“How’d you convince him to go along with stabbing my brother? Poor Puchalski. He’s probably in disciplinary segregation because of all this.”

Nick snorted. “To get him into the right cell, we had to coordinate with MCC. The guards know who he is. Your friend ‘Puchalski’ will be just fine. He’s probably hanging out in the warden’s office right now, drinking beer and watching TV while pretending to be in disciplinary segregation.”

“Well, I’m very impressed that you pulled it all off.” Jordan smiled slyly. “You know … this special-agent thing is kind of sexy at times.”

Nick grinned to himself. Good. Let the douchebag try to top that.

Twenty-five

XANDER HAD BEGUN to panic.

He was trapped in his home, under the guise that he was recovering from the stomach flu. Granted, his home was a three-bedroom, four-thousand-square-foot condo in the luxurious Trump International Hotel & Tower, so being trapped there wasn’t exactly a hardship. But all that alone time had given him hours upon hours to reflect on the gigantic, steaming pile of shit the FBI had just dumped on his doorstep.

His first thought had been to shred every account statement, financial record, and tax document connected to Bordeaux and his other clubs and restaurants. Then he realized this would be a worthless endeavor – his accountants, the banks, and the IRS all had their own copies and records of everything he’d ever filed. Not to mention, he kept most of that information in his office at Bordeaux, and he certainly didn’t want the FBI hearing him cleaning out his files. The one and only advantage he had right then was that no one except for Mercks knew he was onto them.

His second thought had been to turn himself over to the Feds and try to work out some kind of deal to testify against Martino. There was one problem with this: there was a hundred percent chance that Martino would try to have him killed before he ever got to testify, and about a ninety-five percent chance that he would succeed even if the Feds placed him under protective custody.

Not good odds.

Simply put, Xander didn’t want to die.

It seemed strange to be thinking in those terms. Of course he didn’t want to die; no one wanted to die. But in the last twenty-four hours, it had occurred to him that this was a very real, imminent possibility. And if Roberto Martino ever discovered that he had practically handed over the evidence of their money laundering to the FBI – for fuck’s sake, he’d given Nick McCall a tour of the lower level – that death was not only going to be imminent, but extremely painful.

Just days ago, he thought he’d been on his way to being king of the world. His biggest concern had been a woman. What he wouldn’t give to go back and freeze his life right there.

Xander stood in the kitchen, staring inside the massive subzero refrigerator that was stocked twice a week by his housekeeper – who he’d given the weekend off, using the flu excuse. At this point, he didn’t trust anyone. He needed to force himself to eat, despite the constant gnawing, queasy feeling in his stomach. He had to keep his energy up so he could think.

His cell phone rang. He reached into his pants pocket, pulled it out, and saw it was Mercks. “What did you find out?”

“You mean other than what they’re saying on TV?” Mercks asked.

Xander’s mouth went dry. “They’re talking about me on TV? Did the FBI make an announcement?”

“No, not you. I meant about Kyle Rhodes. It’s everywhere – in the papers, on TV, on the Internet. How have you missed this?”

Xander headed for his library. How had he missed some irrelevant story about Kyle Rhodes? Because television sucked nowadays, that’s how – all reality shows and hour-long dramas that introduced some mysterious event that was dragged out for seven seasons before coming to a wholly anticlimactic finale that explained jack shit. And while he normally read the paper, he’d been a little bit preoccupied with other matters over the last eighteen hours – primarily, how to keep himself alive and out of jail.

“Hold on – I’ve got the Tribune here somewhere.” Sure enough, he found it on the desk in his library where he’d tossed it with his mail earlier that morning, tucked under the new Wine Spectator. He pulled the newspaper out and read the headline: “Twitter Terrorist Released After Stabbing.”

“Rhodes is free?” he asked Mercks.

“Apparently, he was attacked in prison. The U.S. attorney released a statement saying that she agreed to permit him to serve the remainder of his sentence in home detention out of concern for his safety.”

“And this interests me because … ?”

“I can’t help but wonder if Kyle Rhodes was released because someone else paid his debt to society.”

