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 ni**les.”

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 ni**les. Don’t think about her ni**les.

He was thinking about her ni**les.

“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.