Jaimie: Fire and Ice (The Wilde Sisters)

by Sandra Marton

  OK. Enough of this. He’d be a Good Samaritan, give his mystery visitor the chance to dry off, even offer her a belt of whisky, find out what he could about what she wanted. Then he’d send her on her way. It wasn’t late, only a little past seven, according to his watch. He could still call Sari.

  Except, it wasn’t Sari that he wanted.

  Was he nuts?

  He took a deep breath. Went down the last steps harder than necessary so that his bare feet thudded against them.

  The woman spun toward him as he strode toward her.

  “Here,” he said briskly. He held out the robe. When she didn’t take it, he draped it over her shoulders, forced himself not to let his hands brush against her and marched to the teak cabinet where he kept glasses and liquor. “Whisky? Or brandy?”

  “Neither.”

  “Or wine.” He opened the doors of the cabinet and turned to her. “Those are your three choices.”

  “I don’t want anything. Thank you.”

  The “thank you” was an obvious afterthought. Chutzpah, in spades.

  “We’re not talking about what you want; we’re talking about what you need. Something to warm you.” He scowled. “Put your arms through the sleeves of the robe and cinch the belt.”

  “Do you always give orders?”

  “When necessary, yes.”

  “Listen, mister—”

  Jaimie took a quick step back as the man marched toward her.

  “Put the robe on,” he said.

  “I just told you, I don’t need to—What do you think you’re doing?”

  He didn’t bother answering. Why would he, when his actions spoke for themselves? In a series of easy motions, he clasped her left hand and drew her arm into the sleeve, did the same with her right, and tied the sash in a perfect square knot at her waist.

  She knew it was a square knot because she’d been a Girl Scout for probably twenty minutes endless years ago, before she’d realized being a Scout meant camping out in a tent.

  Except, he didn’t tie it at her waist.

  He tied it around her hips because the robe was enormous on her.

  Was it his?

  Had he worn it over that beautiful body that was no longer half-naked? What a pity. He was a mean-tempered, unpleasant man but he was lovely to look at, and God, he was big. Incredibly big. He was barefoot, she was wearing spiked heels, and she still had to look up at him, look up to see those amazing eyes...

  To see the fire blazing in those eyes. Green fire. Green flame. So hot. So incredibly hot...

  Jaimie’s heartbeat quickened. She took a step back. After what seemed an eternity, so did he.

  “OK,” he said brusquely, “that’s good. The robe will warm you. So will a drink. Whisky. Wine. Brandy. Which do you prefer?”

  She shook her head. “I told you, don’t want anything. Where is Mr. Castelianos? You said he’d be down to see me.”

  Zach took two glasses from the cabinet. He’d had a glass around here somewhere before but he had no idea where, and what did it matter? All that counted was completing his good deed for the day and saying adios.

  He opened the Macallan, poured a shot into each glass, and held hers out.

  “Change of plans.”

  “For heaven’s sake, I keep telling you that I don’t want a drink. And what do you mean, change of plans?”

  “Thank you.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s polite to say thank you when somebody offers you something.”

  If looks could kill, he’d be dead because hers was lethal. His mystery guest was losing her cool. That might prove interesting. Hell, this was already interesting. He was enjoying himself. Enjoying her. And a little comic relief was just what he needed tonight.

  “Thank you.”

  She all but spat the words at him. He put on what he hoped was a solemn expression.

  “You’re welcome. Now, take the glass and drink the whisky.”

  “I told you—”

  “It’ll take the chill off, and the sooner that happens, the sooner you can leave.”

  Thunder and a slashing ribbon of lightning punctuated his words. Jaimie tried not to flinch, but she did. The huge room was pretty much all glass. It was all that separated her from the tempest that surrounded them.

  The man who stood before her might have been a creature spawned of that tempest.

  She could sense it.

  There was a wildness to him, a kind of savagery. Not that she was afraid of him. She wasn’t. This was a different kind of savagery.

