Jaimie: Fire and Ice

by Sandra Marton

The answer came quickly as the rain picked up.

  It felt good. Cool and healing. After a minute, as it began building in intensity, he reached for the remote control. One of its functions was the lowering and raising of a wide, deep awning.

  The awning unfolded noiselessly above him.

  A rainstorm would be as good as a sunset. The rain itself might cool things off and thunder and lightning, experienced this high up, was invariably impressive.

  Zach took another drink.

  He was easy with the whole thing.

  He felt—what was the word? Replete.

  His belly growled. OK. Not entirely replete. He was hungry. The last thing he’d eaten had been a sandwich, a slab of gray something stuffed between two slices of equally gray bread that the flight attendant had tossed to the passengers like a keeper tossing fish to sea lions in a zoo.

  No problem.

  In a little while, he’d scrounge in the freezer for one of the meals his housekeeper always prepared and left for him. She was a pretty good cook. Ragouts. Lasagna. Soups.

  Or maybe he’d order in. Yeah. That was a better idea.

  Amazing, the things a man missed after almost two weeks of MREs. The classics. Hamburgers. Pizza. Takeout from the little Chinese place a few blocks away.

  He’d just sit here for a while, watch the storm. Then he’d pour himself another drink, get his phone, call out for pizza. Extra cheese. Pepperoni. Mushrooms. What the hell, garlic, too.

  Thunder rolled overhead, closer this time than the last, and right as it faded away, he heard something else.

  Beep beep.

  What was that?

  Beep beep. Beep beep.

  Dammit. The house phone. Why would the concierge call him?

  He couldn’t come up with a single reason—unless it was about his car, but why wouldn’t the garage contact him directly?

  Beep beep. Beep beep. Beep beep.

  Zach sighed and picked up the remote, pressed the button that connected him to the concierge.

  “Yes?’

  “Mr. Castelianos, I’m sorry to—”

  Thunder roared. Zach frowned, plugged his free ear with his finger.

  “Say again?”

  “I said, there’s someone…says…she...”

  More thunder, seemingly directly overhead. A jagged bolt of lightning speared through the sky.

  Zach cursed under his breath and strode into the living room.

  “I can’t understand you.”

  “…who…says…expecting her and—”

  Static crackled along the line.

  “I’m not expecting anybody.”

  “Lady says…met at…conference in Washington.”

  A woman? From the D.C. conference? Sara? Siri? Sari. The one who’d left the voice mail message. Zach blew out his breath. First that voice mail. Now an unannounced visit. So much for her claim that she was just looking for a little fun.

  “Sir? Shall…send…lady…up?”

  Zach ran his hand through his still-damp hair. Which was worse? An uninvited woman or the concierge acting as intermediary in a private matter? Add in the fact that every second word was incomprehensible and the answer was self-evident.

  “Send her up,” he growled, and he tossed the remote aside.

  So much for feeling replete.

  He strode through the living room, to the foyer, where he stood, hands on his jeans-clad hips, watching the bank of tiny white lights over the elevator blink as the car first descended to the lobby and then began its climb to the penthouse.

  He told himself to calm down.

  Sari whatever-her-last-name-was—dammit, he couldn’t come up with it—probably thought he was going to be delightfully surprised by her visit.

  He knew that some men would. He wasn’t a dummy. She was stunning. The truth was, most men would.

  But he wasn’t most men. For one thing, his profession had taught him the importance of maintaining his privacy. Security was definitely vital. For another, he simply didn’t enjoy violations of his turf. He had trust issues, one woman had snarled when he’d reacted—according to her, overreacted—to her offering him a key to her place and expecting, in return, a key to his.

  Jesus. Talk about overreacting…

  This was a visit. That was all it was. It wasn’t a security risk, it wasn’t a woman looking for an exchange of keys. This was about fun and sex, period. Drinks. Dinner. An evening of R and R. Maybe it wasn’t what he normally did after returning from a “situation,” but so what?

