame against the bar. His bow tie of choice that day was red, which Jordan thought nicely complemented his dark brown tweed jacket.

“Sadly, I’m underappreciated,” Martin said, sounding resigned to his fate. “A light-bodied pinot unnoticed in a world dominated by big, bold cabs.”

Jordan rested her hand on his shoulder sympathetically. “Maybe you just haven’t hit your drink-now date. Perhaps you’re still sitting on the shelf, waiting to age to your full potential.”

Martin considered this. “So what you’re saying is . . . I’m like the Pahlmeyer 2006 Sonoma Coast Pinot Noir.”

Sure . . . exactly what she’d been thinking. “Yep. That’s you.”

“They’re expecting great things from the 2006, you know.”

Jordan smiled. “Then we all better look out.”

The thought seemed to perk Martin up. In good spirits, he headed off to the storage room for another case of the zinfandel while Jordan returned to the backroom to finish her lunch. It was after three o’clock, which meant that if she didn’t eat now she wouldn’t get another chance until the store closed at nine. Soon enough, they would have a steady stream of customers.

Wine was hot, one of the few industries continuing to do well despite the economic downturn. But Jordan liked to think her store’s success was based on more than just a trend. She’d searched for months for the perfect space: on a major street, where there would be plenty of foot traffic, and large enough to fit several tables and chairs in addition to the display space they would need for the wine. With its warm tones and exposed brick walls, her store had an intimate feel that drew customers in and invited them to stay awhile.

By far the smartest business decision she’d made had been to apply for an on-premise liquor license, which allowed them to pour and serve wine in the shop. She’d set up highboy tables and chairs along the front windows and tucked a few additional tables into cozy nooks between the wine bins. Starting around five o’clock on virtually every night they were open, the place was hopping with customers buying wines by the glass and taking note of the bottles they planned to purchase when leaving.

Today, however, was not one of those days.

Outside, the snow continued to fall steadily. By seven o’clock the weathermen amended their predictions and were now calling for a whopping eight to ten inches. In anticipation of the storm, people were staying inside. Jordan had an event booked at the store that evening, a wine tasting, but the party called to reschedule. Since Martin had a longer commute than she did, she sent him home early. At seven thirty, she began closing the shop, thinking it highly unlikely she’d get any customers.