he’d already heard a couple of times— Hey, you look like Nick Gentry— he’d grin and give her what had become his standard answer, that the real Nick Gentry only wished he looked like him…
And then what?
How good could he be in bed?
One leg that dragged. Hell, that gave out when he least expected it.
More to the point, one leg that looked as if it had been made by Dr. Frankenstein. What woman wouldn’t find that a turn-on?
Nick straightened up and took a quick step back.
“Here’s the deal. I’ll put you up for the—”
“Dammit, I know why you seem so familiar! You’re Nick Gentry!”
“No,” he said coldly. “I’m not.”
“Of course you are.”
“Listen, Duchess, I’ve been told that before. It doesn’t impress me.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Why would it?”
Nick blinked. “Well, Gentry’s an actor. A star.”
“And?”
“Well—well, he’s—he’s famous.”
Lissa folded her arms. “Wolfgang Puck is famous.”
“Who?”
“A chef. Wolfgang Puck. He’s famous.’
“Is there a point to this?”
“I’ve dealt with a lot of actors. Stars,” she said, with a curl of the lip. “Believe me, I’m long past the point of being impressed, Mr. Gentry.”
“I told you, I’m not Gentry. Hell, Gentry would be happy if he looked like me.” The line fell as flat as it sounded. Her fault, goddammit, for making him use it. Nick covered his irritation by lifting up her suitcase. “Take one of the spare bedrooms upstairs.” His smile was all teeth. “Unless you’d rather bunk with the boys. I’m sure they’d be delighted.”
Lissa flushed. “Fine. I’ll stay in one of the upstairs bedrooms for the night.”
He wanted to laugh. She made it sound as if she were doing him a favor. Well, she owed him a favor, all right, after all the trouble he’d gone to getting her out here.
“And since you’re so determined to convince me that you know how to cook, you can repay my hospitality by making supper.”
“Not on your life.”
“Does that mean you prefer the bunkhouse?”
Lissa gritted her teeth. “I assume,” she said, each word frosted with icy sarcasm, “you have an indoor kitchen.”
“To the left, past the stairs.”
“You have a menu in mind?” she asked with saccharine sweetness. “ Boeuf bourguignon ? Poulet à l’orange ?”
“Very funny.”
“Yes.” Her smile widened; it could have killed. “I’m known for my sense of humor.”
“Find something and cook it. Just be sure it’ll feed a bunch of hungry men.”
That took the smug smile off her face. “What hungry men?”
“I told you. This is a working ranch, Duchess. I have six guys who’ll be showing up in a couple of hours, cold, tired and hungry. They’ll expect something that will stick to their—”
Thud!
Lissa Wilde spun toward the closed door at the end of the hall. “What was that?”
Aw, hell!
Nick knew what it was.
It was Brutus. The Newfoundland.
He’d confined the dog in his office when he went to the airstrip. The big dog loved snow. Keeping him in the truck cab would have been impossible; keeping him from scaring the new cook would be been equally impossible. Nick had learned the hard way that there were lots of people scared spitless by a dog the size of a bear.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The office door shuddered. Lissa looked at Nick.
“ What ,” she demanded, “is making that noise?”
He thought of telling her that it was a bear. That it was a crazed moose. In the end, there was no time to tell her anything.
Two more thuds and the office door flew open. A black shape as big as her old VW hurtled toward Lissa, panting and drooling, nails scrabbling over the worn wood floor.
“Whoa,” she said, and Brutus woofed with joy when he spotted someone deserving of a Newfoundland welcome.
Amazing, considering that the dog never offered that welcome to anyone but him, but there wasn’t time to think about that; there was only time to say Brutus in a sharp
And then what?
How good could he be in bed?
One leg that dragged. Hell, that gave out when he least expected it.
More to the point, one leg that looked as if it had been made by Dr. Frankenstein. What woman wouldn’t find that a turn-on?
Nick straightened up and took a quick step back.
“Here’s the deal. I’ll put you up for the—”
“Dammit, I know why you seem so familiar! You’re Nick Gentry!”
“No,” he said coldly. “I’m not.”
“Of course you are.”
“Listen, Duchess, I’ve been told that before. It doesn’t impress me.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Why would it?”
Nick blinked. “Well, Gentry’s an actor. A star.”
“And?”
“Well—well, he’s—he’s famous.”
Lissa folded her arms. “Wolfgang Puck is famous.”
“Who?”
“A chef. Wolfgang Puck. He’s famous.’
“Is there a point to this?”
“I’ve dealt with a lot of actors. Stars,” she said, with a curl of the lip. “Believe me, I’m long past the point of being impressed, Mr. Gentry.”
“I told you, I’m not Gentry. Hell, Gentry would be happy if he looked like me.” The line fell as flat as it sounded. Her fault, goddammit, for making him use it. Nick covered his irritation by lifting up her suitcase. “Take one of the spare bedrooms upstairs.” His smile was all teeth. “Unless you’d rather bunk with the boys. I’m sure they’d be delighted.”
Lissa flushed. “Fine. I’ll stay in one of the upstairs bedrooms for the night.”
He wanted to laugh. She made it sound as if she were doing him a favor. Well, she owed him a favor, all right, after all the trouble he’d gone to getting her out here.
“And since you’re so determined to convince me that you know how to cook, you can repay my hospitality by making supper.”
“Not on your life.”
“Does that mean you prefer the bunkhouse?”
Lissa gritted her teeth. “I assume,” she said, each word frosted with icy sarcasm, “you have an indoor kitchen.”
“To the left, past the stairs.”
“You have a menu in mind?” she asked with saccharine sweetness. “ Boeuf bourguignon ? Poulet à l’orange ?”
“Very funny.”
“Yes.” Her smile widened; it could have killed. “I’m known for my sense of humor.”
“Find something and cook it. Just be sure it’ll feed a bunch of hungry men.”
That took the smug smile off her face. “What hungry men?”
“I told you. This is a working ranch, Duchess. I have six guys who’ll be showing up in a couple of hours, cold, tired and hungry. They’ll expect something that will stick to their—”
Thud!
Lissa Wilde spun toward the closed door at the end of the hall. “What was that?”
Aw, hell!
Nick knew what it was.
It was Brutus. The Newfoundland.
He’d confined the dog in his office when he went to the airstrip. The big dog loved snow. Keeping him in the truck cab would have been impossible; keeping him from scaring the new cook would be been equally impossible. Nick had learned the hard way that there were lots of people scared spitless by a dog the size of a bear.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The office door shuddered. Lissa looked at Nick.
“ What ,” she demanded, “is making that noise?”
He thought of telling her that it was a bear. That it was a crazed moose. In the end, there was no time to tell her anything.
Two more thuds and the office door flew open. A black shape as big as her old VW hurtled toward Lissa, panting and drooling, nails scrabbling over the worn wood floor.
“Whoa,” she said, and Brutus woofed with joy when he spotted someone deserving of a Newfoundland welcome.
Amazing, considering that the dog never offered that welcome to anyone but him, but there wasn’t time to think about that; there was only time to say Brutus in a sharp
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