Nick had to admit he was impressed. Not too many civilians could pull off acting this naturally in an undercover job, particularly in front of someone they knew was laundering money for a drug cartel.

Her suggestion worked like a charm.

“Who am I to make such a beautiful woman wait?” Xander gestured to an open door on the opposite end of the wine bar. “I’ll take you down there myself. Follow me.”

ECKHART LED THEM through the door and down a freestanding glass staircase. “Since this is your first time, Nick, I’ll give you the fifty-cent tour.”

Actually, the FBI had already paid five thousand dollars for that privilege. “I appreciate that, Xander.”

“Given the value of my collection, I normally keep that door upstairs locked,” Xander told him. “But I trust my guests tonight. Most of them, anyway. And with the others, I trust the six-foot-five, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound security guard I’ve got stationed downstairs.”

As they descended into the lower level, Nick quickly understood the reasons for Eckhart’s security system. He’d studied the blueprints of the building, and had been aware that the wine cellar took up a large portion of the space. But neither the blueprints nor Jordan’s descriptions had prepared him for the sheer magnitude of the wine cellar he faced now. Or rather, the wine cellars.

They stood before three rectangular glass chambers, each approximately twenty-five feet long and ten feet wide. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass panels, Nick saw rows upon rows of what he knew, through Huxley’s report, to be over six thousand bottles of wine stacked horizontally on slotted ebony wood shelves. Glass doors, several inches thick and flanked by elaborate security panels, guarded each of the three chambers of the cellar.

“Reds; whites; champagne and dessert wines,” Xander said, pointing out the three chambers of the cellar. “Different storage temperatures for each, obviously.”

Obviously.

“Over three million dollars in wine,” Xander continued, making no attempt to disguise his pride. “Granted, a lot of that is for the restaurant. My own personal collection is worth roughly a million.”

Nick resisted the urge to ask how much of that collection had been bought with Roberto Martino’s drug money. “It’s certainly a lot of wine.”

A crowd of about ten people mingled near a door to their right, which Nick knew from the blueprints led to a private tasting room. A robust man in his early forties came over and greeted Jordan enthusiastically.

“Jordan – perfect timing. I need you to settle something. True or false: two years ago at this party, you and I were talking right here when a drunk guy, somebody’s date, came out of the bathroom with his fly open and his tweed blazer tucked into his pants like a shirt. And he spoke to us for five minutes without ever noticing.”

“Very true. He slurred something about how he’d never been drunk in his life because he had such a high tolerance for alcohol.”

The man proudly turned back to the group at the door. “See? I told you. Can I steal you away for a few minutes?” he asked Jordan. “I need you to convince these guys that I’m not making this up.”

With a glance in Nick’s direction, she smiled politely. “Sure.”

Nick watched her walk away, as did Xander. Then the two men turned and faced each other.

Xander didn’t waste any time before launching the first salvo. “So. You didn’t mention what you do for a living, Nick.”

“Real estate.”

“Are you a builder?”

“An investor. I rent out residential properties, mostly to college students and recent graduates.”

“Real estate has really bottomed out these past few years, hasn’t it?”

“Luckily not rental property, Xander. With everyone staying in school these days because they can’t find a job, I’m turning people away.”

Xander laughed haughtily. “Who would’ve thought the low-income housing market could be so lucrative?”

“Me.”

A silence followed.

“Mind if I give you a piece of advice, Nick?”

About a hundred not-so-polite responses came to Nick’s mind, including one he favored about where, exactly, Eckhart could stick his advice, but for the sake of the undercover operation, he held his tongue. Causing a scene or being tossed out by a six-foot-five, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound security guard was not in the FBI’s best interests. So he kept his sarcasm in check. Mostly. “I’m all ears.”

Xander sounded smug. “Jordan may find you diverting for now, but how long do you think that’s going to last? I see men like you all the time in my clubs and restaurants. You can put on the suit and look the part, but you and I both know that she’s way out of your league. It’s just a matter of time before she realizes it, too.”

Nick pretended to think about this. “Interesting advice. But from what I can tell, Jordan’s been doing a pretty good job by herself of deciding who is and isn’t in her league.” He grabbed Eckhart’s shoulder and squeezed. “Have a drink, Xander – you sound like you need it.”

He walked away, leaving Eckhart standing alone in the corner.

“Everything okay?” Jordan asked as he approached.

“Just getting acquainted with our gracious host,” he said. “Now, what does a person have to do to get a drink around here?”

She cocked her head. “Follow me.”

Jordan led Nick into a private tasting room adjacent to Xander’s cellar that had a cozier feel than the rest of the lower level. Although guests were free to come and go all night, several had planted themselves in the leather armchairs that faced the lit fireplace, knowing that this was where the truly exceptional stuff was served. A man in his forties and wearing a suit – the sommelier Xander had hired for the evening – stood behind the bar pouring small amounts of wine into crystal glasses. A bulky security guard dressed in all black stood near the back of the room, discreetly out of sight yet there nevertheless.

Jordan brought Nick over to the bar and caught the eye of the sommelier, the same one Xander had hired for the party the past couple of years.

He grinned as he came over. “Ms. Rhodes! I was hoping you’d be here tonight. I’ve been saving something special for you. A 1990 Chateau Sevonne.”

A ‘90 Sevonne. Sweet Jesus, her heart began to race.

“Did you just gasp?” Nick asked as the sommelier poured their glasses.

Jordan tried to play it cool. “I don’t think so.”

“I’m pretty sure I heard it.”

“Okay, maybe there was a tiny gasp,” she conceded. “Because the 1990 Chateau Sevonne is supposed to be extraordinary. Thrilling. Breathtaking.”

“Sounds orgasmic,” Nick said with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

The sommelier made a hasty retreat.

Jordan gestured in his direction. “Very nice – you chased him away before he could tell us about the wine.”

“Does it matter?” Nick asked skeptically. “At the end of the day, doesn’t it all pretty much taste the same?”

She shook her head. “Truly, Nick. I don’t even know where to begin with you.”

He leaned confidently against the bar, baiting her with his grin. “Giving up already?”

She looked him up and down, debating. Then she picked up the two glasses the sommelier had poured and handed one over. “Not yet.” She stopped Nick, her hand on his, when he tipped his glass to take a sip. “Uh-uh, virgin. With wine like this, a little foreplay is required.”

He eyed her over his glass. “Foreplay?”

“Absolutely.” Time for Wine Tasting 101. “So here’s how this works. When tasting a wine, as opposed to casual drinking, there are four basic steps you need to remember: sight, smell, taste, then spit or swallow.”

Nick paused at that last part and cocked his head. “And your personal preference on the latter would be …?”

“Only lightweights spit.”

His right eye twitched.

Jordan raised her glass, fully into teacher mode now. “So the first step is sight.”