Nick took in the photograph of Jordan Rhodes on the screen. Reluctantly, he had to admit that Huxley raised a good point – fourth richest woman in Chicago or not, they did have leverage over her. Significant leverage.

“What’s the matter, McCall? Afraid she’s out of your league?” Davis asked with a sly grin. “Professionally speaking.”

Nick had to fight back a laugh. Over the last six months, he’d posed undercover as everything from a drug dealer to a thief to a con artist, he’d spent nearly thirty nights in jail, and he’d taken down twenty-seven corrupt Chicago cops. He could certainly handle one billionaire heiress.

Xander Eckhart was his target now, at least for the next five days, and Jordan Rhodes appeared to be their best shot at making the investigation a successful one. Which meant that it was no longer a question of whether she cooperated with them, but when.

He nodded at Davis, all business. “Consider it done, boss.”

Two

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 at her customer. “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 light brown hair was mussed from the wind outside. “You’ve convinced me. Put me down for a case. I’m having a dinner party in a few 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. “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. “Sounds delicious.” 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 III 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 as approachable as possible to the customer. Sure, she loved the romance of wine – that was one of the main reasons she had opened her store, DeVine Cellars. But for her, it was also a business.

“I take it you cook,” she said to the man with the great smile. Great hair, too, she noted approvingly. Nicely styled, on the longer side. He wore a gray scarf wrapped loosely around his neck that gave him an air of casual sophistication. Not too fussy, but a man who appreciated the finer things in life.

He shrugged. “I know my way around food. It comes with the job.”

“Let me guess – you’re a chef,” Jordan said.

“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.”

Yes, she did, along with many others in Chicago. “Religiously. With so many restaurants in this city to choose from, it’s nice to have an expert’s opinion.”

Cal relaxed 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.

Letting this sit for a moment, Jordan moved behind the counter and opened the laptop she kept there. “A case of the Excelsior it is.” She pulled up her distributor’s delivery schedule. “I can have it in the store 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 try to skip out.”

Yes, she may have been flirting a little. Maybe more than 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 – and it felt good to be flirting. And if the object of said flirtation just so happened to have polished, refined good looks and was a first-class connoisseur of cuisine, well, all the better.

“Maybe I should skip out, just to make you come look for me,” Cal teased.

And maybe she wasn’t the only one flirting a little.

He stood opposite her with the counter between them. “Since you read my reviews, I take it you trust my opinions on restaurants?”

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

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

“Glad to hear it. 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 want to go there with me.”

Jordan smiled. Yes, she’d caught that. But a little warning alarm had gone off in her head as she wondered 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 to pick up the Excelsior, you can tell me more about this new restaurant then.”

Cal seemed surprised by her nonacceptance, 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 new 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 and noticed that 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 back hallway. He walked over, carrying a case of zinfandel that he’d brought up from the cellar. 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 he’d grown on her. Jordan couldn’t imagine running the shop without him.

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

Martin was instantly impressed. “I’ve been trying to get reservations there for two weeks.” He 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 a billion dollars. I’m guessing you don’t need any help getting into restaurants.”

She threw him an eye as she grabbed two more bottles. “I don’t have a billion dollars.” It was the same routine virtually 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 generally avoided discussing finances with others.

It wasn’t exactly a secret, however: her father was rich. Okay, extremely rich. She hadn’t grown up with money; it was something her family had stumbled into. Her father, basically a computer geek like her brother, was one of those success stories Forbes and Newsweek loved to put on their covers: after graduating from the University of Illinois with a master’s degree in computer science, Grey Rhodes went on to Northwestern University’s Kellogg business school. He then started his own company in Chicago where he developed an antiviral protection program that exploded worldwide. Within two years of its release to the public, Rhodes antivirus protected one in every three computers in America (a statistic her father made sure to include in every interview). And then came the money. A lot of it.

One might have certain impressions about her lifestyle, Jordan knew, given her father’s financial success. Some of these 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 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 nine years ago. Take, for example, the Maserati Quattroporte Jordan had sitting in her garage. Probably not the typical present one received for graduating business school.

“We’ve had this conversation before, 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 obvious pride in her voice. She was the sole owner of DeVine Cellars and business was good. Really good, in fact – certainly better than she’d ever projected at this point in her ten-year plan. Of course, she didn’t make anywhere near the 1.2 billion her father may or may not have been worth (she never confirmed specifics about his money), but she did very well for herself on her own merit. She made enough to pay for a four-thousand-plus square foot house in the upscale Lincoln Park neighborhood, to treat herself to fine hotels when she traveled, and she still had plenty of 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 generally true. Although I do have to pay, if that makes you feel any better.”

Martin sniffed. “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.” True, there was the slight excess of smoothness to think about. But on the upside, he was into food and wine, and he cooked. Practically a Renaissance man.

“I think you should string Kittredge along for a while,” Martin mused aloud. “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,” Jordan suggested. “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.”

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,” he said, sounding resigned to his fate. “A light-bodied pinot unnoticed in a world dominated by big, bold cabs.”