Jaimie: Fire and Ice (The Wilde Sisters 2)

“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.

Was this a replay of Hurricane Sandy, when much of New York had gone dark? Was it a replay of the big blackout of 2003, when a power surge had taken out a hunk of the east coast all the way from Ontario through Manhattan?

Or was something else going down?

“Jaimie?”

Her heart was still racing, but he could almost feel her gathering herself together.

“Yes,” she said, and he heard the susurration of her breath as she took a step back.

He let go of her and tried not to think of how good it had felt to hold her against him. This wasn’t a time to start feeling the result of having been without a woman for a few weeks.

“OK,” he said briskly. “Let’s see if we can find out what’s happening.”

Her eyes met his. Good. There was concern in them, not panic.

“The storm?”

He considered lying and decided against it.

“I think that’s it…but we want to be sure.”

He watched the tip of her tongue slide over her bottom lip.

“You mean—”

“I mean, let’s see if my cell phone works.”

He took his iPhone from his rear pocket. She bent, felt for the shoulder bag she’d dropped when she grabbed him.

“Here,” he said, “let me.”

He found the bag and handed it to her. She fumbled with the zipper and pulled out her phone.

Each of them pushed a button.