"For an answer," he snapped. "Who are you? What do you want? How'd you manage to convince Oliver that your name was Sari?"

"Who?"

"Oliver. The concierge."

"Yes. He said that was his name. I mean, who's Sari?"

A muscle danced in his jaw. "She isn't you, that's for d.a.m.n sure."

The man took a step forward. Jaimie took a step back. She was almost against the wall of the elevator. She considered slamming her hand against the raised bra.s.s L on the panel to her right. Then she thought better of it. Fear was giving way to irritation. Did he really think she'd used subterfuge to get up here?

"I never said I was anyone named Sari. And who, precisely, are you?"

"You're asking me who I am?"

"Yes. I'm here to see Mr. Zacharias Castelianos. You, obviously, are not he. So, who are you?"

Actually, she was pretty sure she already had the answer. The body said he might be Castelianos's personal trainer. Or his bodyguard.

Or...

Her gaze swept over the man again. Her pulse did a little hammering in her ears. He was, in a word, gorgeous.

Was his relationship with Castelianos more personal than that?

She'd grown up with totally hetero brothers and this man gave off totally hetero vibes but, hey, anything was possible, even if it would be an awful waste for womankind.

"Enjoying the view?"

Her eyes flew to his. A cool little smile tilted at the corner of his mouth. Jaimie felt her face heat. Whoever he was, whatever his function, he was not a nice man.

"Do you work for Mr. Castelianos?"

"No."

No. Just "no." Instinct told her the thing to do was push that L-for-Lobby b.u.t.ton and get the h.e.l.l out of here, but what would she tell Roger Bengs?

"Well," she said, drawing herself up, "I do."

"Really."

Another of those little smiles. And now he was the one giving her the once-over. She wouldn't blame him if he laughed. She knew what she looked like. She'd gotten a glimpse of herself in the mirrored doors of the elevator before they'd opened.

She was a walking disaster.

Plus, she was starting to feel chilled. The rain had been a warm drizzle most of the way here. It had become a downpour only as she made the last hundred-yard dash.

So she was wet.

And now, thanks to the AC that felt as if it was turned to full blast, she could feel herself on the verge of shivering.

Or maybe she was already shivering, she decided, as the man stopped smiling and gave her another raking look with those amazing eyes.

His gaze stopped at her chest.

She was afraid to look down. Why bother? Her silk suit was thin. The blouse beneath it was even thinner. And the air conditioning was brutal.

Add it all up, and she knew what the cold had done to her nipples.

Should she fold her arms? Not fold them? Pretend she didn't know what he was looking at? Be casual about it? Be sophisticated?

"Dammit," she said, and folded her arms over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

His gaze met hers. It gave away nothing.

"Too bad you don't believe in umbrellas," he said.

Jaimie's chin shot up. "Too bad you don't believe in answering-"

She'd intended her next word to be "questions," but thunder roared through the room. She jumped at the sound, gave a little gasp as the lights in the elevator and in the foyer dimmed, then came on again.

OK. Now she really was shivering.

"It's just the storm."

She blinked. "What?"

"The lights. They flickered because of the storm."

"I know that. I'm just-"

"Wet and cold and, G.o.ddammit..." Zach took a step back. "Well? Are you going to stand in that elevator until you turn into a block of ice? Jesus, woman, come inside!"

He could see her thinking things over. Should she give up the elevator car for his foyer? He couldn't imagine why she wouldn't, when getting into his place was obviously her intention, but the look on her face was easy to read.

Whatever she was doing here, whatever she wanted, had not necessarily involved a bad storm and a half-naked man.

At this point, half-naked was a term that could almost be applied to her, too.

Her white suit-silk, he figured, based on the looks of it-was beginning to give up all her secrets.

It seemed to be shrinking, right before his eyes.

A few seconds ago, before she'd figured that out, he'd been able to see the rounded outline of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the faint thrust of her nipples. Now she had all of that covered, but that left him with a clear view of her skirt. It not only clung to her thighs, it had ridden up higher than he suspected she'd deem proper.

Despite her wet, bedraggled appearance, something about her hinted at propriety, but propriety laid over something else. Something earthy and real and hot.

And, dammit, what was he doing?

His imagination was working overtime; his body was starting to get the message his brain was sending. Another couple of seconds, she'd know it. His jeans were soft and old; the denim cupped his b.a.l.l.s in a way that was eminently comfortable for a man who'd planned nothing more exotic than lounging on a terrace...

But eminently embarra.s.sing if he got an erection.

Thunder filled the room. It was the perfect dramatic touch. It also gave him reason to turn away from her and walk toward the stairs.

"You have a choice," he said gruffly. "You can stand there and freeze like a deer caught in the headlights or you can come in and I'll get you a towel. Zacharias Castelianos doesn't appreciate his guests, invited or otherwise, dripping all over the place."

"He's here, then?"

Zach looked at her. "Yeah. He's here."

She had a way of sucking her bottom lip between her teeth and narrowing her eyes as she thought things over. He liked watching her do it. She had a soft-looking mouth and her eyes were an interesting shade of blue, the irises pale and ringed in black.

All in all, she had a great face. It went with the long, lovely body...

Dammit, he thought, and headed for the stairs. Her voice stopped him.

"Tell your employer-"

"I don't work for him. I told you that."

"Oh."

At first, he didn't get it. That "oh," the way she said it. And, when he looked back at her, the rosy blush that swept over her face.

Then he did.

She thought he was gay.

It was hard not to laugh. He covered it by trotting up the rest of the stairs.

"Wait! I didn't finish! Tell Mr. Castelianos that his six o'clock appointment is here."

"You can tell him yourself."

"You mean you'll bring him with you?"

"Yes," he said. "And you can explain what you're doing here to him."

Enough was enough. He'd give her a towel. A couple of towels. Tell her who he was. Just as a matter of curiosity, find out why she thought she was his six o'clock appointment, call her a cab and then, goodbye and good luck.

He started for the linen closet, then changed his mind. She was wet and cold. Not even a big bath sheet would do the job as well as a terrycloth robe. He s.n.a.t.c.hed his from his dressing room, hesitated when he saw his reflection in the mirrored walls. Unshaven. Shirtless. Barefoot.

d.a.m.n.

He grabbed a white T-shirt from a stack on one of the shelves and pulled it over his head, looked at himself again, rubbed his hand over his bristly jaw.

Too bad.

The shirt would be his sole concession to civility. She wasn't company and he wasn't going to pretend that she was.

Robe over his arm, he headed for the living room again.

Would she be waiting? Or would she have bolted?

He hoped she was still there. He wanted to see her reaction to finding out that he was the man she'd come to see, plus he wanted to know the reason.

He couldn't come up with a thing.

He lived a very private life. His time with The Agency had taught him the importance of keeping a low profile, and he'd maintained that same low profile when he'd gone out on his own. Still, a couple of the cases he'd handled had made ripples. Shadow had been mentioned. So had he.

Was she a reporter, out for a story? Some in the media had tried to get to him and failed. Was she some kind of groupie? Crazy as it seemed, he'd run into his fair share of them. A woman would come up to him and say, "Are you Zach Castelianos?" in a way that made his name sound like foreplay.

He knew what they wanted.

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 h.e.l.l with his usual post-situation practices. How could he have forgotten that s.e.x 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?