Jaimie: Fire And Ice Part 3

She'd broken up with him a dozen times, but he kept turning up, begging for another chance, telling her he couldn't live without her.

She'd finally mentioned it to her sister, Lissa, one day while they were Skyping, catching up the way they did whenever there was time.

At that point, still early in what Steven had already started calling their relations.h.i.+p, she'd felt the first faint stirrings of unease, so when Lissa had said, "How's your love life?" she'd phrased her answer with care.

She certainly hadn't wanted to sound like an idiot, complaining about a man who was so attentive. So first she'd said, "What love life?" and they'd both laughed because that had become their standard routine and then she'd hesitated and said, Well, there was this guy...

"He's hot for you," Lissa had said, on a long sigh, "but you don't feel that way about him."

"Right," Jaimie had answered, and then she'd changed the subject because how did a grown woman explain that she wasn't capable of handling the fawning attention of a congressional staffer, a Fulbright scholar, a man with a family tree that probably went back to the Mayflower?

That just wasn't logical and if there was one thing her family expected her to be, it was logical.

Everybody in the Wilde clan had a claim to fame.

Her father was powerful.

Her brothers were brave.

Emily was The Creative One and Lissa was The Best Cook in the World.

Jaimie was logical, so logical that her sisters and brothers had nicknamed her James. She'd objected that giving her a man's name because she was logical was s.e.xist, and she'd quoted statistics about s.e.xist att.i.tudes until her sisters had groaned and her brothers had laughed, and she'd laughed, too, which had made the nickname OK.

It had been hers, ever since.

Yes, and why would a logical woman be trapped in a taxi all this time without taking some kind of action?

She leaned forward and tapped on the part.i.tion.

"Driver? We haven't moved in ten minutes. How about taking the side streets?"

"Is no way out of this traffic, Miss."

He was right.

There was a truck to the left, a bus to the right. Why had she made the appointment for six in the evening, the absolute middle of rush hour?

Because Steven had turned up at her office just as she'd been making that first phone call to Zacharias Castelianos.

He'd arrived just in time to hear her telling Castelianos's voice mail that she'd see him Friday evening, except Steven hadn't known she was talking to a machine.

"Are you making an appointment for Friday night?" he'd said. "I bought tickets to that concert at the Kennedy Center."

"Wait," she'd mouthed.

"It's that band you like, Celeste. The one from England."

The "Celeste" annoyed her. Steven had somehow learned her middle name and he'd taken to using it even though she'd asked him not to."

"Celeste?"

She'd raised her hand, mouthed the word "wait" again.

"Are you talking to a man? Are you making a date for Friday night?"

Her eyes had flashed a warning at him; she'd half-turned her swivel chair away in an attempt at privacy.

"So, um, so, Mr. Castelianos," she'd said, stumbling a little over the words, "Friday evening..."

"I thought we'd have dinner first, at that little Italian place you like so much."

"Friday. At six," she'd said rus.h.i.+ng it, coming up with the first hour that popped into her head, and she'd ended the call and looked at Steven and said, "I was leaving a message for a client. And what are you doing here? I've asked you not to come by my office."

He'd gone from looking hopeful to looking wounded. The rounded eyes, the downturned mouth had reminded her of a puppy she'd had when she was five or six, and the look it got whenever she'd caught it chewing on one of her dolls.

The memory had made her laugh. She'd covered it quickly, turned it into a cough, but Steven hadn't bought it.

"Are you laughing at me?"

There'd been a coldness in his voice she hadn't heard before, a look in his eyes that had nothing to do with puppyish behavior. The icy tone, the cold glare were gone in an instant, so quickly that she'd decided she must have imagined them.

"I'm not laughing at you," she'd said. "But you shouldn't have bought those tickets. And we went to that restaurant once, Steven. Only once. It's hardly my favorite place."

"Tell me a restaurant you prefer, Celeste, and I'll make reservations."

Jaimie had risen from her desk, taken his arm and marched him past all the other cubicles at Stafford and Bengs, past the receptionist, out the door and into the hall. Once they were alone, she'd let go of his arm.

"Listen to me," she'd said sharply. "My name isn't Celeste. It's Jaimie. J-A-I-M-I-E. Celeste is my middle name. I don't even know how you learned it or why you insist on using it."

"Because you are special to me. I don't want to call you what the rest of the world calls you."

"Don't call me anything," she'd said, before she could think. His lips had trembled; there was a time that would have made her feel pity for him, but lately all she felt was anger and, yes, pity, so she'd forced herself to smile. "Steven. You're a nice man, but we aren't meant to be anything more than friends. Do you understand?"

Jaimie had thought that she'd finally gotten through to him... but the next day, he'd sent her an extravagant bouquet of flowers.

The receptionist had almost fainted.

"What a guy you've got," she'd said.

