“People meet like that all the time,” Mercks said.

Xander jabbed his forefinger on his desk for emphasis. “People don’t meet Jordan Rhodes like that all the time. Her father has one point two billion dollars. Billion. I’m calling it now—this thing is some kind of setup. Stanton’s after her money. He’s probably a con artist or something.”

He pointed at Mercks. “You stay on Stanton until I say otherwise. There’s more to this story. I can feel it.”

THE FOLLOWING DAY in his fake office, Nick eased back in his desk chair. He grinned, amused with this latest report. “So Eckhart thinks I’m a con artist who’s after Jordan’s money. Good. That should keep him distracted for a while.”

He’d called Huxley after listening to the recording of the conversation. His partner had been stationed in the van a couple blocks from Bordeaux every day since he’d recovered from the stomach flu. Over the course of the past week and a half, they’d developed a good working relationship: Huxley listened live from the van to Eckhart’s conversations, then e-mailed for Nick’s review the digital audio files, along with notes of the minute and second markers for any conversations that were particularly relevant to their investigation.

Huxley took the day shift in the van, and they had two additional agents working the evening and early morning shifts—including Agent Simms, who, per Eckhart’s promise, had been fired from her bartending position the day after his party. The agents covering the second and third shifts similarly sent over audio files for Nick’s review, although thus far there’d been very little substantive evidence gathered through the recording devices during those hours.

They’d recorded a second conversation between Trilani and Eckhart, and this was good progress for their case. None of it, however, was particularly thrilling work. But Nick needed something to do while working at his fake office, and this kept him busy enough. Thus, they carried on: Huxley, holed up in a van seven days a week, weeding out hours upon hours of Eckhart’s tedious wine, nightclub, and restaurant-related conversations, and him, stuck in a stuffy office five days a week with two interns pretending to be “Ethan” the property manager and “Susie,” his office assistant.

Nick peered through the glass pane that separated his private office from the front office where the two interns worked. At least they were able to work remotely from their laptop computers, so the façade wasn’t a total waste of Bureau resources. Still, he could only imagine the excited looks on their faces when Davis had approached them with the chance to work undercover. A boring office job probably had not been what they’d had in mind.

“As long as you and Jordan keep Eckhart fooled about your supposed relationship, we should be fine,” Huxley said. “Still, I’ll feel better when we’re finished with the surveillance and can be done with this whole thing.”

Nick ran his hands through his hair, in agreement with that sentiment. The situation with Jordan was starting to seem too real for his comfort. This normally would be the point when he, sensing a possible attachment, would back away from the situation. But with her, he was trapped. Consequently, all he could do was carry on as usual, being that guy who didn’t let things become real, who was always handy with a quip but didn’t have feelings deeper than that.

Because he didn’t. Undercover agents didn’t allow themselves to become attached to a case or anyone involved with it.

He wasn’t complaining—he’d signed on for this. He’d worked hard to get where he was, and being the best undercover agent in the Chicago field office was a major accomplishment. It was his specialty, the thing that differentiated him from the other agents in the office. Without that distinction, he’d be just another guy with a badge, a gun, and cool facial scruff. Hell, he’d be Pallas.

That alone was more than enough motivation to get his head back in the game.

“You and me both, Huxley,” he told his partner. “The faster we can wrap this up, the better. For all of us.”

Nineteen

JORDAN FEIGNED A pleasant smile for her customers. “What do you think?”

The couple, in their late twenties, looked at each other. “I like it,” the woman said, swirling the two-ounce pour of chardonnay.

“I like it, too,” the man agreed. “It’s not as buttery as a lot of chardonnays I’ve tasted. Let’s get a bottle.”

“Perfect.” Jordan rang them up. Then she headed over to one of the tables in the corner, where a group of women in their early forties were drinking wines by the glass. “How are you ladies doing? Can I answer any questions about the wine?” When she had finished there, she moved to the next table, then to the racks where a few additional customers were browsing, before hurrying back to the bar to ring up one of her regulars.

“Busy tonight,” he noted.

Jordan bagged up his four bottles. “Can’t complain.” Actually, she could complain—quite easily, in fact—but she wouldn’t. Not around customers, anyway.

The stomach flu had struck DeVine Cellars.

Both of her sales associates had been out sick since Monday, which meant that she and Martin had to divide all the shifts between the two of them. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem, but she had visited Kyle that morning, per usual, so Martin had opened the store and she had to work the evening shift—by far the busiest time—alone. As such, she’d been running around almost nonstop since five thirty, hadn’t eaten, hadn’t even had a chance to go to the bathroom, and was feeling more than a little crabby.