quality of the Brunellos is erratic.”
“And for a lesser man, that might pose a problem,” Martin had said. “I’m telling you, Jordan, with your name and my impeccable taste, I think we can really go places with this store.”
So far, he hadn’t been wrong.
Nine
NICK PARKED HIS car a half block from Jordan’s house and walked the short distance in the cold. He opened a tall wrought-iron gate and stepped onto a front patio and garden area.
He had assumed her home would be nice—very nice—and hadn’t been incorrect. The brick house stood two and a half stories above the ground, with elegant Juliet balconies curved around the arched glass windows of the main level. A large brick and limestone balcony, part of what he guessed was the master suite, looked over the front patio from the second floor.
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
“And for a lesser man, that might pose a problem,” Martin had said. “I’m telling you, Jordan, with your name and my impeccable taste, I think we can really go places with this store.”
So far, he hadn’t been wrong.
Nine
NICK PARKED HIS car a half block from Jordan’s house and walked the short distance in the cold. He opened a tall wrought-iron gate and stepped onto a front patio and garden area.
He had assumed her home would be nice—very nice—and hadn’t been incorrect. The brick house stood two and a half stories above the ground, with elegant Juliet balconies curved around the arched glass windows of the main level. A large brick and limestone balcony, part of what he guessed was the master suite, looked over the front patio from the second floor.
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
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