The Thing About Love Read online

  He looked amused, although it was tough to say whether this stemmed more from her suggestion that the mighty John Shepherd could be hurt by mere glass, or from his awareness that she’d dodged the subject of their argument at the shooting range. After throwing away the last of the paper towels, he came over to the sink to inspect her hand. “Do you have any Band-Aids?”

  “There’s a small first-aid kit in my makeup bag.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “On the bathroom counter. Just bring the bag out here and I’ll grab the kit,” she added when he headed toward the bathroom.

  After he returned with the makeup bag and set it on the counter, she unzipped it with her free hand and pulled out the first-aid kit. Without further ado, he set about the business of dressing the cut.

  As she watched him, something compelled her to explain. “Maybe I was a little defensive that day at the shooting range,” she acknowledged. “Before I left for the Academy, my recruiter gave me this speech about not doing anything that would give people an excuse not to take me seriously. It’s bullshit, but the reality is, there’s a double standard about these things; we all know that. As one of only two women in the class, I had to be careful not to do anything that, rightfully or wrongfully, could’ve been viewed as unprofessional.” She paused. “Like flirt with the best-looking guy in the class.”

  His head shot up, his eyes wide with surprise.

  She scoffed. “Oh, please. It’s hardly a state secret that you’re hot.”

  And for a moment, the mighty John Shepherd actually seemed speechless.

  Then, with a coy curve to his lips, he went back to his ministrations and wrapped a large Band-Aid over the gauze. “How much did that pain you to say?”

  “Even more than nearly slicing my finger off,” she muttered.

  With a smile, he finished up with the Band-Aid. “There.” Holding her hand, he inspected his handiwork. “Keep the gauze dry,” he lectured. “And don’t go peeking at the wound until the morning—you might make it start to bleed again.”

  She was about to say Yes, sir again—just to needle him—but then stopped herself. Just once, maybe they could do without the sarcasm and quips.

  “Thank you,” she said genuinely.

  His eyes met hers. “You’re welcome.”

  Perhaps it was the low, sexy tone of his voice. Or maybe the warm look in his blue eyes. But suddenly, Jessica realized just how close she and John stood—only inches apart.

  And he still held her hand.

  He seemed to notice this at the same moment she did. She stepped back, and he instantly let go of her.

  “Well. We should probably get back to work,” she said brightly, trying to calm the flush rising to her cheeks.

  Scooping up the Band-Aid wrapper and tossing it in the trash, she took a seat at the table in front of her laptop. She felt John’s eyes on her but ignored it as he sat down in the chair across the table.

  “Looks like there’s only two listings left for us to review.” When John remained silent, she peered up from her computer. Under his scrutinizing gaze, she kept her tone deliberately light and nonchalant, per their usual. “Don’t fade on me now, Shepherd. We’re almost at the finish line.”

  He cocked his head, as if about to say something, and then seemed to change his mind. “Right.” He cleared his throat, turning to his own computer. “So. Where were we?”

  13

  Game day.

  Not having anything on the agenda until that evening, John slept in and then headed to the hotel gym. After an hour of lifting weights, he still had time and an abundance of energy to burn, so he went for a run along the beach.

  As his feet pounded against the wet sand, he ran through the plan for tonight’s meeting with Mayor Blair. Probably, this was unnecessary—nothing had changed in the last twelve hours and he already knew the plan backward and forward—but focusing on work kept his mind off other matters.

  After he’d sweated up a storm in the midmorning heat, the wide, blue expanse of the Atlantic Ocean beckoned him. Stripping off his shoes and T-shirt, he dove into the water and swam lazily along the shore, letting the waves do most of the work. Then he stretched out on one of the hotel’s beach chairs and closed his eyes as the warmth of the sun drained all the remaining tension out of him.

  There could certainly be worse undercover assignments.