  A bolt of lightning lit the room. Thunder snarled at virtually the same instant. The storm was powerful and it was directly overhead.

  It could be an interesting accompaniment to what could be an interesting evening.

  The tiny white lights above the elevator were still blinking. It would stop soon, the doors would open, and how difficult would it be to paste a smile to his lips, say something like Hi, what a nice surprise, and make the most of things?

  Or not.

  The truth was that he wasn’t in the mood for an uninvited guest, sexy female or not. Nights like this, all he wanted was to kick back, take it slow and easy, lose the memories of the recent past.

  Zach drew himself up.

  He took a long breath.

  Cleared his throat.

  He’d do his damnedest to be polite but Sari wasn’t staying. He’d greet her with Hello, what a surprise, sorry you can’t stay, followed by cab fare home.

  He managed what he hoped was a smile, folded his arms across his bare chest. The lights stopped blinking. The elevator stopped. The mirrored doors slid open—

  Zach stared.

  A woman stood centered in the car. Only one problem.

  It wasn’t Sari.

  This woman was tall, blue-eyed, and maybe blond. It was hard to tell because her hair was wet. All of her was wet. Hair. Suit. Shoes.

  And he’d never seen her before in his life.

  His smile, or what he’d meant to be a smile, vanished. So did any attempt at civility.

  Zach’s green eyes narrowed. He unfolded his arms, slapped his hands on his hips, took a step forward and said, in a voice that was closer to a growl than anything else, “Who in bloody hell are you?”

  * * * *

  A bunch of phrases raced through Jaimie’s head but not one of them was the answer to the question the man confronting her had asked.

  Holy hell, ohmygod, and an ancient line from some long-forgotten movie or cartoon or comedy routine and, really, what did it matter, because Feet, get me outta here, was definitely not the response to the man’s question.

  Zacharias Castelianos?

  Not on a bet.

  An Aristotle Onassis lookalike, she’d said to Roger and Roger had said, “To a T.”

  Really?

  Unless every photo of Onassis was a lie, this man no more looked like him than she looked like Snow White.

  He was big. Huge. The size of a house. Six three. Six four. Maybe more. His hair was brown. Or chestnut. Whatever it was, it wasn’t white. She had no idea what color Onassis’s eyes had been but somehow she doubted they’d been this shade of green. His jaw was dark with stubble; she’d never seen photos of Onassis unshaven. As for stocky… Forget that. The man glaring at her as if she were an alien who’d invaded Earth had muscles laid over muscles—it was easy to see that because he was…

  Back to ohmygod.

  He was half-naked.

  And, from the look on his face, the aggressive posture, she’d have bet anything that he was not pleased to see her.

  “I asked you a question. Who the hell are you?”

  A bubble of hysterical laughter rose in Jaimie’s throat. Not pleased to see her? Give that woman the Understatement of the Year award!

  His eyes narrowed, turned into green slits. Any narrower, he wouldn’t be able to see.

  “You find this amusing?”

  “No,” Jaimie said quickly, “certainly not.”

  “I’m waiting.”
>
  She swallowed hard. “For...?”

  There. His eyes almost scrunched shut. Another eighth of an inch and his lashes—dark and thick—would scrape his cheekbones.

  “For an answer,” he snapped. “Who are you? What do you want? How’d you manage to convince Oliver that your name was Sari?”

  “Who?”

  “Oliver. The concierge.”

  “Yes. He said that was his name. I mean, who’s Sari?”

  A muscle danced in his jaw. “She isn’t you, that’s for damn sure.”

  The man took a step forward. Jaimie took a step back. She was almost against the wall of the elevator. She considered slamming her hand against the raised brass L on the panel to her right. Then she thought better of it. Fear was giving way to irritation. Did he really think she’d used subterfuge to get up here?

  “I never said I was anyone named Sari. And who, precisely, are you?”

  “You’re asking me who I am?”

  “Yes. I’m here to see Mr. Zacharias Castelianos. You, obviously, are not he. So, who are you?”

