Jaimie: Fire and Ice (The Wilde Sisters 2)

A walk on the wild side with someone they’d heard mentioned in whispers.

He always ignored them. He was a man, not a ticket to danger.

He wasn’t a betting man, but had he been he’d have put his money on the fact that Jaimie or Janie whatever-her-name-was, didn’t fall into either category. Unless she was putting on an amazing act, she didn’t have a clue as to who he was.

So, what did she want of him?

Only one thing was certain.

The lady had, for lack of a better word, chutzpah.

He liked that.

It was a rare commodity. His experience with women was that most of them would happily do whatever it took to please him.

Not this one.

She’d taken him on word for word, glower for glower.

And, yes, she was still here. He saw her from the top of the stairs. She’d moved further into the foyer; she stood staring straight ahead, her enormous shoulder bag on the floor beside her. He knew she was watching the storm as it raged beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Man, she was something. All those curves, the long legs, the hair streaming down her back, the wet darkness of it giving way to thick strands of a color that could be described only as palest lemon.

His belly clenched.

He should have phoned Sari. To hell with his usual post-situation practices. How could he have forgotten that sex was the best possible way to burn off tension, stress, leftover testosterone?

OK. Enough of this. He’d be a Good Samaritan, give his mystery visitor the chance to dry off, even offer her a belt of whisky, find out what he could about what she wanted. Then he’d send her on her way. It wasn’t late, only a little past seven, according to his watch. He could still call Sari.

Except, it wasn’t Sari that he wanted.

Was he nuts?

He took a deep breath. Went down the last steps harder than necessary so that his bare feet thudded against them.

The woman spun toward him as he strode toward her.

“Here,” he said briskly. He held out the robe. When she didn’t take it, he draped it over her shoulders, forced himself not to let his hands brush against her and marched to the teak cabinet where he kept glasses and liquor. “Whisky? Or brandy?”

“Neither.”

“Or wine.” He opened the doors of the cabinet and turned to her. “Those are your three choices.”

“I don’t want anything. Thank you.”

The “thank you” was an obvious afterthought. Chutzpah, in spades.

“We’re not talking about what you want; we’re talking about what you need. Something to warm you.” He scowled. “Put your arms through the sleeves of the robe and cinch the belt.”

“Do you always give orders?”

“When necessary, yes.”

“Listen, mister—”

Jaimie took a quick step back as the man marched toward her.

“Put the robe on,” he said.