He took a step forward. He could stop this nonsense. He was taller than she by at least half a foot. He outweighed her by, what, ninety, one hundred pounds. All he had to do was grab her, carry her back inside and…
And what?
Tie her up? Cuff her to a chair?
No way. He wasn’t her keeper and she wasn’t his responsibility. He’d had enough of responsibility the last couple of weeks; the truth was, he’d had enough of it for years.
For every action, there was a reaction.
Didn’t anybody study physics anymore? Didn’t they study history? Didn’t they realize you couldn’t always rely on others to ride to the rescue?
He put his hands on his hips.
She’d reached the bottom of the first flight. He watched her move along the landing…and vanish from sight when she reached the next set of steps.
He could still hear her, though. The high heels that had gone squish, squish, squish on wood were going click, click, click on the concrete.
Man!
High heels. Stiletto heels. For fifty flights of steps?
“At least take off your shoes,” he shouted.
No answer. Just those clicks fading away.
He went down a couple of steps. A couple more. The emergency lights were flickering like candles buffeted by a heavy wind.
“Crap,” he muttered.
Like it or not, she was his responsibility. She was here, in his home; he’d managed to scare the life out of her. He couldn’t let her break her—
He heard a thump. A thin cry.
“Fuck,” he snarled, and took off down the steps at a gallop.
She was on the second landing down, sprawled in a small heap, that sad excuse for a flashlight burning a hole in the dark from where it lay in her lap, the ridiculous shoulder bag beside her.
“Honey,” he said, squatting down beside her. “What happened? Are you hurt?”
She looked up at him. There were tears in her eyes and on her cheeks.
“I hate the dark. I hate heights. I hate whoever made these ridiculous shoes,” she said, making a slashing gesture at the stilettos lying a couple of steps below her like small dead creatures. “And you were wasting your time trying to seduce me because I am absolutely, positively, no-way-in-hell ever going to sleep with you! You got that, Mr. Castelianos?”
Zach nodded.
“Got it,” he said solemnly.
He picked up her flashlight. Perfect timing, because the emergency lights stopped flickering and simply went out.
Jaimie gave a little sob.
Zach leaned forward and gently thumbed the tears from her cheeks.
“I’ll take care of you,” he said softly.
Then he gathered her in his arms, rose to his feet, and carried her back up the stairs.
CHAPTER FIVE
Zacharias Castelianos carried Jaimie to his bedroom, all the while whispering that she’d be fine, that he wouldn’t let anything happen to her.
And she believed him.
She’d met him less than an hour ago and only minutes before, she’d been willing to brave the dark, the endless descent to the lobby, the turmoil that might await her on the streets far below, just to get away from him.
Now, safe in his arms, his deep voice a soothing murmur in her ear, he had become her safe haven.
He sat her gently in a big armchair near the window. She watched him cross the room to a bed that looked as big as her entire apartment in D.C. and scoop a blanket from its foot. Then he came back to her, wrapped her in the blanket—soft wool that smelled faintly of pine and soap, that smelled of him—squatted down before her and clasped her hand.
“OK, honey. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to get those supplies I told you about from the dressing room. It’s right there, in that corner. See?”
She couldn’t, not really; night was fast closing in. But she could hear him, the concern in his voice, and she nodded.
“OK.”
“Good girl.”
She wasn’t a girl, she was a twenty-six year old woman, but he’d said the words in a way that was meant to be kind. Besides, she’d behaved like a girl, not a grown up. Breaking down as she had… It made her feel incredibly foolish.
And now, dammit, added to everything else, she was shaking. Her teeth were banging together and the harder she tried to keep it from happening, the worse it got.
“You’re wet,” he said briskly. “And cold. And you’re in shock.” He rose to his feet. “The blanket will help until I find you some dry stuff to wear. Are you good with that?”
She nodded. Why say OK and risk sounding as if she were playing castanets?
He headed across the room and vanished in the dark. She heard the sounds of things shifting, things knocking together, and then a tiny orange light appeared. It was the flame from a candle burning in what looked like a Mason jar.
Nothing in her life had ever been more welcome.
Zacharias came toward her and set the candle on a table beside the chair.
“Better?”
She smiled. It was. Amazingly better.
“Good. Let me get a few things we’re gonna need…”
He disappeared into the dressing room again. When he remerged, he was carrying a carton. Things in it clinked together as he placed it on the floor.
“Our supplies,” he said, smiling at her. “Now, we’ll get a little more light going in here…”
Seconds later, three more candles were blazing. She could see the room now, the size of it—big, like him. Efficient and masculine, like him.
And beautiful.
Like him.
Because he was. Beautiful. Watching him move was wonderful. His body was lean, long, and elegantly muscled. His face was sculpted, the jaw hard and defined, the nose straight and perfect except for a little bump halfway down its length.
Jaimie’s breath seemed to catch in her throat.
It was difficult to remember why she’d feared him, why she’d been willing to risk so much to escape him.