  A half hour later, having dozed off to the sound of the waves crashing against the shore, he threw on his T-shirt and running shoes and began walking back to the hotel’s main building. A short distance ahead of him was a class of about ten people, all women, doing yoga on the beach. His eyes landed on a familiar five-foot, three-inch blonde who stretched, barefoot, on the mat.

  Jessica.

  And just like that, all the tension poured right back into him.

  Just keep moving. Pay no attention to the limber woman in the tight black stretchy pants and purple tank top.

  While not noticing Jessica was, in fact, a futile endeavor, he’d at least become something of an expert in faking it—especially after last night. First, there’d been the rubbing of their legs underneath the table. Then she’d done that sexy move with her hair, taking out the pins one at a time and letting it fall wild around her shoulders. If he’d ever wondered what Jessica Harlow looked like with tousled, I’ve-just-been-sexed-up hair, that question had been officially laid to rest last night: fucking hot.

  And then there was the thing with the pen.

  He couldn’t even with the pen.

  As if it hadn’t been titillating enough to watch her slide the damn thing over, along, and between her lips, she’d had to go and declare that she had an “oral fixation.”

  Uh-huh. Sure. Like that hadn’t had his mind going in all sorts of prurient directions.

  The problem was, “prurient” were not the kind of thoughts a special agent should be having about his partner. And they definitely weren’t the kind of thoughts a man should be having about a woman who’d once gotten extremely pissed off just because he’d touched her shoulder. He and Jessica were actually semi-getting-along now—sarcastic comments and dry quips notwithstanding—and he planned to keep it that way. He had a job to do here in Jacksonville, possibly his last undercover assignment, which meant he needed to stay focused on work and—

  Christ, now she was doing some yoga pose that had her bent over, doggie style, with her cute, round ass sticking straight in the air.

  She had to be kidding him with this shit.

  Using her hands to push off the ground in a graceful move, she rolled to a standing position, arms rotating outward and extending to the sky. Opening her eyes, she went still when she saw him approaching in his jogging shorts and T-shirt.

  Playing it cool, he threw her a nod—’Sup—and kept walking, forcing his eyes not to linger on the Sweet Round Ass of Torture or any of the other parts of Jessica Harlow that were on display in that tight outfit. Then he headed straight to his room, took a cold shower, and spent the rest of the afternoon in front of his laptop, catching up on some reports he’d fallen behind on in his other investigations.

  It was the least sexy thing he could think of.

  • • •

  With rustic brick walls, a curved copper chef’s bar, and large accent mirrors, Bistro Aix had a high-energy, bistro-in-a-big-city feel to it. The noise level wasn’t optimum for the microphones John and Jessica had hidden on them, but since John had yet to find any restaurant that was optimum for an undercover agent surreptitiously recording his dinner companions via a small recording device adhered to the back of one of his shirt buttons, they would deal with it.

  Right on schedule at seven o’clock, Morano walked into the restaurant, accompanied by the Honorable Patrick Blair. Following the mayor were two police officers from the sheriff’s department—his protective detail—who gave the mayor a nod be
fore taking seats at the bar. They likely would remain there for the rest of the evening, available if necessary but otherwise staying out of the way.

  From his vantage point in the booth he shared with Jessica near the back of the restaurant, John watched as the mayor went straight into politician mode, schmoozing it up and gripping the restaurant host’s shoulder as if they were old friends. And perhaps they were; Agent Leavitt had mentioned that this was one of the mayor’s favorite restaurants.

  At first blush, it wasn’t hard to see why voters—and, apparently, People magazine—found Blair appealing. With a charming smile, perfectly styled sandy-brown hair, and a lean build, he appeared to be channeling a young, Southern John F. Kennedy. Albeit without the Ivy League education and wealthy family.

  John had a sneaking suspicion that was exactly the vibe the ambitious politician was going for.

  Following the host to the back of the restaurant, Mayor Blair stopped and shook hands with several of the restaurant’s patrons, joking and chatting his way through the crowd. Then Morano leaned in and whispered something in Blair’s ear, gesturing in the direction of John and Jessica’s table.

