“I understand your frustration, Jordan,” Nick said quietly. “Trust me, this is not an ideal situation for anyone.”

His subdued tone took the fight right out of her. And knowing Nick, that had been his intent. She was angry and annoyed—with him, even though the rational part of her realized this wasn’t his fault; with the FBI in general; with Xander; even with Kyle. But mostly what she felt right then was tired.

She ran her hands through her hair. “I think I should show you where you’ll be sleeping tonight. It’s getting late.”

AFTER LEADING NICK to the guest bedroom, Jordan left him with a polite nod good night. He heard her retreating footsteps on the hardwood floors of the hallway, then a quiet click as she shut her bedroom door.

Clearly, she wasn’t happy about the news concerning her brother, and Nick couldn’t say he blamed her. She was getting the raw end of the deal with the FBI, but sometimes that was how things went. That’s why they’d chosen her, after all. With her brother’s freedom at stake, she wasn’t going anywhere—no matter how unhappy she was that they’d changed the terms of their deal. The special agent in him knew all this and was glad the operation hadn’t completely tanked because of the curveball Eckhart had thrown at them that evening.

The man in him, however, felt like shit.

Nick closed the door and checked out the guest bedroom. His eyes skimmed over the king-sized bed with its plump, welcoming pillows and silk blue comforter. Through a doorway on his right, he found a private bathroom designed in creamy marble and well stocked with virtually every toiletry imaginable. It certainly beat the eight-by-eight-foot cell he’d slept in as part of his last undercover assignment.

Getting comfortable, he slipped off his suit jacket and made one last call for the night.

“So? Is Jordan on board?” Davis asked.

“Of course. Eckhart’s not going to slip away that easily. But there’s a catch.” Nick eased onto the bed. “I’m calling in that favor you owe me. The one that just tripled in magnitude because of this mess you roped me into.”

Davis sounded surprised. And a little suspicious. “What kind of favor?”

“Do we still have Agent Griegs in play?” Nick asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“This will involve him, too.”

Davis sighed. “I’m not going to like this favor, am I?”

“Probably not,” Nick said. “But I debated between this and having you call my mother to explain that it’s your fault I can’t make it to her sixtieth birthday party. You pick. But I should warn you: my mother is Italian. New York Italian, which is like being five hundred percent Italian.”

Davis swore under his breath. “The hell with that. I’ll get ahold of Griegs.”

Fifteen

NICK WOKE UP the next morning not immediately recognizing his surroundings. An occupational hazard. When he felt the silk comforter brush against his bare chest in a caress, he remembered.

Jordan.

He wondered how angry she’d still be that morning. If he were an introspective person, one of those in-touch-with-hidden-emotions types—aka a woman—he would probably take note of the fact that it was much harder to blow off her dislike of him than it had been merely six days ago. And, if he were an introspective person, he might also ask himself what he’d been doing by calling in that favor with his boss last night.

Thank goodness, then, that he wasn’t such a person.

Because if he were, he would also have to tell himself to shut up and stop asking so many damn questions. He had an assignment to focus on.

He sat up and listened for any sound outside the guest bedroom, wondering if Jordan was awake. He checked the clock on the nightstand, saw that it was just past seven A.M., and figured she was still asleep after the late night they’d had.

He yanked the comforter off and made his way into the bathroom. He sped through his shower routine and threw on the shirt and pants he’d worn the night before, having no other options. Despite its other luxuries, Palazzo Rhodes didn’t come with a spare set of men’s clothes.

He looked in the mirror and decided to skip shaving. For anyone who might be watching from a black sedan out front, Nick Stanton had just spent the night rolling around in bed with a smart, sexy woman and undoubtedly had better things to do this morning than shave.

Nick Stanton was a lucky SOB.

Nick McCall, on the other hand, had work to do, starting with a few phone calls. Including one in particular he dreaded.

He went downstairs to the kitchen, found an expensive-looking espresso maker that appeared wholly unused, then poked around and saw no other machinery in the house capable of producing caffeine. This brought about a round of grumbling about damn fancy rich types and their damn fancy gadgets as he sat down at the counter and called in to the office.

“We’ve got a condo for you in Bucktown,” Davis told him. “1841 North Waveland, unit three-A. It’ll work well for you—two bedrooms and an office, top amenities. Nice enough that it won’t raise any suspicions.”

“Can’t have Jordan Rhodes’s boyfriend slumming it now, can we?” Nick grumbled.

“I wasn’t thinking so much about the girl, more that a successful property investor such as yourself wouldn’t be slumming it,” Davis said. “What’s gotten into you this morning, sunshine?”

Nick grunted. Damn pesky questions. “Just haven’t had my morning coffee, boss.”