  It was male.

  Primal.

  Sexual.

  A little shiver swept through her. It had nothing to do with being cold. She was warm now, wrapped in his robe, a robe that smelled ever so faintly of man and soap. She shivered again, and he frowned.

  “You’re trembling.”

  “I—I guess I’m still a little chilled.”

  “Dammit, woman, don’t give me a hard time.” He held out the glass. “At least take a sip.”

  She took the glass, raised it to her lips. She wasn’t much of a drinker. White wine was about it for her, so she took a cautious taste of the scotch. The warmth of it filled her mouth, swept lightly down her throat.

  “Not the end of the world,” he said, watching her. “Right?”

  She nodded. Actually, the taste and warmth was lovely, but if he thought he was going to buy her off with expensive whisky, which she was sure this was, he was wrong.

  “You said there’s been a change of plans.”

  “A change of... Oh. Right. Sorry, but Mr. Castelianos is busy.”

  Jaimie narrowed her eyes. “Does he even know that I’m here? Did you tell him that Jaimie Wi…” A tremendous roar of thunder drowned out her words. “Did you tell him that?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  Those big, wide shoulders rose and fell in a who-gives-a-damn shrug.

  “I told you. He’s busy.”

  “But I have an appointment with him,” Jaimie said, and blanked out that damnable little voice that had returned just in time to whisper Maybe. “He’s expecting me.”

  “He’s never heard of you.”

  Jaimie glared at him. Then she put the glass on a small table, took her shoulder bag from the floor and dug through it. Zach watched, eyebrows raised. It looked as if she had the contents of half a dozen suitcases jammed inside.

  “Here,” she said. “Show him this.” She held out a business card. “I’m from Stafford and Bengs. The realty firm.”

  Zack frowned. A bell was starting a dim, distant peal. “Stafford and Bengs?”

  “Yes. I work with Roger Bengs. He met Mr. Castelianos a few weeks ago. Go on. Take my card and show it to him.”

  Zach took the card, snapped it against his thumb without looking at it, and tossed it aside.

  “They talked about putting Mr. Castelianos’s condo on the market. This condo,” Jaimie said, gesturing around her.

  “They did not.”

  “Of course they did! Mr. Castelianos said—”

  “Roger Bengs. A bad comb-over. Pot belly. Makes this little humming noise when he’s telling you something he figures will impress you.”

  Despite everything, Jaimie wanted to laugh. The description was perfect.

  She didn’t laugh, though. The description might be amusing. The situation wasn’t. And... she frowned. And how could this man, Zacharias Castelianos’s something-or-other, possibly know what her boss looked like?

  “How do you know all that?” she said.

  The man hesitated. She knew, in that instant, that whatever came next would not be good.

  “Ms. …Jaimie.” His tone was low, almost apologetic. “I’m afraid you’ve been misled.”

  She felt her stomach drop. Why was she not surprised... except, she wasn’t about to let him know that.

  “You’re the one who’s been misled,” she said, with a calmness that surprised even her. “I don’t know
why your—your Mr. Castelianos would tell you that he and I don’t have an appointment when we do. Go back and remind him that I left him two messages and—”

  “And he only got them today.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Completely possible. He’s been…out of town. Even if he hadn’t been, he wouldn’t have agreed to see you. He isn’t interested in selling this condo. Your Mr. Bengs knew that.”

  The man smiled. His smile was as sexy and spectacular as the rest of him—and what did that have to do with anything?”

  Jaimie drew herself up, put on her best professional air. Not easy, when your hair was hanging in your face and you were draped in a stranger’s robe, but she did the best she could.

  “Look,” she said, trying for the voice of reason, “Mister...Mister Whoever You Are—”

  Zach held up his hand. All good things had to come to an end, even games that had provided a pleasant half hour’s diversion at a time when diversion was just what he’d needed.

  “Zacharias Castelianos.”