  Actually, she was pretty sure she already had the answer. The body said he might be Castelianos’s personal trainer. Or his bodyguard.

  Or…

  Her gaze swept over the man again. Her pulse did a little hammering in her ears. He was, in a word, gorgeous.

  Was his relationship with Castelianos more personal than that?

  She’d grown up with totally hetero brothers and this man gave off totally hetero vibes but, hey, anything was possible, even if it would be an awful waste for womankind.

  “Enjoying the view?”

  Her eyes flew to his. A cool little smile tilted at the corner of his mouth. Jaimie felt her face heat. Whoever he was, whatever his function, he was not a nice man.

  “Do you work for Mr. Castelianos?”

  “No.”

  No. Just “no.” Instinct told her the thing to do was push that L-for-Lobby button and get the hell out of here, but what would she tell Roger Bengs?

  “Well,” she said, drawing herself up, “I do.”

  “Really.”

  Another of those little smiles. And now he was the one giving her the once-over. She wouldn’t blame him if he laughed. She knew what she looked like. She’d gotten a glimpse of herself in the mirrored doors of the elevator before they’d opened.

  She was a walking disaster.

  Plus, she was starting to feel chilled. The rain had been a warm drizzle most of the way here. It had become a downpour only as she made the last hundred-yard dash.

  So she was wet.

  And now, thanks to the AC that felt as if it was turned to full blast, she could feel herself on the verge of shivering.

  Or maybe she was already shivering, she decided, as the man stopped smiling and gave her another raking look with those amazing eyes.

  His gaze stopped at her chest.

  She was afraid to look down. Why bother? Her silk suit was thin. The blouse beneath it was even thinner. And the air conditioning was brutal.

  Add it all up, and she knew what the cold had done to her nipples.

  Should she fold her arms? Not fold them? Pretend she didn’t know what he was looking at? Be casual about it? Be sophisticated?

  “Dammit,” she said, and folded her arms over her breasts.

  His gaze met hers. It gave away nothing.

  “Too bad you don’t believe in umbrellas,” he said.

  Jaimie’s chin shot up. “Too bad you don’t believe in answering—”

  She’d intended her next word to be “questions,” but thunder roared through the room. She jumped at the sound, gave a little gasp as the lights in the elevator and in the foyer dimmed, then came on again.

  OK. Now she really was shivering.

  “It’s just the storm.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “The lights. They flickered because of the storm.”

  “I know that. I’m just—”

  “Wet and cold and, goddammit…” Zach took a step back. “Well? Are you going to stand in that elevator until you turn into a block of ice? Jesus, woman, come inside!”

  He could see her thinking things over. Should she give up the elevator car for his foyer? He couldn’t imagine why she wouldn’t, when getting into his place was obviously her intention, but the look on her face was easy to read.

  Whatever she was doing here, whatever she wanted, had not necessarily involved a bad storm and a half-naked man.

  At this point, half-naked was a term that could almost be applied to her, too.

  Her white suit—silk, he figured, based on the looks of it—was beginning to give up all her secrets.

  It seemed to be shrinking, right before his eyes.

  A few seconds ago, before she’d figured that out, he’d been able to see the rounded outline of her breasts, the faint thrust of her nipples. Now she had all of that covered, but that left him with a clear view of her skirt. It not only clung to her thighs, it had ridden up higher than he suspected she’d deem proper.

  Despite her wet, bedraggled appearance, something about her hinted at propriety, but propriety laid over something else. Something earthy and real and hot.

  And, dammit, what was he doing?

  His imagination was working overtime; his body was starting to get the message his brain was sending. Another couple of seconds, she’d know it. His jeans were soft and old; the denim cupped his balls in a way that was eminently comfortable for a man who’d planned nothing more exotic than lounging on a terrace…

  But eminently embarrassing if he got an erection.

  Thunder filled the room. It was the perfect dramatic touch. It also gave him reason to turn away from her and walk toward the stairs.

