Lissa- Sugar and Spice 1.6 - Final (6 page)

“You?”

“Me. This is my ranch. Got that?”

“
You
try getting this!” She pulled her hand from his. Her chin lifted to an impossible height and she glared up at him. “I don’t take orders, either. Not from anybody, but especially not from you. Understand?”

Nick stared at that gorgeous face. He just bet she didn’t take orders. But she would. From somebody who knew how to give them. Who knew how to change that hard glare of anger in her eyes to a soft blur of passion. Who knew how to make her want to take the kind of orders that would bring her to a soft bed, to raising her arms to the man who’d ordered her there, to opening her legs for him…

Jesus.

He turned away as fast as his limited mobility permitted.

He’d been without a woman, without sex for too long. For months. He hadn’t taken a woman to his bed since the accident.

That fucking accident.

And now this.

What unkind god had dropped this latest piece of bad news into his life?

“I said—”

“I heard what you said,” he growled. He swung toward her and leaned down until they were eye to eye. Hers were, indeed, green—and bright with rage.

Yeah, well, he wasn’t any happier with the situation than she was.

“Here’s the deal, Duchess.”

“Do not call me that!”

“You are here by mistake. Yours. Your agent’s. Frankly, at this point, all I know is that you’re here and you’ll be here until the storm ends. Trust me. I don’t like it any more than you do.” Unplanned, his gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth. Her lips were slightly parted; she was breathing as if she’d run a race.

Or as if she were lying, sated, beneath a man. Beneath him, in the big, cold, empty four-poster upstairs…and what did that have to do with anything?

Tomorrow night, once she was out of his way, he’d take the truck into town. Go to one of the bars that clung to the mountains near the couple of big resorts, resorts like the one she’d hoped to find here. He’d shave, tame his dark hair with some goop, put on the kind of outfit dime-store cowboys wore—tight jeans, polished Tony Lamas, Western shirt, clean Stetson—and find himself a woman who’d be happy with a one-night fling.

And if she said what 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 voice…

Too late,

The dog flung himself at Lissa, paws flattened against her shoulders. A long pink tongue slopped across her face.

They went down in a heap, woman and dog, and Nick cursed and started the seemingly endless procedure that would lead to his divesting himself of the crutch, leaning it against the wall at an angle where he’d be able to reach it after he got them apart, and how in hell was he doing to do that when squatting or bending was damn near out of the ques—

“Oh, you beautiful baby,” Lissa Wilde said.

Nick blinked.

Brutus’s tail was wagging like a metronome gone insane.

Nick looked at his traitorous dog and the woman who wanted him to believe that she was a chef. The dog was lying on top of her; her arms were wound around his neck.

Nick felt every muscle in his body turn hard.

And decided he had to be crazy, because surely he was the first man on earth to envy a dog.

CHAPTER FOUR

H
e had definitely
been too long without a woman.

There was absolutely no other way to explain it.

He was standing in a cold, drafty hallway, watching his dog rolling around on the floor with a woman who had quickly become a pain in the ass, and he was envious of the dog.

He was crazy. Without question, Nick decided, and stood as straight as that goddamn crutch would allow.

“Brutus,” he said sharply. “Come here!”

The dog looked up, flashed a doggy grin and went back to nuzzling the woman stretched out under him.

“Brutus! I said come! Dammit, dog—”

“Woof!”

Nick felt his jaw tighten. The Newf’s tail was wagging even harder, fast enough for imminent takeoff. The woman was laughing and rubbing his head. Encouraging him. Urging him on. Making it clear that not even a dog had to show him respect.

Nick could all but feel his temperature rising. His blood boiling. His gut twisting, or whatever the hell happened when a man was fast losing what little remained of his composure.

Dammit, Lissa Wilde had been nothing but trouble from the get-go. Landing a job under false pretenses, because no matter what she said, he didn’t for a minute believe that she was a cook. Wasting his time letting him fly her here.

He was dealing with a bunch of wranglers who thought that saying things like
Dude, I could eat an elephant
was simply a new way to start a meal.

Now, he had to deal with this.

His dog, a dog that—unfortunately—wouldn’t obey any human being in the world except him, was refusing to respond to the simplest command.

Impossible, Nick decided, and narrowed his eyes.

“Let go of my dog.”

Ah, man, what a stupid thing to say! The dog had the woman pinned down and he was telling her to let go of the dog?

Nick tried again.

“The dog,” he said coldly, “is not a pet.”

Jesus. This was going from bad to worse. The dog is not a pet? Had he really said that? Well, hell. He had to say something, didn’t he? Yeah. He damn well did.

He couldn’t just watch his dog make an ass of himself…

He couldn’t just stand here wishing he could change places with the dog.

Try again, Gentry
.

“He doesn’t like to be petted.”

Hell! He’d gone beyond stupid. The woman thought so, too. She gave a snort of laughter. Brutus, who liked laughter,
woof-woofed
in response. The woman looked at Nick through a tangle of her silky blond hair and the Newf’s soft black fur.