  “Yes. If I could just see him, I could clear this up in—”

  “You don’t understand. I’m the man you came to see. I’m Zach Castelianos.”

  She blinked. “You?”

  Zach nodded. “Me.”

  “But—but you can’t be!”

  His lips twisted. “Want to see my driver’s license? Trust me. I am Zacharias Castelianos.”

  He was. She could see it in the way he was looking at her. This was the man Roger Bengs had sent her to see. He’d used her as—as bait. As a lure to draw this man into his net.

  Tears rose in her eyes. Goddammit, she hated that about herself! Other women got angry. Her sisters got angry. Emily yelled. Lissa cursed. Why in hell did she cry? Crying was not logical.

  “Come on, lady. This isn’t worth crying about.”

  “I am not crying!”

  Man, why did women say stuff like that? Of course she was crying. They always did. Tears were their weapon of choice.

  “So—so what was this? Some kind of game?”

  Bingo, except the way she said it made it sound shabby.

  “No,” Zach said quickly. “I mean, yeah, maybe, but it had nothing to do with you.”

  “It had everything to do with me!”

  Her chin came up. She was really into it now, mascara running, lips trembling. She looked vulnerable and beautiful, and what the hell did that have to do with anything? She was trying to make him feel guilty. And, dammit, she was succeeding.

  “OK. Maybe I should have said something sooner. But—“

  “You’re as bad as that—that pompous bag of hot air I work for!”

  “Nobody’s as bad as that,” Zach said, hoping for a smile and getting only an even harder glare. “Look, I didn’t know a thing about this. I told you, I didn’t expect you or anyone else from that office. Not tonight. Not anytime.”

  “And I told you, I left messages on your voice mail.”

  “What is there in ‘I’ve been out of town’ that you don’t understand?”

  “The purpose of having voice mail,” she said coldly, “is so one can check one’s messages, in town or out!”

  “Yeah, well this one didn’t. Couldn’t.” Zach ran his hand through his hair. “If it helps, I’m sorry.”

  “I bet.”

  “I’ll call Bengs and explain that none of this was your fault.”

  “No,” she said quickly, “no, don’t do that!”

  He looked at her. She was an interesting sight. The bottom of his robe, probably six sizes too big for her, was puddled at her feet. Her hair was surely what she’d call a mess, but he loved the sight of a woman’s hair when it looked as if she’d just risen from bed. She had those black smudges under her eyes. The big bag she was clutching was the final touch of glamor.

  She was a mess.

  And beautiful, yeah, that same word again.

  Suddenly he didn’t want the evening to end like this.

  “Listen,” he said, “listen, uh...” He tried to remember her name and drew a blank. J something. “Listen, Jeannie...”

  “It’s Jaimie.”

  “Jaimie.” He paused. “Let me make up for what’s happened. Give me a minute, let me get a jacket and some shoes, and we’ll go out for dinner.”

  “Thank you,” she said, with exaggerated courtesy, “but no.”

  Another spike of lightning sizzled through the room.

  “You’re right. Going out in this weather would be crazy. We’ll order in. What would you like? Italian? Chinese? Thai? There’s a little place just opened, serves South American food, the best Peruvian stuff you ever had.”

  Jaimie stared at the man who was Zacharias Castelianos. The man who was absolutely not an Aristotle Onassis lookalike.

  She hated him for the torment he’d put her through... but the fault was really Bengs’s. He’d sent her on a wild-goose chase, and now, the wild-goose was inviting her to dinner.

  It was tempting. So tempting. How often did a woman meet a man like this?

  “Jaimie.”

  Her eyes met his. The fire was there again. She could feel her heart beating. Fire was not her thing. She knew women who played with it and she’d never understood why they would when surely you could, surely you would end up getting burned.

  It was illogical. Totally illogical. And she was always—she was always logical.

  “Say yes.”

  “No,” she said in a voice that didn’t even sound like her own, “no. I have to go. I have a plane to catch—”

  “You should take off that robe.”

