Zach glanced at her.
“And I’d tell your brother Jacob—politely, of course—that I’m sure he’s a cool dude, but I want to spend today alone with my girl.”
Jaimie’s heart leaped.
“Is that what I am?” she asked softly. “Your girl?”
Zach reached for her hand again.
“Damn right,” he said gruffly, and thought what a great feeling it was finally to tell her something that was true.
* * * *
He drove into Virginia, headed off the interstate and took a handsome, winding road that rose gently into the hills.
They’d been talking the last few minutes. Nothing special, just about New York and D.C. and the differences between the two cities, so Jaimie hadn’t paid attention to their surroundings until Zach said, “Here we are,” and pulled into a small parking lot. “This place has always been one of my favorites.”
Jaimie looked out the window.
“Oh,” she said softly.
It was one of her favorites, too—at least it had been until a couple of weeks ago. She’d shown a house in Fairfax; after, she’d brought her client here for a late lunch.
Midway through their chopped salads, the client—a woman—had leaned forward and said, “Don’t look now, dear, but there’s a nice-looking gentleman giving you the once-over.”
Jaimie had known, right away, that it was Steven. It didn’t even surprise her. She’d had an uncomfortable feeling, that hair-rising-on-the-nape-of-your-neck sensation almost as soon as they’d been seated.
Carefully, she’d put down her fork. Forced a smile. Kept that smile even when Steven appeared beside their table.
“Celeste,” he’d said softly, “I’ve missed you.”
“Steven.” Her voice had trembled. Not much, but she’d hated herself for it. “I’m very busy right now.”
“Yes. I see that.” He’d turned to Jaimie’s client, who was watching them with a puzzled smile on her lips. “How do you do?” he’d said, extending his hand. “Jaimie seems to have forgotten her manners. I’m Steven Young. Her fiancé.”
“He isn’t my—”
“Sorry, darling. I know you don’t like to talk about our personal lives when you’re in a business setting.” He’d smiled, his lips curving, his eyes flat as those of a dead fish. “Ladies. Enjoy your lunch. Celeste, I’ll see you later.”
Of course, the client had bubbled with questions, starting with that name, Celeste. Jaimie had made light of the incident. She’d tried, anyway, but her hands were shaking so badly she had difficulty picking up her glass of water, and eating even another mouthful of her salad was beyond all possibility.
After a few minutes, the client had glanced at her watch and made a big show of how late it was getting. They’d gone back to Jaimie’s office where the client had recovered her car and mumbled something about being in touch.
Jaimie had known she wouldn’t.
And when she’d returned home that evening, she’d opened the door with trepidation, checked each room in her apartment, looked under the bed and in the closets and in the shower stall…
“Jaimie. Jaimie? Honey, what is it?”
She blinked.
Zacharias was holding her shoulders, his face a study in concern.
“Nothing,” she said. Somehow, she forced a smile. “Nothing. Honestly. It’s—I’m just not very hungry, that’s all.”
“Jaimie.” His tone was hard. So was the feel of his hands. “What’s going on?”
“I told you. I’m not—I’m not—”