He’d flirted with her, sure. So what? Men flirted. She never flirted back—she wasn’t comfortable with it—but flirting was harmless.
Deep inside, she’d surely known he wouldn’t hurt her, wouldn’t do anything she didn’t want him to do.
And maybe that was the problem, that part of her had understood that there might be things he’d ask of her that she would want, would need, would do despite the fact that he was a stranger, that she knew nothing about him except that he was beautiful and exciting and, yes, a little dangerous…
“Time to get you into something warm and dry.”
She blinked, looked up. He was standing over her and his tone was businesslike. Nothing even close to flirtatious or sexy. No innuendo, simply a statement of fact.
He nodded toward the dressing room, softly illuminated by candlelight.
“I’ve laid out some things. A T-shirt. A sweatshirt. An old pair of cut-down sweatpants. They go to my knees, so they should be fine for you. Wool socks. And if that stuff doesn’t work for you, take whatever you prefer. OK?”
Jaimie cleared her throat.
“About before,” she began. “About you ma-making that same offer…”
“Honey. We can talk later.” He reached for her, lifted her as easily as if she were a feather and put her on her feet. “I left a big towel for you, too. Rub down, then get dressed. I’m going to take some things downstairs, but I’ll come right back and I’ll be out here, waiting for you.” He flashed that devastating smile. “Then we’ll see about something to eat. How’s that sound?”
Like paradise, she thought as she shut the dressing room door behind her.
There was no lock.
A little while ago, assuming she’d let him talk her into this, she’d have searched for something to jam under the knob.
Now, she simply began undressing.
And got as far as her bra and pantyhose.
On? Or off?
Nei
ther was wet or even damp, but she never wore pantyhose with sweats. And if she didn’t keep the pantyhose on, she’d feel silly wearing her bra.
She looked at the clothing he’d laid out for her. Picked up the sweatshirt and held it against her. It was huge. Only she would know she wasn’t wearing a bra.
Or panties.
That she was naked under the clothes.
His clothes.
A little tremor went through her. The cold. That was the reason. She had to stop wasting time and get warm.
Quickly, she stripped off her underwear and used the towel to rub some circulation back into her flesh. Once she had, she pulled on the clothes he’d left for her. The air conditioning had gone off when the power had, of course, but its chill lingered.
His clothes were just right.
Well, everything floated on her, but the pieces were soft and warm against her skin. There was a mirrored wall across from her and she caught a glimpse of herself in it.
Stunning, she thought with a wry smile.
Her hair had dried the way it always did if she didn’t blow-dry it to get out the waves and curls that always resisted all her attempts at taming. And her outfit was…
Interesting.
She gave a soft laugh as she imagined Lissa seeing her like this.
Her big sister often teased her about her clothing choices.
“I adore you,” she’d once said, “but, honestly, James, you must have been born wearing a suit.”
No suit tonight.
Instead, she was lost within seemingly endless folds of pale gray and deep blue jersey.
The pair of socks he’d left her were the pièce de résistance. They were olive drab. Khaki, actually, a color you became familiar with when you had a father and two brothers who’d been in the service. Their fit was, well, beyond huge.
She just had to hope she wouldn’t trip over them.
Her gaze moved past her own flickering reflection to the dressing room itself.
A long rack held half a dozen suits. Navy. Dark gray. Black with a thin off-white stripe. Dress shirts. White. Pale blue. Dark blue. Shelves held sweaters, T-shirts, casual shirts, underwear.
It seemed that Zacharias Castelianos preferred boxer briefs.
Black boxers briefs, all neatly rolled in what she recognized as military style.
A picture swept into her head. That big, long, muscular body wearing a pair of boxers. Just that. Nothing else…
“Honey?”
Jaimie swung toward the door.
“Yes?”
“You OK?”
“I’m fine.”
Quickly, she shook out her damp sit and blouse, arranged them neatly on hangers. Then she took a breath, reached for the knob and opened the door. He was standing just outside, leaning against a night table, hip-shot, arms folded over his chest, a big flashlight in one hand.
His eyes met hers, then moved over her slowly, from her face to her toes and then back up again.
“Warm enough?”
“Uh huh. Yes. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” A slow smile tilted at the corner of his mouth. “Why do I get the feeling Roger wouldn’t approve?”
“Rog…Oh. Mr. Bengs.” Jaimie laughed. “No. This outfit isn’t exactly on his How to Succeed as a Realtor list.”
“Well, luckily for us both, old Roger isn’t here.” He straightened, turned on the flashlight and held out his hand. “Can you get down the stairs, or do you want me to carry you?”
“I can get down on my own,” she said quickly.
“Fine. So. Ready to scrounge up something to eat?”
“Ready,” she said, and put her hand in his.
* * * *
The kitchen was candlelit.
She could see it more clearly now than during that first quick pass she’d made through it. Like everything else, like the man who lived here, it was big, efficient, and handsome.
And it smelled wonderful.
Jaimie all but drooled at the sight of the small pot bubbling gently on the butane burner.
