Jaimie: Fire and Ice (The Wilde Sisters 2)

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, sexy 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 damnedest to be polite but Sari wasn’t staying. He’d greet her with Hello, 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 bloody hell 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 hell, ohmygod, 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 Onassis lookalike, she’d said to Roger and Roger had said, “To a T.”

Really?

Unless every photo of Onassis 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 Onassis’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 Onassis 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 ohmygod.

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 hell 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.