As he climbed the stairs to the front door, he caught himself wondering if Jordan’s father had bought the house, or if she made enough money to afford it on her own. Not that it was any of his business, he was just … curious.

He rang the doorbell and could hear its melodic chime through the door. When a minute or two passed without an answer, he reached up to ring the bell again.

The door flew open.

“Sorry,” Jordan said breathlessly. “Zipper problems.”

Nick tried not to show any reaction as he just … stared. From where he stood, he saw no problems whatsoever.

The deep purple fabric of her dress hugged all the curves of her slender frame. She wore her hair up, and a few errant blond chunks swept across her smoky-lined, ocean-colored eyes – eyes that sparkled even more radiantly than the diamonds in her ears.

She braced one arm against the door frame. “That’s the longest you’ve gone without talking since we met, Brooklyn. I take it you like the dress.”

Busted.

Nick regrouped. “Don’t get too cocky. I was just trying to figure out where we’re going to stash a microphone in that thing.”

Jordan stepped aside as he entered her house and shut the door behind him.

Nick’s eyes nearly fell out of their sockets.

My God, the back of her dress … it dipped invitingly low, practically begging him to stare at her ass.

“What’s this about me wearing a microphone?” she asked.

He blinked cluelessly. “Excuse me?”

“You said I’m wearing a microphone?” she prompted him.

Right. The microphone. Undercover op. “It’s just a precautionary measure. I want to be able to hear you and Eckhart talking while I’m downstairs in his office.” Nick reached inside the pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a wireless, quarter-inch-sized microphone. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Jordan examined it curiously. “I can’t believe how small it is.”

“It picks up voices from fifty feet away, even through clothing. All you need to do is tuck it inside your bra.” His eyes went to the V of her neckline. “Assuming you’re wearing a bra with that dress.”

“Nope. Just Band-Aids over my nipples.”

Six years working undercover for the FBI, another five years on NYPD vice, but damn if Nick had a clue how to handle that predicament.

Jordan grinned. “I’m kidding.” She twirled her finger. “Turn around.”

He complied. Don’t think about her nipples. Don’t think about her nipples.

He was thinking about her nipples.

“Are you done yet?” he asked brusquely. Perhaps things would go faster if he lent her some assistance …

“I think I’ve got it,” Jordan said from behind him.

Nick turned around and watched as she adjusted her neckline, making sure her bra was hidden once again.

She straightened up and faced him. “What do you think? Good?”

His eyes roved over her. Good was putting it mildly. But instead of answering, he gestured to the door. He’d seen the car waiting for them out front, and it was time to go. “Ready for this?”

Jordan took a deep breath. “No. But I’ll do it anyway.”


BECAUSE OF ALL the wine they’d be offered at Xander’s party, Jordan had rented a Town Car for the evening. It was what she did every year, and Nick had emphasized that it was important for her to stick to her routine as much as possible.

Sitting in the backseat next to him, she tried to ignore the butterflies in her stomach. She officially was about to take part in an undercover sting operation, and an excess of nerves could only hinder her objectives tonight. Previously, the closest to danger she had ever come had been the time a drunk, homeless man wandered into her store and knocked over a display of syrah before passing out on the floor. Really, though, the only danger had been that she would step on a piece of glass or stain her shoes as she cleaned up the mess, as the man had been so inebriated he hadn’t woken up after his dramatic entrance. And Martin had been there to protect her, standing over the man with a loaded bottle of Côtes du Rhône until the police had arrived.

Jordan looked at Nick, who she suspected was carrying something far more powerful than a Côtes du Rhône. Although where he could fit a gun in that perfectly tailored suit was anyone’s guess.

He’d shaved for the evening, and centered in his chin was a small cleft she hadn’t noticed before. The back of his dark brown hair brushed against the collar of his coat – he’d gotten a haircut as well.

When he had arrived at her house, there’d been a moment when she’d been struck by how refined and handsome he looked in his dress coat and suit. He would blend in at Xander’s party without any problem. Interestingly, however, she thought she liked him better with the scruff and jeans. Thank God he annoyed her a good ninety-five percent of the time they were together, because she had absolutely no intention of being attracted to Nick McCall. Stanton. Whoever the heck he was that night.

