Jaimie: Fire and Ice (The Wilde Sisters 2)

And where in hell was his car?

Zach took his phone from his pocket. He’d kill time doing something useful. There were voice mails and a few text messages waiting. He scanned the texts. None were urgent. Neither were the voice mails.

Only one was of any interest. It was from a woman he’d met at a conference in D.C. last month.

Hi, she said, it’s Sari. I had a great time. Give me a call and we’ll get together again.

Zach grinned. It certainly had been fun. He’d especially liked her saying, straight out, that she wasn’t looking for anything more than that. Yeah, he’d definitely get around to taking her out again.

The next message wasn’t worth a response. It was from the self-important Realtor who’d cornered him at that same conference.

Hello Mr. Castelianos. This is Roger Bengs. I had the pleasure of meeting you and discussing the possible sale of your condo…

Delete.

Mr. Castelianos, hello, this is Roger Bengs again. I hope you got my prior message…

Delete.

Hi there, Mr. Castelianos. I’m calling on behalf of Roger Bengs about the sale of—

The voice was female, brisk and businesslike with maybe the slightest hint of a southern drawl. Probably Bengs’s secretary. Zach didn’t wait to find out. He hit delete, hit it again when he heard a second message from her, and vowed that he’d never deal with Bengs even if he were the last Realtor left on the planet.

The guy was not just a pain in the ass, he was also a liar.

They hadn’t discussed any such thing.

Bengs had approached him during the cocktail party held the first night of the conference and introduced himself. He had somehow learned where Zach lived and after a minute or two of small talk, he’d launched into his pitch.

“You know, Mr. Castelianos, those condos are hot! If you wanted to sell…”

“I don’t,” Zach had said politely.

“But if you did… We are an experienced firm, Mr. Castelianos. We’d be delighted to handle your listing.”

“I’m sure,” Zach had said. “But I’m not interested.”

Not clearly enough, apparently. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick to hit delete. Maybe he should have sent a reply, something slightly more specific, like No effing way.

A horn beeped and he swung toward the sound.

There it was. His red Porsche Carrera, pulling up next to him in the pickup lane, looking like the thoroughbred it was in the long line of black limos, nondescript sedans and house-in-the-country SUVs.

He opened the door, tossed his duffel bag into what passed for the back seat, went around to the driver’s side as John stepped out.

The men shook hands.

“Welcome home, sir.”

“Thanks.” Zach dug in his rear pocket, took out a neatly folded wad of bills. “And thanks for bringing the car.”

John nodded gravely and accepted the money. One thousand dollars.

He’d been with Zach for three years; he knew the ritual, knew better than to try to wave away the cash.

“It’s my lucky charm,” his boss had said, the first time John had made the attempt.

John was ex-army. Not ex-Special Forces—which he figured his employer had been even though Zach had never said so—but he’d seen his share of things. He understood the value of lucky charms. His boss’s involved this exchange, the Porsche Carrera for a taxi whenever he got back from what he invariably referred to as “some business to take care of,” the extravagant tip, his employer with a look in his green eyes that hinted at things better left unsaid.