“Is that a problem?”

“Um, yeah. It kind of is,” Kyle said dryly. “Because the last FBI agent I met nearly snapped my ankle off putting on a monitoring device. And the two agents before that threw me in prison. So no FBI agents are sniffing around my family. Period.”

Nick folded his arms across his chest, not worried in the slightest. “In what alternate reality do you think Jordan’s going to let anyone make decisions for her?” He gestured to the doors that led to the X-ray rooms. “But you should go give her that speech right now. She could use a good laugh, and that ought to do the trick.”

“My God, he’s as sarcastic as she is,” Kyle muttered under his breath to Grey.

Hearing that, Nick knew he was in.

With the Rhodes clan, that was the ultimate stamp of approval.


JORDAN SAT ON the examination table, holding up her wrist to check out her new fiberglass cast. “How long do I have to wear this?” At least her cheekbone wasn’t broken. Although thanks to Xander, she’d have a heck of a bruise for the next week.

“Six weeks,” the resident told her. “And make sure you keep the cast as dry as possible. I’d suggest baths.”

Jordan thought about the last bath she’d taken. Probably best to keep the tub free of a certain FBI agent, if dry was the goal.

“I’ve written you a prescription for Vicodin for the pain. And if your arm gets itchy, you can point a hairdryer on the cool setting down the cast,” the doctor continued. “If that doesn’t work, try Benadryl.”

After running through the rest of her discharge orders, the doctor left. Jordan was attempting to gather up her purse, coat, and the hospital paperwork she’d collected when she heard a familiar voice from the doorway.

“Already trying to do everything by yourself. Imagine that.”

She turned around and saw Kyle. He walked over and took everything out of her hands and set it on the examination table.

“You’re here,” Jordan said in surprise.

“Dad’s here, too. We rushed over when we heard that you’d been attacked in your store.” Kyle pulled up his pant leg and gestured to the monitoring device around his ankle. “Here’s a funny thing – I thought this device was supposed to alert the parole department if I go outside certain set boundaries. So the whole time I was out there in the waiting room, I kept thinking a team of U.S. marshals would come storming in with guns blazing. But nope – nothing.” He gave the ankle monitor a solid knock and shrugged. “You know, Jordo, I’m beginning to think the darn thing doesn’t work.”

Jordan leaned against the examination table. She had a feeling she was going to need that Vicodin quickly, to make it through this conversation headache-free. “All right. How much do you know, and how much do you only think you know?”

Kyle pointed at her. “I know everything. Like the fact that you are the most foolish, stubborn, overprotective … all-around best fucking sister in the world.” He grabbed her and pulled her into a huge bear hug. “If anything had happened to you, I never would’ve forgiven myself,” he said against the top of her head. “Why did you do it? I told you I was handling things in prison.”

Jordan thought about how best to explain. “You know the panic you felt when you heard I’d been attacked at the store?”

“Yes. It sucked.”

“Well, I felt something like that every day you were at MCC.”

“Aw, shit, Jordo.” He squeezed her tighter.

She winced. Not that she didn’t want to prolong the lovely brother-sister moment, but her arm was pinned against his chest. “Kyle … the wrist. Help.”

He pulled back and grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. How long do you have to wear that cast, anyway?”

“Six weeks.”

“Oh, that blows. I bet your arm is going to be all shriveled and puny when they take it off.”

And so the lovely brother-sister moment was over.

“Thanks,” Jordan said. “Did you say Dad was here, too?”

Kyle threw her a you-are-so-busted look. “Why, yes, he is. He’s out in the waiting room, grilling Tall, Dark, and Sarcastic.”

Jordan’s mouth formed a silent O. She was busted. “You’ve met Nick?”

“Yep, we’ve met, all right. He was kind enough to inform me that I have absolutely no say in whether you two date.”

“Well, you don’t.”

“You know, you all could at least pretend that my opinion makes a difference.” Kyle shot her a sideways glance. “You like this guy, don’t you?”

Jordan couldn’t keep the smile off her face. “Yeah, I like this guy. He rescued me from a crazed man with a gun, he makes me laugh, and he calls his mother Ma. I’d say he’s a keeper.”


NICK HAD SURVIVED the grilling from Jordan’s father about the honorability of his intentions, and he’d told her that he’d loved her without so much as an eye twitch. Now there was only one thing left to do to make the relationship official.

He used the controls on the car steering wheel to dial his cell phone. It felt good to be back in his real car, and a few minutes ago it similarly had felt good to be back in his condo. He’d stopped there to pick up a few things after dropping Jordan off at her house. Her friends, and Martin, had heard the news about the attack and had descended upon the house in a chaotic, concerned swarm. With them there, Nick had felt comfortable enough leaving Jordan for a quick trip.

She’d asked him to stay at her house for a while – teasingly saying she needed an assistant while she got used to the cast on her wrist – and he’d agreed. Frankly, he’d planned to stay with her all along. Now that she’d sucked him into this boyfriend thing with those tricky feminine wiles, she’d better believe that he was going to do it right.

The person on the other end of the line answered after three rings. Her tone was dry. “So you do remember this phone number. Imagine that.”

Nick grinned. Some things never changed. “Does this mean you’re speaking to me again?”

His mother sniffed reluctantly. “I suppose. They still keeping you busy at the Bureau? Working on any important cases?”

Nick felt a tug of emotion. Sure, his mother could be a lot to handle at times, but her pride in the work he did never wavered. “Actually, I just made an arrest today. Took down a hotshot restaurant owner in an investigation that’s connected to the Roberto Martino case you’ve probably read about in the papers. Which means that my undercover assignment is over.”

