Jaimie: Fire and Ice (The Wilde Sisters 2)
“I can almost hear your brain whirring.”
She stiffened. Pulled back. Not far; he wouldn’t let her, but she did draw back far enough so she could look up, into his eyes.
“Meaning what?”
He smiled. She felt a little knot form low in her belly. She hadn’t forgotten that smile, that sexy I-am-the-ruler-of-the-world tilt of his mouth.
“You’re thinking, ‘After all this time, is that any way for a man so say hello?’”
She didn’t want to laugh. And she wouldn’t.
“What I’m thinking,” she said, “is what are you doing here, Zacharias?”
He smiled again. Why wouldn’t he? They both knew what he was doing here. What he had just done. What she had just done.
“I haven’t seen you in weeks. I never heard from you after—after the—the blackout—“
“After the blackout,” he said solemnly.
She didn’t want to blush, either. And she wouldn’t.
“Exactly. Now you turn up, threatening to knock the door down in the middle of the night.”
“I did not threaten to—“
“You walk in as if you have every right in the world to be here.”
“Jaimie,” he said, the very voice of reason, “honey—“
“How about ‘Hello, how are you, I know I owe you an apology’?”
Zach let go of her. Unconcernedly zipped his fly, narrowed those amazing eyes, then folded his arms over his bare chest. Why didn’t the man cover himself?
Why didn’t she? she thought, grabbing the edges of her torn gown and dragging them together.
“Sounds like a plan,” he said.
She blinked. “What does?”
“That ‘Hello, how are you, I know I owe you an apology’ bit.” He paused, just long enough for confusion to show in her face. “I have to tell you, babe, you’re the first woman ever pulled a vanishing act on me.”
Dammit. So muc
h for not wanting to blush.
“We are not talking about me, Zacharias, we’re talking about you.”
“I’m not the one who ran.”
“I did not run!”
“There I was, all alone in that bed, the indentation of your head on the pillow beside me, the scent of you, of our lovemaking, still on the sheets—”
“We had sex,” she said, her face flaming. “Sex, after just—just shaking hands. And—”
“Actually, I don’t recall ever shaking hands. All I remember is that candlelit dinner, the waiter hovering over us, the sommelier trying to be discreet.”
“You know damn well there was no waiter or sommelier!”