  As Blair turned in their direction, his eyes passed briefly over John before landing on Jessica. Cocking his head, he smiled and headed over.

  John stood up to greet him, as did Jessica.

  Showtime.

  “There’s my two favorite Chicago investors!” Morano said in a booming voice, showing his usual flair for subtlety. “Ashley Evers and Dave Rosser, it’s my honor to introduce the esteemed mayor of this city, Mr. Patrick Blair.”

  Blair stepped forward to shake Jessica’s hand first. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Evers.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, Mayor Blair. And please, call me Ashley.”

  “Ashley it is.” He held her gaze for another moment before turning to John. “And Mr. Rosser.”

  John extended his hand. “Mr. Mayor. It’s an honor.”

  They took their seats, with Blair helping himself to the chair across from Jessica. “So . . . the Windy City,” he led in, immediately taking charge of the conversation. Like Morano, he spoke with a relaxed Southern drawl. “I visited there once, nine years ago. After taking the bar exam, I rented a car and spent three weeks driving across the U.S.—including two days in Chicago. Great city. Hot and humid as hell in August.” He winked at Jessica. “It was like being home again.”

  “Three weeks? That must’ve been some trip,” she said.

  “Where else did you visit?” John asked.

  Breaking only to order his drink—vodka on the rocks—the mayor spent the next ten minutes regaling them with tales of his cross-country journey. It was, as with most politicians’ stories, partially a canned speech, peppered with prepared jokes and lofty phrases like, “in the great state of Oklahoma,” and even contained a few poignant, memoir-worthy anecdotes.

  It was a good charade, John observed. Blair was charismatic and dynamic and knew how to draw in his listeners. But having read the files, including the summaries of the conversations Morano had had with Blair while wearing a wire, John knew that lurking behind the charming politician’s façade was a conniving, corrupt man who got his rocks off on using his power and influence for personal gain.

  “Look at me, jabbering away here,” Blair said, when the waitress stopped at the table to take their dinner orders. “How’s the pork chop today, Charlotte?”

  “The same as it always is, Mr. Mayor,” the waitress shot back.

  Blair grinned at John and Jessica over his menu. “Charlotte loves to give me crap for always ordering the same thing. But if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, right?” He handed the waitress his menu. “And I’ll start with the beet salad.”

  After the waitress left, Jessica folded her hands on the table, ready to get down to business. “Let me start by saying, Mr. Mayor, how much Dave and I appreciate you taking the time to meet with us.”

  Blair nodded graciously and gestured to Morano. “Anthony said you were two people I needed to meet, and Anthony is always right about these things.”

  “I told the mayor that your firm is considering investing in some projects in Jacksonville,” Morano said conversationally.

  “That’s great to hear,” Blair said. “I strongly believe that by encouraging and leveraging both public and private investments in this city, we can create exciting new business and job opportunities. That’s been one of my top priorities since the day I took office.”

  “I certainly think we bring that to the table,” Jessica said. “I’m not sure how much Anthony has told you about Lakeshore Capital Partners, but we’re a private equity firm that seeks out investment opportunities in the hospitality industry that fall within the five-million to twenty-five-million-dollar range. Now, obviously, it’s all about finding the right opportunities. To do that, we look for concepts and markets that we believe have significant growth potential. And after doing our research, Dave and I believe that the Jacksonville culinary scene has a lot of potential.”

  The mayor leaned forward in his chair. “What is it, exactly, about Jacksonville that you find so appealing?”

  Jessica’s smile was sly. “You mean, other than the fact that it’s ‘the closest thing to Greenwich Village you’ll find in Florida’?”

  Blair let out a bark of laughter. “You really have done your research.” As he took a sip of his drink, his eyes once again lingered on Jessica.

  Seeing that, John tightened his grip around his own glass.