“Do you know what they’ll assign you to next?”

“No clue. But I’m going to ask to be taken off undercover work.”

His mother’s shock could be heard through the speakers. “You’re giving up undercover work? Why?”

Nick took a deep breath and braced himself for the interrogation. “Well, Ma, see … there’s this girl.”

Silence.

He checked to make sure the call hadn’t been dropped. “You still there, Ma?”

A sniffle.

“You can’t be crying already,” he said. “I haven’t told you anything about her yet.”

“It doesn’t matter, Nick,” his mother said through her tears. “Those are the three words I’ve been waiting thirty-four years to hear.”

Thirty-three

AROUND SIX O’CLOCK the following evening, at the end of Nick’s first day back in the office, he knocked on Jack Pallas’s door and stuck his head in. It’d been a long day, complete with an arrest and paperwork and statements pertaining to Eckhart (shooting a suspect, even a dickhead one, had its bureaucratic drawbacks), and he was ready for a break.

Pallas eased back in his chair and beckoned with his hand. “All right. Let’s do this.”

“We found Trilani holed up with one of his ex-girlfriends in a studio apartment on the south side,” Nick said. “With Eckhart, that makes twenty-nine arrests for me in the last four weeks.”

“I’m still winning at thirty-four.”

“I wouldn’t count on holding that lead for long.” Nick cocked his head. “You free to grab a drink? I’m buying.”

Pallas regarded him curiously. “Sure, as long as it’s not some trendy wine bar. I heard about the crowd you’re running with these days.”

“Does the U.S. attorney know you spend your workdays listening to office gossip?”

Jack grinned in satisfaction. “The U.S. attorney is thrilled that there’s finally someone else for this office to gossip about.”

They headed out to a sports bar located across the street from the FBI offices. They ordered their drinks and discussed work for a while, mostly the Eckhart investigation and the upcoming Martino trial. Having worked undercover for so long, Nick realized that he’d missed the camaraderie between agents that arose when one was in the office on a regular basis.

Which brought him to the reason he’d wanted to speak to Jack. He’d figured out a potential way to manage his own cases and remain at the top, yet still be with Jordan every night. Or at least, the vast majority of them. “So I told Davis that I want to take a break from undercover work,” he led in.

Jack took a sip of his Grey Goose on the rocks. “I wonder why that might be.”

“Let’s just call it an adjustment of priorities.” Nick saw no reason to beat around the bush about this next part. Pallas was a good guy, and an excellent agent. “There’s more. You and I both know that Davis has been thinking about retiring. I told him today that when that happens, I’d like to be considered for the special agent in charge position. I wanted you to hear it from me first. Thought you might be eying the job, too.”

Jack considered this. “I’ve given it some thought,” he admitted. “But politically, I doubt it would go over well if the special agent in charge of Chicago and the U.S. attorney of the same district were involved in a personal relationship.” His expression was one of pride. “And since Cameron got there first, it looks like I’m adjusting my priorities, too.” He paused. “Plus, I hear that people think I’m cranky.” He rubbed his jaw, musing. “Not sure why that is.”

“Maybe it’s all the brooding and glowering.”

“No one complains when you break out the don’t-fuck-with-me face.”

“True. But I have natural charm that wins people over.” Nick turned serious again. “So we’re good?”

“Nick McCall, special agent in charge.” Jack slapped him on the shoulder. “I suppose there are worse things that could happen to this office.” His eyes moved up to a television on the wall behind Nick. “Now there’s a sight I never get tired of seeing.”

Nick turned around to look. On the television, U.S. Attorney Cameron Lynde was holding a press conference about Xander Eckhart’s arrest, the hostage situation at DeVine Cellars, and the connection to the Roberto Martino trial. The two agents watched as Cameron easily fielded the reporters’ questions. Then the news piece cut to video footage of the hero of the day, “billionaire heiress and businesswoman” Jordan Rhodes. On the screen flashed an image of Jordan, looking as sleek and sophisticated as ever despite the cast on her wrist, as she stepped out of the Maserati.

Jack leaned over. “Ever get the impression that these women are way out of our league?”

“I shot the last guy who said that to me.”

“And people say I’m cranky.”

Nick chuckled as his eyes turned back to the television screen. As it turned out, he didn’t care whose league Jordan was in. All that mattered was that she was his.


FOUR DAYS LATER, Nick sat on the oversized couch in Jordan’s media room. Facing her, he placed a small black box in her hands and said three words. “Let’s do this.”

She looked down at the box, then back up at him. “This is a really big step, Nick.”

“I’m ready.”

“Are you sure? After this, there’s no turning back.”

“I want to make it official.” He nodded at the box. “Come on – the suspense is killing me.”

“All right. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Jordan pointed the small black remote control at the television. Three more clicks, and Nick heard the words that would seal his fate forever.

“LIVE! It’s Dancing with the Stars!”

Jordan settled in next to him on the couch as the parade of “stars” sashayed their way down a grand staircase and onto the screen. She glanced over to see his reaction. “Hanging in there?”

Nick stared at the television.

There were no words.

“It’s … even worse than I’d imagined,” he whispered. “Is there a reason none of these men have buttons on their shirts?” Horrified, he took in the spray tans. The sequins and feathers. The caked-on makeup and the plunging necklines. And those were the guys. He pointed. “Is that dude wearing eyeliner?”