Jaimie: Fire and Ice (The Wilde Sisters 2)

There was still time to change his strategy. Phone one of Shadow’s operatives. He had half a dozen guys he’d trust with his life; surely, he could trust them with hers.

Sure he could.

But he was here, on the job already, and it only made sense to stay with what he’d started.

That was logical.

* * * *

He could feel that cool attitude slipping away even as they rode the elevator to his suite.

He was losing track of the rules he lived by. Every last one of them, starting with choosing not to tell Caleb he was the last man for this job. Plus, he kept going back to what he’d said to Jaimie, all that crap about precipices and feelings. Not that he’d used the word, but that was what it came down to.

By the time they reached the suite, he’d gone full circle.

Time to come clean.

Tell Jaimie the truth. Why he was here. Who had sent him. She’d be angry. Hell, angry didn’t come close, but so what? He’d tell her about the surveillance videos, too. About Young. Then she’d understand that no matter how furious she was with him, she needed protection. A couple of calls and he’d have things in place. Jaimie, where Young couldn’t find her; three of his men on 24/7 rotation to guard her while he set the legal wheels turning. Young had connections; getting him arrested for trespass and harassment might not be the piece of cake it should have been, but Zach had high-level contacts within the D.C. Metropolitan police. A quiet word would accomplish a lot.

It was a cool, calm and, yes, logical plan. It was how he should have handled things once he’d discovered what was on that camera. He was a professional and if he’d lost sight of that, he had it back now.

The hell he did.

The silence of the room, the darkness collecting outside the windows, seemed to close in. He felt his heart thudding, heard the steadiness of his breath. Every one of his senses had come fully alive in the way they always did when he was heading toward the reality of a mission.

Jaimie was standing at the French doors. Her back was to him. She was saying something, probably about the view, but at this point, he could hear only sounds, not words.

He said her name. Not loudly enough, perhaps, because she didn’t respond. He said it again, and she turned and looked at him. She was smiling.

And then, she wasn’t.

“Zacharias?” Jaimie said.

Her lover was walking slowly toward her. She had never seen him like this: his eyes were the color of the sea before a storm; that muscle she’d noticed before was flickering in his jaw. They were in a very civilized place in a very civilized city, but what she saw in Zacharias now was feral.

A tiny flicker of alarm danced over her skin.

“Zacharias,” she said softly, “why are you looking at me that way?”

“Get undressed.”

“What?”

He tugged his T-shirt from his jeans, yanked it over his head and dropped it.

“I said, get undressed.”

She gave a nervous laugh.

“Really, Zacharias—”

He kicked off his sneakers. Undid his belt. His fly. His jeans dropped to his lean hips.

“Goddammit, take off your clothes!”

She stumbled back. Her heart leaped into her throat.

“Zacharias. You’re scaring me. I don’t—”