Jaimie: Fire and Ice (The Wilde Sisters 2)

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

Seconds later, he stood inside the big glass 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 hell 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 glass 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 glass 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 passengers 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 classics. 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 hell, 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.