“Could have fooled me,” she said.

“He’s a—a—”
A what?
“He’s a trained guard dog. He has a job to do. And you’re diverting him.”

Lissa Wilde snorted again. “Do you have a job to do, sweetie?” she crooned.

Brutus moaned with pleasure. The Wilde babe clasped the dog’s ears and planted a kiss on his muzzle. The dog buried his face in the curve of her shoulder and moaned again.

Nick was painfully close to making that same sound.

“Brutus,” he said sharply, “dammit, dog, get off!”

“Brutus,” the woman crooned, “you’re a beautiful boy and it’s been lovely meeting you, but now you have to be a good dog and let me get up.”

“He won’t obey anyone but me,” Nick said.

This was far safer ground because, unfortunately, it was true.

Brutus had not had an easy life. Among other things, the nutcase who’d originally owned him had exercised his power by forcing the dog to respond only to him and, in some cases, only to code words.

Nick had worked diligently to break the habit, though not always with success.

“He won’t obey anyone but you?” Lissa Wilde said with indignation. “But that’s an awful thing to do to a dog. What if you weren’t here? Would he eat if you didn’t tell him he could?”

Until recently, no. He wouldn’t. They’d finally reached the point at which Nick didn’t have to use a code word to get the dog to eat, but Brutus would still only accept food from him.

And she was right. It was not a good thing. In fact, it had been one hell of a problem the weeks he’d been hospitalized, when the only way to get Brutus to do something as simple as eating had been to record the coded command so that the guy he’d hired to take care of the dog here at the Triple G could get him to eat.

He thought of telling her that, but why would he?

The dog was none of her business. She was a temporary blip on the horizon. And the dog was a fool for thinking otherwise.

Enough, Nick decided.

“Brutus,” he said sharply. “Up!”

The Newf shot him an
Are you nuts?
look and went back to total adoration of Lissa Wilde.

“Dammit, dog—”

“Brutus,” Lissa Wilde said softly, “you wonderful boy, up!”

The dog shuffled to his feet.

“That’s my good boy. Now go to that despicable man who thinks he owns you.” The dog hesitated. “Go on,” the woman said, and the dog heaved a sigh and went to Nick’s side.

The cook-who-almost-surely-was-not-a-cook-but-might-be-a-dog-trainer rose to her feet and slapped her jeans free of dust bunnies.

“That,” she told Nick coldly, “is how it’s done. You want the dog to love you, not fear you.”

Nick looked from the woman to the dog and then to the woman again.

“How did you do that?”

“I established a bond with him.”

“Yeah, but how did you…” Nick stopped in mid-sentence. His eyes narrowed. “The dog doesn’t fear me.”

“Uh huh.”

“He doesn’t, goddammit!”

“Right.”

He looked at the dog again. Brutus sat with his gaze glued to his new best friend.

“Brutus,” Nick said, “look at me.”

The dog ignored him.

“Brutus—”

Lissa Wilde put her hand on the massive black head. “He’s a lovely dog,” she said. “He deserves to be treated with kindness.”

“I have never,” Nick said through his teeth, “mistreated this dog!”

“What do you call training him only to eat only after you tell him he can?”

“I didn’t—”

“You already admitted that you did. Well, it’s cruel. And dangerous.” Her head lifted. “Only a control freak would be into stuff like that.”

He thought so, too, but this wasn’t the time to admit it.

“It can be done for the safety of the dog.”

She rolled her eyes.

Yes. But it could.

The vet had explained it—except, Brutus had never been a guard dog or a dog whose life, whose owner’s life might depend on not obeying the orders of strangers. Aside from situations as unusual as those, the vet had said, the risks of that kind of training definitely outweighed the benefits.

And then, together, he and Nick had cursed the absent control-freak shithead whose dog Brutus had once been.

“As if,” Lissa Wilde said coldly. She folded her arms over her breasts—except, damn, not quite over them. Her arms were more or less just beneath her breasts, lifting them, framing them, flaunting them. She was wearing a light jacket with the top buttons undone. He could see the rounded shape of her breasts, could imagine the sweet pucker of her nipples… “Have you heard a word I’ve said, cowboy?”

Nick jerked his head up. “What?”

The expression on her face was grim. She was obviously pissed off at him and that was fine because he was equally pissed off at her. These thoughts about her, about her body…

Absolutely, positively he’d drive to a glittery town, find a glittery bar, find himself a glittery woman. A high-priced call girl, the kind who could make a man forget that he paid for her favors, that none of what she said or did in his arms was real.

So what if he hated those places and felt sorry for those women? A man could put aside his scruples for a night of sex.
He
could, anyway, because sex was obviously what he needed.

“Have you?” she repeated. “Heard a word I’ve spoken?”

It had to be sex that he needed. Why else would a woman as unpleasant as this turn him on?

“No,” Nick said coldly. “Frankly, I’ve been doing my best to tune you out.”

“Well, it’s time you tuned in. What I said was that I’d like to see my room—that is, if you’re not too busy figuring out new ways to torment dogs to point me to it.”

