Nick recognized the woman instantly. Not because he knew her personally, but because everyone in Chicago—and probably half the country in light of certain recent events—would recognize her. “Jordan Rhodes?” he asked incredulously. “She’s the richest woman in Chicago.”

Huxley brushed this aside with a wave. “Not quite. There’s Oprah, of course. Nobody tops Oprah.”

Davis pointed, throwing in his two cents from the head of the table. “And don’t forget the Pritzkers.”

“Good call. I think I’d put Jordan Rhodes more around fourth richest,” Huxley mused.

Nick leveled them both with a stare. “Fine, let’s just say top five, whatever.”

“And technically it’s her father’s money, not hers,” Huxley noted. “The Forbes list of the four hundred richest Americans puts Grey Rhodes’s net worth at one point two billion dollars.”

One point two billion. “And we want to drag this man’s daughter into an undercover op?” Nick asked. “This is our best option?”

“The list of people attending Eckhart’s party is extremely exclusive,” Huxley said. “And we don’t exactly have the luxury of interviewing candidates. We need someone that we can be certain will agree to help us. Someone who has a great deal of incentive to agree.”

Nick took in the photograph of Jordan Rhodes on the screen. Reluctantly, he had to admit that Huxley raised a good point—fourth richest woman in Chicago or not, they did have leverage over her. Significant leverage.

“What’s the matter, McCall? Afraid she’s out of your league?” Davis asked with a sly grin. “Professionally speaking.”

Nick had to fight back a laugh. Over the last six months, he’d posed undercover as everything from a drug dealer to a thief to a con artist, he’d spent nearly thirty nights in jail, and he’d taken down twenty-seven corrupt Chicago cops. He could certainly handle one billionaire heiress.

Xander Eckhart was his target now, at least for the next five days, and Jordan Rhodes appeared to be their best shot at making the investigation a successful one. Which meant that it was no longer a question of whether she cooperated with them, but when.

He nodded at Davis, all business. “Consider it done, boss.”

Two

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 at her customer. “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 light brown hair was mussed from the wind outside. “You’ve convinced me. Put me down for a case. I’m having a dinner party in a few 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. “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. “Sounds delicious.” 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 III 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 as approachable as possible 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, it was also a business.

“I take it you cook,” she said to the man with the great smile. Great hair, too, she noted approvingly. Nicely styled, on the longer side. He wore a gray scarf wrapped loosely around his neck that gave him an air of casual sophistication. Not too fussy, but a man who appreciated the finer things in life.

He shrugged. “I know my way around food. It comes with the job.”

“Let me guess—you’re a chef,” Jordan said.

“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.”

Yes, she did, along with many others in Chicago. “Religiously. With so many restaurants in this city to choose from, it’s nice to have an expert’s opinion.”

Cal relaxed 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.

Letting this sit for a moment, Jordan moved behind the counter and opened the laptop she kept there. “A case of the Excelsior it is.” She pulled up her distributor’s delivery schedule. “I can have it in the store next week.”