Jaimie: Fire and Ice (The Wilde Sisters 2)

He tucked his wallet into his jeans. Scooped up his keys. Headed down the stairs. Called the garage, told them to have his the Porsche ready.

“Sir,” Mrs. Halverson said, as he headed for the elevator. She had a small, cream-colored card in her outstretched hand. “I found this business card in the­­—”

“Toss it,” Zach said, and stepped into the elevator.

Five minutes later, a kid who looked no more than fifteen delivered the car. Zach handed him a fifty, climbed behind the wheel and took off.

Three hours and a couple of hundred miles later, he headed back to the city across the George Washington Bridge.

He was calm. Collected. Cool. Why wouldn’t he be? Jaimie Something Or Other was nothing but a memory.

Or she would be, Zach thought, as he took out his iPhone and clicked through his contact list. The day was still young—and women were as plentiful as the autumn leaves falling from the trees in Central Park, especially when you were a rich, powerful bachelor with the entire city as your canvas.

There was only one problem.

Almost a month later, Zach had gone through nearly a dozen women listed in his cell phone, gone through them in the sense that he’d taken them to dinner, to the theater, to the dull-as-dishwater openings of art gallery showings in Soho and uptown museum exhibits.

The women were bright. Beautiful. And, ultimately, completely bewildered when he took them to their doors, politely refused coffee or brandy, dropped chaste kisses on their expectant faces…

And went home.

He was living a life as celibate as a monk’s.

Except in the middle of the night when he lay in his bed, alone, and dreamed of the hours he’d spent with a stranger named Jaimie in his arms.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Indian summer gave way, inevitably, to fall.

Jaimie had always been what her sisters teasingly called a Fall Fan, but it was true. Even as a kid, she’d loved autumn. The brilliance of the falling leaves, the crisp mornings and clear, star-shot nights—it was, she’d always thought, the most perfect time of year, culminating in that most American of holidays, Thanksgiving.

It was an extra special event for the Wilde family.

Charlotte Wilde, the sisters’ mother, had always insisted that the holiday season started with Thanksgiving, moved on to Christmas, and ended with New Year’s Eve.

When they were children, they’d all gathered around her the night before Thanksgiving and she’d read them that wonderful old poem, “The Night Before Christmas.”

After a while, they knew it by heart, but that didn’t lessen the joy of sharing it.

Things changed.

Charlotte died.

The loss was indescribable. Her daughters and stepsons, who had already suffered the loss of their own mother years ago, had adored her.

Jacob, Caleb and Travis, older by several years than Emily, Jaimie and Lissa, had gotten them through that first empty Thanksgiving. After that, the holiday had become more meaningful than ever.

Except for the times one of the Wilde brothers was away serving his country, none of the Wildes ever missed it. Well, none of them except for their father. Four-star generals couldn’t always make it home for the holidays.

As a kid, Jaimie had sometimes wondered if he’d even tried.

After a while, it hadn’t mattered. Thanksgiving was for the Wilde brothers and sisters. Not one of them would deliberately stay away.

Now, for the first time, Jaimie had considered the possibility.

Coming up with an excuse would have been easy: the press of work, the importance of networking at the several holiday parties to which she’d been invited.

There were only two problems.