Wow.

She pled with her eyes for him to play along. “You know, that thing you mentioned earlier that you have to do. On Saturday.”

“You mean that meeting with the developer I told you about,” Nick said without hesitation. “The one who’s building the new apartment complex in Old Town for me.”

She could’ve kissed him right there. Handy, these undercover FBI agents, when one needed a lie on the spot.

Jordan turned back to Melinda with a reluctant shrug. “Darn developer.” She patted Nick affectionately on his cheek. “Doesn’t he know how much I want to show off this tall, dark, and smoldering guy to all my friends?”

Nick threw her a look that said she needed to shut up. Fast.

Jordan clapped her hands together, not disagreeing with that. “So. I don’t mean to rush you out, Mel”—of course she did—“but Nick and I really should get going.”

She somehow managed to get her friend out without any more deceit or trickery, and shut the door behind Melinda with a groan. “I hate that I had to lie to her like that. Thanks for helping me out when she invited you to dinner on Saturday. This secret-agent stuff is not my thing.”

“Just hang in for twenty more minutes and then you can be free of all secret-agent responsibilities for the rest of the day.” Nick pointed in the direction of the door. “Starbucks. My treat.”

“Are you sure I don’t need a code word or something?” Jordan asked. “Maybe we should have one just in case.”

“You’ll be fine, Rhodes. Trust me.”

ON THEIR WAY to Starbucks, Jordan noticed that Nick kept a watchful eye out as they walked the few blocks from her house—presumably checking to see if they were being followed. How surreal that this was her life now, she thought. Making up a fake boyfriend, lying to her best friend, and looking out for shady private investigators who had been hired by a money launderer.

Ah, to go back to simpler times, when she was merely the sister of the world’s most infamous Internet terrorist and daughter of a billionaire.

Nick held the door open for her when they arrived at Starbucks. She hurried into the coffee shop, savoring the warmth inside and the anticipation of getting her much-needed caffeine fix. She checked out the other customers, looking for anyone who might be their FBI contact. She shivered, a combination of nerves and excitement, and decided that she’d become quite the badass these days. She had an FBI contact.

Nick hadn’t told her anything about how this drop-off would go down, so she followed standard protocol and acted normal. She ordered her drink at the counter. “I’ll take a tall, one-pump, sugar-free vanilla soy latte please.”

Nick seemed to find her order amusing. Of course he did.

“Just a grande coffee for me,” he said.

Jordan stepped to the side to wait for her drink to be called, when someone bumped her from behind.

A firm hand on her shoulder steadied her. “Sorry. My bad,” said a man’s voice.

“No worries.” She glanced up at the man with nearly black hair who smiled apologetically as he left the coffee shop. She pulled her cell phone out of the pocket of her coat. Not unexpectedly, she had a text message from Melinda:CALL ME LATER—I WANT ALL THE DETAILS ABOUT NICK.

BTW, HE’S SEX ON A FUCKING STICK.

Subtlety always had been one of Melinda’s strengths.

Jordan tucked the phone away when her drink was called. Nick walked over with his coffee.

“Ready?” he asked.

She cocked her head, confused. “Don’t we have that thing you need to take care of?”

“Already done.” Nick took her gloved hand in his and leisurely led her out of the store. To anyone watching, they were just an average, everyday couple getting coffee on a Sunday morning.

Jordan studied him as they stopped at the street corner outside Starbucks. Finally, she caught on. “The guy who bumped me.”

“Yep. The keys are in your left coat pocket.”

“Son of a bitch, that’s good.”

Nick grinned confidently. “I told you, Rhodes. This is what we do.”

NICK DROPPED JORDAN off at her house and told her that he’d call her later. Not seeing the black sedan that had followed them the night before, nor anyone else who looked suspicious, he decided they could forgo the aren’t-we-the-loving-couple good-bye kiss. As he strode down her front steps, he caught himself momentarily wishing they had been followed.

The introspective side of him—which luckily didn’t exist—would’ve had a field day with that one.

Halfway down the block, he spotted his car, still parked on the street where it had been all night. He kept right on walking—he couldn’t risk that someone would see him driving it and trace the license plate. He headed to the nearest intersection to hail a cab, making a mental note to arrange to have someone from the office pick up his car and bring it back to his condo. His real condo.

He found a cab easily and gave the driver the address that would be his home for the next week or two. He checked his phone and listened to two messages from Huxley, who apologized profusely for forcing him into the assignment and screwing up his plans to fly to New York. Although Nick appreciated the messages, they weren’t necessary. No one had forced him into anything, and he had no doubt that every other agent in the Chicago office would’ve made the same decision he had. It was part of the job they’d all signed up for. If he’d expected to be pampered and coddled through his undercover assignments, he would have gone to work for the CIA.