He caught her looking at him just as the car pulled up in front of Bordeaux. The driver got out and walked around the car to Jordan’s door. Nick studied her carefully, as if gauging her mood.

“So this is it.” She tried to sound nonchalant, but there was a slight shake to her voice. The driver opened the door and she shivered when the cold, February air rushed into the car.

Nick leaned forward to address the driver. “We’ll need just a moment.” He pulled the door shut to give them some privacy.

He spoke quietly. “Jordan, look at me.”

She did, and he held her gaze.

“You’ll be fine. Trust me.”

She nodded, finding comfort in his steady tone. “Okay.”

Then he put his hand on her chin and moved closer – wait, was he going to kiss her? – and she felt the warmth of his breath against her neck as he whispered in her ear.

“But if anything goes wrong tonight, find the red-headed bartender. She’s a friend.”

Jordan’s eyes flew open. Wrong?

She didn’t have time to ask what could possibly go wrong, because Nick pushed open the door and the driver automatically reached for her hand. So she put on her game face and stepped out of the car. Nick followed, and together they walked to the restaurant’s front door and stepped inside.

Jordan had been to Bordeaux several times before, but the elegant décor continued to impress her. Soaring eighteenfoot ceilings, crystal chandeliers emitting a warm glow, and creamy silk wall panels all gave the place a light, airy feel. To their right, across the dining room, was a cream-lacquered arch that led to the VIP wine bar. On the opposite end of the dining room was an outdoor terrace that overlooked the river and another bar, which Xander maintained at comfortable temperatures via heat lamps in the winter months. According to the plan, she would invite Xander to join her for a drink on the terrace to discuss a wine she’d located for him, and that was when Nick would make his move.

She and Nick checked their coats with the hostess and made their way into the restaurant. Jordan immediately spotted several guests she knew, but hesitated before heading over. Just one more minute. That’s all she wanted before she introduced her “date” to the world, and this game of theirs became very real.

Nick seemed to read her mind. “Why don’t we get a drink?” He caught the eye of a waiter passing by.

“Cristal?” the waiter asked, offering them each a flute. Jordan took note of the bottle as he poured – a 2002 Louis Roederer Cristal rosé. As always, Xander had spared no expense.

Focus on the wine, she told herself. Nick had the challenging part of this assignment, not her. Over the course of the next few hours, she didn’t need to do much except smile her way through several glasses of the beverage she’d spent the last several years becoming a semi-expert on.

Nick eyed his drink skeptically after the waiter left. “Conveniently, when you invited me tonight, you failed to mention there would be pink drinks.”

She felt some of the tension leave her. She hadn’t known what to expect with the whole pretending-to-be-dating routine, but so far it seemed to be business as usual between them. “It’s a rosé.”

This appeared to register with him. “Oh, like white zinfandel. My grandmother used to drink that.”

Thank God Jordan hadn’t taken a sip of her champagne, or she would’ve just choked on it. “First rule of the evening: never, ever mention white zinfandel around this crowd. Or things could get ugly very quickly.” She lifted the champagne flute to her nose and instinct took over. She closed her eyes and inhaled, smelling baked apples, almonds, and dried fruit. She took a small sip, letting the champagne dissipate in her mouth before swallowing. The flavors flirted in her mouth, light and coy.

She opened her eyes and noticed that Nick was watching her closely.

“Good?” he asked.

That was an understatement. “Try it.”

“I don’t do pink drinks.” He cocked his head. “Think you’re ready to take on the wine bar yet?”

Jordan got the message – they needed to keep moving. “Sure. Let’s see what Xander has in store for us tonight.”

Together, they made their way to the private room. The wine tasting had begun, and the bar was loud as guests discussed their drinks. Nearly immediately, Jordan noticed the redhead bartender, presumably the “friend” Nick had alluded to earlier. She was attractive, and not at all what Jordan expected an FBI agent to look like. For a moment, she caught herself wondering just how good a “friend” the woman was to Nick. Then she remembered that was none of her business.