With that in mind, she managed to maintain a nonchalant air in front of Lisa. This was her store, and no one was going to make her look like a fool in it. “You don’t really expect me to tell you what Nick and I talk about, do you?” she asked coolly.
“Oh . . . I get it. You haven’t slept with him yet, have you?” Lisa smiled smugly. “Listen, honey, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you’ll hear his speech soon enough—right before he f**ks you. It’s part of his code or whatever. Trust me, lots of women have been down this road with Nick.”
Jordan pretended to think this over. “Thanks for the tip, Lisa. This all has been very informative. Particularly the creepy part where you said you followed Nick and stood outside my store watching us.” She pointed to a wine display. “Hey—you know what I like to do after stalking an ex-boyfriend? Pour myself a nice glass of petite syrah. And you’re in luck, because we’re having a sale on reds today . . .”
ACROSS THE STREET, Mercks’s investigator, a man named Tennyson, froze with the camera in his hands when the door to DeVine Cellars flew open. The brunette in yoga pants stormed out, looking pissed. She crossed the street, heading straight toward the car he sat in.
Tennyson panicked. On a whim, he’d decided to follow Jordan Rhodes to see if she gave them something. Anything. Because after eleven days of tailing Stanton, they’d come up with nothing of any significance to report to Eckhart. By now he was familiar with Stanton’s routine: the guy wouldn’t leave his office for lunch until one o’clock, which meant he had plenty of time to kill.
At first, tailing Jordan Rhodes had seemed to be no less boring than following Stanton. Tennyson had parked his car across the street, and using the zoom on his camera, he could see into the wine store through the front windows. Rhodes made a lot of phone calls, worked at the bar on her laptop computer, and rearranged wine bottles. Really exciting stuff.
But then the brunette with the bombshell figure had shown up, and things had gotten interesting.
Tennyson initially had assumed that the brunette was a customer, and from what he could tell through the camera lens, Jordan Rhodes had assumed that, too. But then the brunette had said something that had made Rhodes tense, and Tennyson had begun paying closer attention. No clue what either woman had said, but from their rigid body language, he personally had been hoping for a cat fight. Then Rhodes smiled, gestured to some wine bottles on the bar, and the brunette stormed out.
Tennyson quickly tossed the camera onto the passenger seat beside him and covered it up with the backpack filled with snacks, water, and cigarettes he always kept on hand during a surveillance. He grabbed his cell phone off the dash and pretended to make a call.
The brunette pulled out her keys and pushed the unlock button, and the lights on the car in front of him blinked. So far, she hadn’t noticed him. Tennyson watched out of the corner of his eye as she yanked a cell phone out of her coat pocket and dialed. He’d had a smoke in the car a few minutes earlier, and had cracked the window open to get some fresh air. As such, he was in a perfect position to hear her end of the conversation as she approached her car. It sounded like she was leaving a voice mail message for someone.
“Hello, Nick McCall, or should I say, Nick Stanton, whoever the hell you are today—I’d assumed you hadn’t called because you were on another undercover assignment, not because you had your dick stuck in some skinny blond bitch. I thought you told me this wasn’t about another woman? Guess you lied about that. And why am I not surprised? It’s what you do for a living, after all. Lie to people.”
The remainder of the brunette’s tirade became muffled as she climbed into her car, then she slammed the driver’s door shut and everything went quiet.
Tennyson sat in his own car—motionless—still holding the phone in his hand.
Ho-ly f**k.
After the brunette drove off, he made a call of his own.
“Mercks. You are not going to believe this. I think I’ve got something on Stanton. I mean, I’ve f**king got something. We need to run another background check. This time on the name Nick McCall.”
Twenty-one
AT EIGHT O’CLOCK that evening, DeVine Cellars was hopping. Thursdays often were the store’s busiest nights, as people liked to get their wine situations settled before the weekend. Tonight was no exception.
Andrea pulled Jordan off to the side. “There’s a Nick Stanton on the phone for you. He says it’s important.”
“On my cell phone?”
“No, the store phone.”
“Thanks, Andrea.” Jordan went into the back room and picked up the extension. “Hello?”
Nick did not sound pleased. “I’ve been calling your cell all day.”
“I got your messages; I just haven’t had a chance to call you back.”
“We need to talk about Lisa,” he said.
“There’s not much to say other than what I already told you in my message.” She’d called Nick after Lisa had exited the store in a snit—no clue why that might be—and left a message saying that he might want to keep his eye out for semipsycho, yoga-pant-wearing ex-girlfriends.
“I’m sorry she approached you at your store. That was way out of line.” He paused. “What did she say to you, exactly?”
“Well, she asked some questions about us,” Jordan said. “Then there was some talk about your no-relationship policy. How you always tell the women you get involved with that you don’t date anyone seriously.”