The woman had a mouth on her—a soft-looking mouth, which was amazing when you considered what came out of it.

“There’s half a dozen bedrooms upstairs. Take your pick.”

The glare in her eyes could have cut glass.

“Which one is yours?”

Just that quickly, he felt his body harden. Could she see what was happening to him? Shifting his weight while balancing on a crutch wasn’t easy, but he managed.

“Down the hall on the right. The one with the pine pan—”

“Don’t get your hopes up, cowboy. I don’t give a flying fig about pine paneling. I just want to be sure to choose a room as far from yours as possible.”

She was smiling. No. She was smirking. Dammit, enough was enough! Did she really think she could go on insulting him under his own roof and get away with it?

Nick took a step forward.

She didn’t move.

He took another step toward her.

Not really. What he did was hobble toward her, goddamn that leg and that crutch.

She stood her ground.

It drove him nuts.

The lady needed to be put in her place. He didn’t want her afraid of him, he just wanted… What? A reaction. A response. Something that said she knew she was on the losing end of this confrontation.

So he flashed a smile.

The smile that was his trademark.

It was a smile that had been described as all-knowing and all-powerful, as sexy as sin and dangerous as hell. It was a smile that promised everything a man could fear and a woman could want.

He flashed it because the maybe-cook, maybe-dog trainer, maybe-starlet-wannabe and all-around champion pain in the ass who’d invaded his life had just about driven him to the edge, flashed it without thinking about the consequences beyond the immediate pleasure of seeing her crumble—

And by the time he realized what he’d done, it was too late.

Lissa Wilde’s eyes lit with recognition.

“You
are
him,” she said. “Nick Gentry.”

He laughed. It wasn’t a very good laugh, but it was a laugh.

“If only,” he said.

Her eyes narrowed. “You absolutely are Nick Gentry.”

“We did this bit already, remember?” Nick shook his head. “I told you, I’ve heard that before, but my name is Bannister.”

“It’s Gentry.” She plopped her hands on her hips. “
Famous Movie Star Vanishes.
”

It was one of the tabloid headlines that had haunted him after the accident. Not that anybody but a handful of people knew about the accident.

“You know how to read,” he said. “Wow. I’m impressed. Unfortunately, I am not—”

“Give me a break, will you? I’m not blind. You are Nick Gentry.”

Nick gritted his teeth. Now what? He’d taken on the Nick Bannister persona in the first hospital; his lawyer, an old friend and one of the few people he trusted, had set the ball in motion, completed it by transferring him under the Bannister name to a hospital in the States.

At first, there’d been lots of speculation, virtually all of it as improbable as the scripts from some of his movies.

He was trekking through the Himalayas, searching for his own Shangri-La.

He was holed up someplace in Mexico with a woman he’d stolen from a drug lord.

He was hiding out in Switzerland, recovering from plastic surgery gone wrong.

Then, as was its wont, the media had forgotten him.

By the time the doctors had decided he’d keep his leg—a bad joke, considering what that leg was like—by then, heading home incognito, if you could call a place he hadn’t seen in eighteen years
home
, had been easy.

A midnight helicopter ride, a couple of trusted bodyguards, nobody in what had once been his entourage in on the deal except for his lawyer.

Easy.

A few people had made him over the intervening months. No problem. This was ranching country. Saddle tramps and cowboys, real cowboys, didn’t give a crap if the man who employed them was a king or a killer.

As for Lissa Wilde—

A problem. The question was how best to handle it. If he kept denying who he was, she’d never leave it alone. He knew the type. She was not a woman to give up easily.

But if he admitted his identity, if he admitted it and offered her something for her silence—

Yes. That would work.

Come morning, he’d give her a check. A big one. He’d tell her that it was hers to keep as long as she kept quiet about where she’d been and what she’d seen. If money wasn’t enough, if she really was what he suspected—a girl from Smalltown, USA in search of a Hollywood career—he’d add a promise to the check.

He’d tell her that he’d be leaving here soon and if she kept her mouth shut, just as soon as he was back in L.A., he’d put her in touch with Spielberg or Scorsese or Burton.

A lie, of course.

And he’d never lied to any of the hopefuls who’d tried all the tricks of the trade to get him to wave a magic wand and kick-start their dreams. He’d had dealings with all of them over the years, from the bartender who slipped you his résumé with the check, to the cloakroom girl who tucked her card in the pocket of your coat.

But he had no compunctions about lying to this woman. She had fudged her way into his private world. She was no cook.

What she was, was clever.

Lying to her would suit him just fine.

No way would he introduce her to anyone in L.A. How could he? He had no intention of going back there, of going back to his old life. Ever.

How could he possibly, even if he’d wanted to? But if she’d lied to get to the Triple G—and he was 99 percent sure that she had—well, one egregious lie deserved another.

The more he considered it, the more workable the plan seemed.

Yes, she’d seen that he had a problem with his leg, but so what? This was a ranch. He could have fallen off a horse. Jabbed himself on a broken fence post. Torn a ligament hauling feed bags.