  If her heart thumped any harder, he’d hear it.

  “Otherwise, how can we know if your suit has dried?”

  “Really. Mr. Castelianos—”

  He came toward her, his pace lazy, his eyes never leaving hers.

  “It’s Zach.”

  “Mr. Castelianos—”

  He reached out. Caught one end of the robe’s sash. Slowly, wonderfully slowly, he tugged her toward him.

  “What do you prefer? Straight American? Or something more exotic?”

  She could feel the color sweep into her face. “What?”

  “For dinner. What do you want?”

  He smiled. Oh, what a smile he had. And what was wrong with her that she’d even think such a foolish thing about a stranger who was clearly out to seduce her?

  “I don’t…” She swallowed. “Mr. Castelianos. Really. I am not—”

  “Something exotic,” he said softly. “I’ll bet that’s you.”

  “No! It isn’t. I am not—”

  The lights blinked. Off. On. Then off again before blazing back on with the ferocity of a thousand suns. A sound louder than thunder, louder than the roar of a jet breaking the sound barrier as it swept low over the Texas plains, swept through the enormous room.

  The building seemed to sway.

  A scream broke from Jaimie’s throat.

  “Shit,” Zach said, as the condo was plunged into darkness.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The blonde grabbed him as if he were a tree and she were a morning glory vine.

  She wound her arms around his neck and plastered her body to his. She felt warm and supple and it struck him as amazing that he could be aware of that even as his brain was telling him that whatever had just happened was not good.

  The lights hadn’t just gone out in here.

  The glass walls in the living room framed not a city skyline but the dark grey clouds of an ominous storm.

  Zach’s muscles tightened.

  An act of terror? Anything was possible, especially for a man who’d seen the things he had. But there was one mother of a storm raging outside, the wind howling like the hounds of hell. Lightning still slashed across the sky.

  Look for the simplest explanation first.

  The Agency had taught him that. It was a survival skill, a way of looking at things logically, and that was what he did as the blonde clung to him. He look
ed at the situation logically. A huge storm. Lightning. The roar that had been something other than thunder. The blast of light followed by darkness.

  The odds were that a transformer had blown. Or a series of transformers. Anything else, the sky would already be lit by flame.

  He needed information. Lights. Emergency equipment. Whatever was happening, he needed to take action.

  But the woman in his arms was trembling. Her heart was beating as hard as that of a bird he’d plucked from the dirt after an explosion took out a Hummer, most of a building and the poor bastards who’d been inside it back in Kandahar.

  He remembered the feel of the creature, warm and shaking in the palm of his hand, remembered wondering which was the greater miracle, that it had survived the blast or that it had survived at all in the fucking hellhole that was Afghanistan.

  What was the woman’s name again? Jaimie. That was it.

  “Jaimie,” he said softly, “easy. It’s OK.”

  She nodded, but she didn’t let go. Zach stroked his hand down her back.

  “We’re fine, honey. Absolutely fine.”

  Another nod. Her hair brushed against his jaw. Soft. Silky. Apparently, she wasn’t one of those women who used a can of hairspray to control a hairstyle so it would look wind-tossed. Her hair smelled good, too, a combination of flowers and the sea, or maybe it was the smell of her, not just of her hair.

  And what did that have to do with anything?

  They were fifty stories up, enclosed in a gathering darkness so pervasive that his eyes—and he had excellent night vision—were only now adapting to it.

  He looked past her, toward the windows, and sucked in a breath.

  No lights. There was nothing out there. It was as if the city had disappeared, and he had an excellent view of things, considering that they were fifty stories up.

  Fifty floors removed from the reality of the street.

  The civilized man inside him said that could be a problem. The trained-for-anything warrior spoke over that voice and said that being up here was the equivalent of being behind castle walls, just in case the barbarians gathered at the gate.

  Or had already gathered at it.

  Which was, he thought grimly, what he had to determine.