  “You have a choice,” he said gruffly. “You can stand there and freeze like a deer caught in the headlights or you can come in and I’ll get you a towel. Zacharias Castelianos doesn’t appreciate his guests, invited or otherwise, dripping all over the place.”

  “He’s here, then?”

  Zach looked at her. “Yeah. He’s here.”

  She had a way of sucking her bottom lip between her teeth and narrowing her eyes as she thought things over. He liked watching her do it. She had a soft-looking mouth and her eyes were an interesting shade of blue, the irises pale and ringed in black.

  All in all, she had a great face. It went with the long, lovely body…

  Dammit, he thought, and headed for the stairs. Her voice stopped him.

  “Tell your employer—”

  “I don’t work for him. I told you that.”

  “Oh.”

  At first, he didn’t get it. That “oh,” the way she said it. And, when he looked back at her, the rosy blush that swept over her face.

  Then he did.

  She thought he was gay.

  It was hard not to laugh. He covered it by trotting up the rest of the stairs.

  “Wait! I didn’t finish! Tell Mr. Castelianos that his six o’clock appointment is here.”

  “You can tell him yourself.”

  “You mean you’ll bring him with you?”

  “Yes,” he said. “And you can explain what you’re doing here to him.”

  Enough was enough. He’d give her a towel. A couple of towels. Tell her who he was. Just as a matter of curiosity, find out why she thought she was his six o’clock appointment, call her a cab and then, goodbye and good luck.

  He started for the linen closet, then changed his mind. She was wet and cold. Not even a big bath sheet would do the job as well as a terrycloth robe. He snatched his from his dressing room, hesitated when he saw his reflection in the mirrored walls. Unshaven. Shirtless. Barefoot.

  Damn.

  He grabbed a white T-shirt from a stack on one of the shelves and pulled it over his head, looked at himself again, rubbed his hand over his bristly jaw.

  Too bad.

  The shirt would be his sole concession to civility. She wasn’t company and he wasn’t going to prete
nd that she was.

  Robe over his arm, he headed for the living room again.

  Would she be waiting? Or would she have bolted?

  He hoped she was still there. He wanted to see her reaction to finding out that he was the man she’d come to see, plus he wanted to know the reason.

  He couldn’t come up with a thing.

  He lived a very private life. His time with The Agency had taught him the importance of keeping a low profile, and he’d maintained that same low profile when he’d gone out on his own. Still, a couple of the cases he’d handled had made ripples. Shadow had been mentioned. So had he.

  Was she a reporter, out for a story? Some in the media had tried to get to him and failed. Was she some kind of groupie? Crazy as it seemed, he’d run into his fair share of them. A woman would come up to him and say, “Are you Zach Castelianos?” in a way that made his name sound like foreplay.

  He knew what they wanted.

  A walk on the wild side with someone they’d heard mentioned in whispers.

  He always ignored them. He was a man, not a ticket to danger.

  He wasn’t a betting man, but had he been he’d have put his money on the fact that Jaimie or Janie whatever-her-name-was, didn’t fall into either category. Unless she was putting on an amazing act, she didn’t have a clue as to who he was.

  So, what did she want of him?

  Only one thing was certain.

  The lady had, for lack of a better word, chutzpah.

  He liked that.

  It was a rare commodity. His experience with women was that most of them would happily do whatever it took to please him.

  Not this one.

  She’d taken him on word for word, glower for glower.

  And, yes, she was still here. He saw her from the top of the stairs. She’d moved further into the foyer; she stood staring straight ahead, her enormous shoulder bag on the floor beside her. He knew she was watching the storm as it raged beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.

  Man, she was something. All those curves, the long legs, the hair streaming down her back, the wet darkness of it giving way to thick strands of a color that could be described only as palest lemon.

  His belly clenched.

  He should have phoned Sari. To hell with his usual post-situation practices. How could he have forgotten that sex was the best possible way to burn off tension, stress, leftover testosterone?