Xander felt the sickening betrayal in his stomach. “You think Jordan made a deal? Me for her brother’s release?”

“I think that’s certainly a possibility.”

Xander fell silent for a moment. “Where is she now?”

“She drove to the airport this morning with McCall. Tennyson followed them inside the terminal and overheard them checking in. They caught a flight to San Francisco.”

Xander knew Jordan – she and McCall weren’t staying in San Francisco. He’d bet half a billion dollars they were in the Napa Valley instead. “I think you’ve told me everything I need to know.” His mouth pulled tight. “I see no reason to follow her and McCall any longer.”

“I know this wasn’t the information you were looking for.”

“You did your job, Mercks. Don’t worry, you’ll still get paid.”

After Xander hung up, he paced through his penthouse like a caged tiger. He felt trapped, so trapped he could barely breathe. He ran his hand through his hair – for the first time since Mercks had laid the news on him about the FBI, he felt wild, out of control.

Goddamn Jordan Rhodes had sold him out.

“Fucking bitch!” He whipped around and threw his phone at a silver-framed decorative mirror hanging on the wall in the foyer. The glass shattered and fell in large shards to the travertine floor.

He stared at the broken glass and walked over. For the past eighteen hours, he’d had no one to focus his anger on other than himself. He had been the greedy bastard. He, like many people, had naively assumed that Martino and his organization were untouchable and beyond the reach of the law. Apparently the new U.S. attorney, with her so-called war on crime, had not received the memo: this was Chicago – corruption was expected.

And while he loathed the FBI, he wasn’t surprised by their actions – they were pigs; this is what they did. He was no one to them, just a name on a case file. A target.

But Jordan knew him. Knew him well enough to be able to tease him about his favorite kinds of wine. Well enough to score an invitation every year to his exclusive party. Well enough to make him have feelings for her.

Xander picked the largest shard of glass off the tile. He ran his finger along the jagged edge and winced when it pierced his skin. A drop of blood popped through, cabernet red, and he stared at it, suddenly feeling more grounded and clearheaded than he had in days.

Twenty-six

“MAYBE I SHOULD drive the rest of the way. So you can take a break.”

Jordan took her eyes off the road to look over at Nick. “We’re five miles from the resort. I’m pretty sure I can make it.”

“But these roads are very hilly. Winding. Wouldn’t you feel more comfortable with me driving?”

“I’ve been doing just fine for the last three and a half hours.”

Actually, Nick had been doing just fine, too. He’d rather enjoyed being chauffeured by Jordan during their drive from the airport. It had given him plenty of time to enjoy the gorgeous view: the long, blond hair pulled back in a sophisticated knot, the crisp white summer dress, the silk scarf wrapped elegantly around her neck, and the many inches of sleek, slender legs.

And the picturesque rolling hills dotted with white and pink blossoming flowers weren’t half bad, either.

“But perhaps I would be more comfortable if I drove the rest of the way,” he said. Clearly, she wasn’t picking up on his subtle message.

Jordan pulled the car to a stop in the left turn lane of the divided highway, about to take them onto a side street that led into a canyon. She turned to face him. “Okay. What’s going on? Why would you suddenly be more comfortable driving?”

“We’re not supposed to stand out, remember? We’re still undercover. And I suspect that ritzy places like this are accustomed to seeing the man driving the car. People are going to think I’m your assistant or something.”

She pointed. “Now that would be a fun cover – let’s do that one for a change. I get to be in charge, and you have to call me Ms. Rhodes all weekend.”

“No.”

“I’ll even get you a little notepad, and you can follow me around taking dictation. And I’ll make you drive ten miles to the nearest Starbucks to get me a latte, which I’ll send back three times until you get it just right. Because that’s what all the rich women do.”

“You’re joking about this.”

“Of course I’m joking,” Jordan said. “Otherwise, I’d have to take your comment seriously about the man needing to drive the car, and I’m in far too good of a mood to lecture you on the fact that sexual politics have changed somewhat since the 1950s.”