About That Night (37 page)

“Ooh, I saw a flash of leg there,” Kyle said slyly in her ear.

Quickly, Rylann looked around.

Across the street, there Kyle stood, leaning against an obscenely expensive-looking silver sports car.

That was…quite a sight.

Rylann hung up the phone and walked over, briefcase in hand. With his arms folded across his chest, Kyle watched with obvious appreciation as she approached.

“You do wear that trench coat well,” he said.

She stopped before him and pointed. “This is your car?”

“It is.” He watched as she checked it out, then grinned. “Well, look at that. You like the car.”

Damn skippy she liked the car.

“It’s not bad,” she said nonchalantly.

“Coming from you, that’s quite a compliment.” He pulled her closer, so that she stood between his outstretched legs. “So do they allow significant others who have prison records at the U.S. Attorney’s Office annual Fourth of July pic-
nic?”

She chuckled at the thought. “Let’s get through next week first. See how things go after the
Time
article comes out.”

Kyle cocked his head, as if realizing something. “You’re worried about what I’m going to say during the inter-
view.”

Well…yes. “You say whatever you want.” It was his job, his business, and thus his right to handle it his own way. Just as the same rules applied to her career.

He touched her chin. “I’ll be circumspect, counselor. We’re in this together.” His blue eyes were warm as he peered down at her. “So what would you say to going out for dinner tonight?”

“A second date? This is getting serious,” she said coyly.

“Just name the place. The sky’s the limit.” He slid his hand to the nape of her neck. “I could spoil you rotten, Rylann. If you’ll let me.”

Heady words, indeed. As they leaned against his super-fancy sports car, she brushed her fingers across a lock of dark blond hair that had fallen across Kyle’s forehead. Then, suddenly, she realized she had one mea culpa left.

Oh, boy
.

He saw her look. “What?”

“I’m wondering how I’m ever going to explain you to my
mother. If you think I’m a burr up your ass about the ex-con thing, just wait until you meet her.”

“Maybe we could take a lesson from my parents and give her the sanitized, wholesome version of the story. One that emphasizes my numerous fine qualities.” Kyle mused this over. “Something like…‘Once upon a time, I met a guy in a bar who was wearing a flannel shirt and work boots, and he turned out to be a prince in disguise.’ ”

Just then, a car slowed to a stop in front of them, filled with five guys in their late teens. The driver stuck his head out the window.

“Yo, Twitter Terrorist!” he called out. “How’s this for a tweet? ‘Kiss my ass, dickhead!’ ” The entire group laughed as a guy in the backseat stuck his bare ass out the window, mooning them, then the car peeled away.

Kyle and Rylann stood on the street, saying nothing for a moment as the car drove off. Then he turned to her with a sheepish grin. “Obviously not one of the high-fivers.”

Yes, she’d caught that. “What am I going to do with you, Kyle Rhodes?” She slid her arms around his neck and peered up at him.

His hand moved to the side of her face. “Whatever you want, counselor. Stick with me, and I promise you that life will always be an adventure.”

And as he lowered his head and kissed her, Rylann decided that was the best plan of all.

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. “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 dark blond hair was mussed from the wind outside.

“You’ve convinced me. Put me down for a case. I’m having a dinner party in two 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 when Jordan hosted events in the shop. “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. And
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 three 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 approachable 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, wine was also a business.

“Sounds delicious. I take it you like to cook,” she said to the man with the great smile. Great hair, too. Nicely styled, on the longer side. He wore a gray scarf wrapped loosely around his neck that gave him an air of casual sophistication.

He shrugged. “It comes with the job.”

“Let me guess—you’re a chef.”

“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.”

“Religiously. With so many restaurants in this city to choose from, it’s nice to have an expert’s opinion.”

Cal leaned 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.

Jordan headed behind the counter and opened the laptop she kept there. “A case of the Excelsior—you’ve got it.” She pulled up her distributor’s delivery schedule. “I can have it in the store by early 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’re not.”

Okay, so she may have been flirting 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, she supposed—and it felt good to be flirting. And if the object of said flirtation just so happened to have polished, refined good looks, well, all the better.

“Maybe I should skip out on the bill, just to make you come look for me,” Cal teased back. He stood opposite her with the counter between them. “So, since you read my restaurant reviews, I take it you trust my opinions on restaurants?”

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

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

“Good to know,” Jordan said pleasantly. “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 like to go there with
me
.”

Jordan smiled. Yes, she’d caught that. But she couldn’t help but wonder 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 next week to pick up the Excelsior, you can tell me more about this new restaurant then.”

Cal seemed surprised by her nonacceptance (she wouldn’t call it a rejection) 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 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 of the store. She noticed that a heavy 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 hallway that led to their storage room. He walked over, carrying a case of a new zinfandel they were putting out in the store for the first time. 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, was 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 frankly he’d grown on her, and Jordan couldn’t imagine running the shop without him.

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

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

Jordan threw him an eye as she grabbed two more bottles. “I don’t have a billion dollars.”

It was the same routine nearly 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 avoided discussing finances with others.

It wasn’t exactly a secret, however: her father was rich. Very rich. She hadn’t grown up with money; it was something her family had simply stumbled into. Her father, basically a computer geek like her brother, was one of those overnight 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 School of Management. He then started his own company in Chicago, where he developed an antiviral protection program that exploded worldwide and quickly became the top program of its kind on the market. Within two years of its release to the public, the Rhodes Anti-Virus protected one in every three computers in America. (A statistic her father made sure to include in every interview.) And thus came the millions. Lots of them.

One might have certain impressions about her lifestyle, Jordan knew, given her father’s financial success. Some of those 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 frankly, 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 sitting in Jordan’s garage. Probably not the typical present one received after graduating business school.

“We’ve had this conversation many times, 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 pride in her voice, and why shouldn’t there be? She was the sole owner of DeVine Cellars, and business was good. Really good—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 talked specifics about his money), but she did well enough to pay for a house in the upscale Lincoln Park neighborhood, and still had 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 true. I do have to pay, though, if that makes you feel any better.”

Martin sniffed enviously. “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.” Aside from a potentially slight excess of smoothness, he seemed to be just her type. He was into food and wine, and better yet, he
cooked
. Practically a Renaissance man.