Jaimie: Fire And Ice Part 4

"Good evening, Mr. Castelianos. How are you, sir?"

Zach had to give him credit. It had been a quick recovery.

"I'm fine, thanks," he said, walking briskly into the welcome coolness of the lobby.

The concierge greeted him just as politely. No questions, no comments. That was another good thing about living in a building like this. If you wanted attention, you got it. If you wanted to be off the radar, you were.

The doors to his private elevator slid open. Zach stepped inside and inserted his keycard into the slot. The car rose swiftly and silently to the fiftieth floor, where the doors swished open, directly onto the double-height foyer of his penthouse.

He stood still for a moment, taking in the sweep of rosewood flooring, the flowing gla.s.s walls of the enormous living room that stretched ahead, and the rise of the rosewood and brushed-steel staircase toward the sunlight that poured through a huge skylight on the second level. The place smelled faintly of lemon oil, a sure sign that his housekeeper had been in earlier.

He dropped his keys on a gla.s.s table and took the stairs two at a clip. By the time he reached the master suite, he had his s.h.i.+rt off and his jeans unzipped. The duffel bag landed on the oversized bed; the discarded clothes. .h.i.t the hamper in a three-pointer that Kobe Bryant would have admired.

Seconds later, he stood inside the big gla.s.s shower stall that was the focal point of the bathroom adjoining his bedroom, all six side sprays turned on full, the waterfall spray overhead beating down on his shoulders. Zach closed his eyes, tilted his head back and let the memories and dirt of the last ten days swirl down the drain.

He showered for a long time. Shampooed. Scrubbed. Thought about shaving and then decided the h.e.l.l with it; the stubble on his jaw wasn't short enough to be itchy or long enough to be annoying. Shaving could wait until morning.

What he wanted now was a drink.

He decided on the 25-year-old Macallan and poured the whisky into a Baccarat tumbler. Then, wearing only a fresh pair of jeans, he stepped onto the terrace, sprawled in a lounger, wrapped one hand around the gla.s.s and balanced it on his flat belly.

Perfect.

The sun was dipping low in the sky.

One of the reasons he'd bought the penthouse was its 360-degree view of the city. From this part of the terrace, he could see the undulating gray-green waters of the Hudson River. At sunset on clear nights, he liked watching the sky above it turn into a phantasmagoria of pink, purple and fuchsia. If he turned his head, he could see the Statue of Liberty raising her torch in the harbor. Come sunset, she would become a column of golden bronze.

Zach decided not to move an inch tonight until the entire show played out.

If it played out.

It had started to rain. Lightly, and in New York you never knew if a drizzle would stop or turn into a full-fledged storm, but right now he was still comfortable.

He brought the gla.s.s to his lips. Took a long, soothing swallow.

The minutes slid past. High clouds were moving in, and was that the low rumble of thunder off in the distance?

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 pa.s.sengers 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 cla.s.sics. 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 h.e.l.l, 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 b.u.t.ton 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 Was.h.i.+ngton."

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 s.e.x, 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, s.e.xy 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 d.a.m.nedest to be polite but Sari wasn't staying. He'd greet her with h.e.l.lo, 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 b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l 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 h.e.l.l, ohmyG.o.d, 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 Ona.s.sis lookalike, she'd said to Roger and Roger had said, "To a T."

Really?

Unless every photo of Ona.s.sis 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 Ona.s.sis'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 Ona.s.sis 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 ohmyG.o.d.

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 h.e.l.l 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 sc.r.a.pe his cheekbones.