Another bouquet arrived the following week. Jaimie had handed them to the receptionist.

"They're yours," she'd said. Then, she'd phoned Steven. "You are not to send me flowers!"

He'd sent boxes of handmade chocolates instead.

She'd called him again and said he was embarra.s.sing her.

From then on, the gifts-more chocolates, more flowers-were delivered to her at home.

There was a seniors' center near her apartment. That was where she brought the flowers and the candy. The first time, the clerk at the reception desk had looked at her as if she were crazy.

"I'm allergic," Jaimie had said with a quick smile. To the man who sends these things, she'd almost added, but then the woman really would have thought she was crazy.

What she was, she told herself now, was pathetic. When she got home, she'd phone Steven, but for the last time. She'd make it clear, once and for all, that she didn't want to hear from him anymore.

Light drops of rain pattered against the window.

Perfect. Rain, even a shower, was all she needed. It would only make the traffic worse, if that were possible.

It was decision time, and there was only one way to go.

"Driver?"

"Yes, miss?"

"I'm getting out here."

"We are many blocks from your destination, Miss. And I cannot let you out in the middle of moving traffic."

"If the traffic were moving," Jaimie said logically, "I wouldn't be getting out."

The cabbie mumbled something she couldn't understand. The expression on his face gave her a pretty fair idea of what it was, but he put the car into neutral.

"You make mistake," he said.

Probably. The entire trip was starting to feel like a mistake. Jaimie checked the meter, added twenty percent, counted out the correct number of bills, bit her lip, added another five dollars. and held them up. The cabbie grumbled something and s.n.a.t.c.hed them from her hand.

The accountant in her thought about asking for a receipt-hey, this was a business expense-but it wasn't logical to ask a driver to write up a receipt when you were getting out of his taxi in the middle of the street, even if every vehicle around you was landlocked.

It wasn't logical to overtip him, either. Nor was it logical for him to give you a surly look instead of a thank-you.

It was the little voice again. What was with that, anyway?

Horns blasted as she stepped from the car. She was about as much an impediment to the sea of non-moving vehicles as a pebble in the Atlantic, but she mouthed "sorry" to the delivery van next to her and "sorry" to the wheezing SUV next to the van and "sorry" to all the drivers. .h.i.tting their horns as she wound through maze of the trucks and cars and taxis packed nose to tail, because "sorry" was logical.

Showing these idiots what you think of them by raising your middle finger is even more logical.

Jaimie blinked.

What kind of crazy thought was that? She wasn't a raised-middle-finger kind of woman, either.

Unchecked emotion never got a person anywhere.

She had to concentrate. On her appointment. On nailing this listing. For starters, she had to concentrate on getting to the Castelianos condo.

The sidewalk was crowded; people always walked fast in New York, but the drizzle was speeding things up.

Zacharias Castelianos's condo was six long blocks away. She had ten minutes to reach it without being late.

Not just impossible.

Futile.

Maybe the rain would change her luck.

Her sister Emily had a brand-new job. A wonderful job. Hadn't Em said she'd gotten it after some Good Samaritan had come to her rescue in a driving rainstorm?

If it had worked for Emily, it might work for her.

Except, this wasn't a driving rainstorm, it was just an annoying drizzle. And from what she could see, there wasn't a Good Samaritan around, only ma.s.ses of grim, fast-moving New Yorkers.

Just keep going, the voice said, and Jaimie did. Faster and faster, and that was not easy in stilettos.

Her foot landed in a puddle.

"s.h.i.+t," she said which did not ameliorate the problem, but it sure as h.e.l.l made her feel better.

She glanced at her watch.

Fast walking became running. Running became a wobbly gallop.

OK. She was definitely going to be late, but maybe not too late. Maybe the Ona.s.sis lookalike actually expected her. Maybe he really was eager to sign a deal.

Maybe she'd return to D.C. tonight and learn that Steven had, poof, vanished in a puff of smoke.

The little voice snorted with laughter.

And maybe pigs can fly, it said, and Jaimie, who had never believed in voices in anyone's head much less her own, had the awful feeling that what she was hearing was the last gasp of that ephemeral thing called logic.

CHAPTER THREE.

Zach had a garage a few blocks from his condo. He left the Porsche there, tried for a taxi but gave up after a couple of minutes.

There weren't many available cabs and the few he saw drove straight past him.

Man, he really must look disreputable.

Not a problem. Traffic was heavy anyway. Walking would be quicker. As for how he looked...this was Manhattan. Taxis might not stop for him, but pedestrians wouldn't give him a second glance, not even on this high-priced turf.

He did get a couple of stares when he reached his street and headed for the royal blue canopy over the entrance to his building, and he could see the doorman stiffen when he spotted him through the closed gla.s.s doors, but Carlos recognized him at the last second, smiled and swung the door wide open.