  Considering his own struggles with the issue, he could hardly fault Blair for noticing that Jessica was a beautiful woman—especially tonight. With blue smoky eyes, blond hair tumbling to her shoulders in loose waves, and wearing heels and a knee-length black dress that seemed tailor-made for her figure, she looked both sophisticated and incredibly sexy. But there was something else in Blair’s gaze . . . something predatory and calculating that seemed to go beyond mere frank, male appreciation.

  “From a design perspective,” John said, interjecting himself into the conversation, “I can tell you that the restaurant concept Ashley and I have come up with would be a perfect fit for the neighborhood.”

  “I hear you’ve been looking at properties in Riverside. Charming neighborhood, isn’t it? Lots of culture and history—but not pretentious,” Blair said.

  “That’s exactly the vibe we’re looking for,” John said.

  The mayor nodded, then looked again at Jessica. “So tell me, Ashley, what kind of restaurant do you have in mind?”

  And so it went. For the next half hour, Jessica did the majority of the talking, running through Ashley and Dave’s pitch. Completely convincing in her role as a private equity investor, she described for Blair their pizzeria and wine bar concept and their enthusiasm for the project, and also mentioned their plan to follow up this initial investment with several more restaurant ventures in the city. John did his part, too, contributing his ideas as the design guy, but it was clear that Blair responded more receptively to Jessica, even finding a way, on several occasions, to draw her into a side conversation.

  The undercover agent in John was pleased with this development. Business was business, and as long as their target seemed to be opening up and trusting them, he didn’t give a crap about being sidelined while his partner handled the brunt of the conversation.

  The man in him, however, was oddly tempted to handle things grunt-style if the esteemed mayor of America’s thirteenth-largest city didn’t stop ogling the V-neckline of Jessica’s dress.

  “Have you settled on a location for your restaurant?” Blair asked Jessica, after the waitress cleared away the entrées.

  “We’re trying to.” Jessica glanced at John, as if this were a subject they’d discussed significantly. “Actually, we’ve found the perfect property on King Street, just south of Forbes. A former bank building. But there are
a few issues with the space we’d need to resolve before we can commit.”

  “What kind of issues?” Blair cocked his head as if this were news to him, despite the fact that Morano had already apprised him of this fact.

  All part of the dance.

  Jessica laid out the problem, telling Blair about the zoning and parking problems they faced with the bank building. “Otherwise, it’s an ideal location. As a matter of fact, Dave and I just did another walk-through yesterday, and we locked down a design concept. We’re thinking a Tuscan-wine-cellar feel, with lots of arches and oak. Although I’m not entirely sold on the idea of ‘sexy’ red leather on the banquettes.” She shot John a look of wry skepticism.

  Playing off her lead, John flashed her a cocky smile, as if they’d had a lot of debates just like this one. “Eh. You’ll come around by the time we open.”

  Shaking her head in exasperation—funny how art imitated life—Jessica turned back to Blair. “Anyway, we’ll obviously apply for the necessary zoning variances and parking permits with the city’s Land Use Committee, but . . . well, you know how these things go. It could take months before anyone even looks at our application. And unfortunately, we need to be able to make a decision faster than that. Our investors are very eager to move forward as soon as possible.”

  Steepling his fingers, Blair considered this. “Hmm. Let me give some thought to your situation. Sometimes, the right phone call to the right people is all it takes to smooth over predicaments like this. And in this city, obviously, I have all the right people on speed dial,” he added, with no small amount of boastfulness. “Although, as I’m sure you understand, I can’t just pick up the phone on behalf of everyone who asks for a favor. I have to choose those causes I feel most . . . motivated about.”

  Bingo.

  John mentally grabbed the popcorn and sat back to watch as Jessica reeled in their big fish.

  “Of course—which is why Dave and I appreciate you taking the time just to meet with us,” she said. “And, as you’re giving thought to our situation, if you think of anything we can do to help facilitate getting those zoning variances and parking permits, please let us know.” She held the mayor’s gaze, suddenly looking quite shrewd and calculating herself. “There certainly is no shortage of motivation on our end to get this resolved as quickly as possible.”