“Soup?”
“Yeah. Vegetable and barley. I opened the first can I found on the shelf. I hope that’s all right.”
Her stomach growled. He looked at her and grinned.
“Was that a vote of assent?”
“I’m starved,” she admitted.
“Good. So am I.”
She watched as he opened cupboards, took out bowls, plates, slid open drawers, reached in for spoons and napkins. He seemed at home. Silly thought. He was at home. It was just that it was difficult to imagine a man like this being comfortable in a kitchen, but he was.
“What can I do to help?”
He motioned to the pair of high leather stools drawn up at a black granite counter.
“No, seriously. There must be something I can do.”
“You can check that top drawer. The deep one. That’s it. I’ve been away but my housekeeper expected me back today or tomorrow. With luck, she did some shopping and there’s some bread in the drawer.”
There was bread. A crusty loaf of it. Jaimie found a knife, cut off a few slices and piled them in a straw basket while he ladled the soup into bowls and arranged them on the counter along with the spoons and napkins.
“Dinner,” he said dramatically.
She dug in.
The next time she looked up, her bowl was empty. So was his. The loaf of bread was gone. He must have sliced the last of it.
“Oh, wow,” she said softly.
He smiled. “My sentiments, exactly.”
She reached for the bowls. His hand closed around hers.
“Leave them.”
“The least I can do is clean up.”
“After I did the cooking, you mean.”
He was smiling. She smiled, too.
“Hey. A working girl opens cans for dinner all the time. Nobody ever said that wasn’t cooking.”
“What about takeout?”
She grinned. “I’m excellent at that, too.”
“Nobody else around to do the cooking?”
It was a simple question. Why did her throat suddenly constrict? Was it because his smile had changed, become personal and very, very male, and she felt it straight down to her toes?
“No.”
“Are all the guys in D.C. fools?”
“Mr. Castelianos—”
“It’s Zach. And I’m not going to turn into the Big Bad Wolf.”
She could feel herself blushing.
“I know. But—”
“But, yes, I’m flirting with you.”
She wasn’t just blushing, she was turning crimson.
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
“Why?”
Why? Why? What kind of question was that?
“Mister…Zach. See, I’m not terribly good at this.”
“Guys must come on to you all the time.”
“I never—I don’t—”
“You don’t encourage it.”
She nodded. The tip of her tongue slid over her bottom lip. There was nothing coy or kittenish in the gesture and suddenly he knew that she was telling him the truth. She didn’t encourage this kind of thing, God only knew why, and he was a rat for doing this to her.
She’d told him, in every way imaginable, that she didn’t play around.
He was thirty-four.
He’d been with a lot of women, probably more than most men. No immodesty there, just simple honesty.
The thing was, he could read women pretty well. Be honest, Castelianos. He could read women extremely well.
This one was beautiful. Incredibly beautiful, and an amazing combination of tough and tender, and he could think of a thousand ways to kill the time it would take for the power to come on again.
And yes, he believed her when she said she didn’t play at hooking up.
He could change that in a heartbeat.
He’d caught her watching him. Felt her eyes following his every motion. He’d noticed th
e little blip in her pulse rate when he’d taken her hand and led her down the stairs.
Most of all, he’d felt the way she’d settled into his arms out there on that dark landing, the way she’d pressed her face against his throat and all but given herself up to him.
It had been enough to drive him crazy.
Earlier, before the power outage, he’d been fooling around. A man. A woman. Alone, obviously sharing an attraction to each other. Why not take it to the next logical step? Dinner, some wine, then a tumble into his bed.
Now…
Now, somehow, things had changed.
She’d gone from being a desirable woman to one he wanted with an ache so deep in his belly, it was almost a pain.
He’d been without a woman for a while. That was part of it, but there was more to it than that. There was something about this woman, something in her toughness, her sweetness…
Her—for lack of a better word—her innocence.
He believed her implicitly when she said she didn’t have a man in her life, that she didn’t go in for what he thought of as pickup games.
That was all the more reason he knew that he could have her in his bed tonight.
She was impressionable. She had convictions. She was honorable.
He was none of those things. Not anymore.
Maybe he had been, once, a very long time ago, but the years had left their mark on him. He had lived in the shadows too long.
He was not impressionable. He knew what life was like and nothing could ever change that.
He had convictions, but they’d been honed by the fires of war, and skills a woman like her could never imagine and, he fervently hoped, would never discover.
As for honor…assuming he’d ever had any, his had given way to reality and the acceptance of life’s immutable truths.
Trust no one.
Believe in no one.
Give yourself to no one.
Stick to those rules and the world might just leave you alone.
This was not a woman for him, not even for one night.
His head knew that.
His body was telling him a different tale.
It said that he could get her out of those clothes—his clothes, and, hell, was there anything sexier than a stunning woman in a man’s clothes? He could get her out of them and into his bed in less time that it had taken him to heat the soup.
Jaimie: Fire and Ice Page 7
