by Lissa- Sugar
Her soft moan turned him hard as stone.
“Do you like that?” he said thickly.
“Yes.” She reached out, curved her hand over the bulge in his jeans. “And this,” she said. “I like this, too. I like it a lot.”
“Dammit, Duchess! Are you trying to seduce me?”
Her laugh was wonderful. Soft and sweet and wicked. Everything about her was wonderful, Nick thought, and he rose to his feet, all but tore off his clothes and went into her outstretched arms.
Mouth met mouth. Skin met skin.
And two mugs of coffee went very, very cold.
* * *
Nick lay on his side, watching Lissa as she slept.
Her head was on his shoulder, her hand was splayed over his heart. Her hair, a spectacular tangle of gold, covered part of her face. Carefully, he looped it behind her ear.
He liked looking at her.
What man wouldn’t? She was incredibly beautiful. She was also amazing. Smart. Tough. Tender.
Damn.
Nick winced, swallowed a groan.
His leg, his damn leg, ached like a son of a bitch. Somehow or other, she’d ended up with her thigh thrown over his.
She was light as a feather, but still it was more weight than he’d handled in months. The last time he’d tried working against any kind of mass at all had been when he was still doing physical therapy, still believing the lies about regaining real use of the damaged muscles and tendons and bone. He’d worked with a machine that looked like a torture device out of the Spanish Inquisition.
His expression softened.
What Lissa looked like was a dream.
He couldn’t understand why he’d been so hard on her that first day.
Sure, he’d been expecting a cook and one look had made it clear she was anything but…
Except, that wasn’t true.
She’d cooked up a storm and everything she’d made had been delicious.
Delicious, like her.
“Umm.”
A soft sigh. A soft turn of her head against his shoulder.
His belly knotted.
He wanted to kiss her. Caress her. But that would wake her and he didn’t want to do that.
The hell he didn’t.
If he woke her with a touch. A whisper of his lips. If he did that, her eyes would open, she’d give him that billion-dollar smile, half temptress, half innocent, and she’d raise her arms to him, surrender to him, to herself, to whatever had happened between them during the long night…
A roar broke the early-morning silence.
Nick winced, not from the pain but from the unwelcome noise, because he knew what it was, the intrusion of a reality he had deliberately driven out of his thoughts.
The plane.
Hank and the plane, come to take Lissa away.
He eased his arm out from under her and rolled onto his back.
All good things came to an end. If the accident hadn’t proved the truth of that ugly old saying, nothing would.
Time to start the day.
Get dressed. Fire up the truck and drive Lissa to the airstrip—he’d left orders for it to be plowed and he knew it would have been done by now.
Still, he lay motionless while the minutes ticked away. Foolish, of course. There was no point in putting off the inevitable.
He sat up. Swung his good leg off the bed, used both hands to get the other aligned with it.
He shut his eyes, blinked them open.
She was awake. His senses told him so. Still, when she spoke his name in a soft voice, it put a knot in his gut.
“Nick?”
“Yes?”
He felt the mattress give a delicate shift and knew it meant she was sitting up.
“Was that—was it the plane?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
Silence. Then she cleared her throat.
“Right on time,” she said brightly.
“Yes.” Jesus, was that his entire vocabulary?
“Well,” she said, even more brightly. “I’ll only be five minutes. A quick shower and, uh, and I’ll come right down.”
He came within a heartbeat of saying “yes” again, stopped himself just in time. It didn’t matter. He got the message. It was time she left, time life returned to normal, and she wanted him out of here before she rose from the bed.
“Great,” he said. “I’ll see you in the kitchen.”
“I won’t have time to make the boys breakfast. Tell them that I’m sorry, would you?”
“It’s not a problem. They’ve gotten used to fending for themselves in the mornings.”
“Fine. Good. Then—then, I’ll get started.”
“OK.”
But he didn’t move. Neither did she.
There was such a thing as after-sex protocol. His kind, anyway, and he’d already blown through most of it with this fumbled attempt at conversation.
He’d never been the kind of man to spend the entire night in a woman’s bed; he’d rarely encouraged a woman to spend the night in his, and this was one of the reasons, all the early morning nonsense of hi, how did you sleep, oh fine and how about you, I’ll just head for the kitchen while you get dressed because both parties knew that middle-of-the-night intimacy all too easily turned into early-morning embarrassment.
Nick stood up. Pulled on his clothes. Headed for the door. Opened it…
“Goddammit,” he said, and he spun toward the bed, toward the woman sitting up against the pillows, the duvet clutched to her breasts, her face pale, her mouth gently swollen from his kisses. “Goddammit, Melissa,” he said as he strode toward her.
“It’s Lissa,” she said, “not Melissa, and what are you doing?”
“It’s Melissa,” he said. “You can’t tell me that isn’t the name you were born with and, goddammit, I like the sound of it.”
“Well, that’s great.” Her voice shook. “You like the sound of it. And everything is about you, isn’t it? Everything is about Nick Gentry. What he wants, what he does and doesn’t do—”
“You are not leaving me,” he growled. “You got that? You-are-not, I repeat, you-are-not-leaving-me, dammit!”
“Are you crazy? I’m going back to L.A. I’m getting out of here as fast as I—”
He reached for her, pulled her into his arms.
“You are not leaving me,” he said again and this time his voice shook. “You got that? You are staying right here, Duchess, where you belong.” He kissed her, tasted the salt of her tears, then drew back, framed her face with his hands and looked deep into her eyes. “Tell me you’re not leaving me,” he said softly.
She gave a little hiccup, a sob, a laugh that went straight to his heart.
“No,” she said, “I’m not.”
“Damn right,” Nick said, and he tumbled her back against the pillows and made love to her again. She fell asleep in his embrace.
He waited until her breathing was deep and even. Then he eased out of the bed, pulled on his jeans and opened the bedroom door.
Brutus greeted him with an exuberant woof.
“I agree,” Nick said softly, rubbing the dog’s ears.
He went down the stairs, the Newf at his side.
Business first.
He phoned Ace, told him to drive to the airstrip and pick up whatever stuff Hank had brought.
“He can leave after that.” Nick cleared his throat. “Ms. Wilde—Lissa will be staying on.”
“Yessir,” Ace said, sounding happy.
Nick grinned as he ended the call. Who wouldn’t be happy, knowing Lissa was not leaving?
On to the next step. A vital step.
Four bottles of bourbon were lined up on a shelf in his office. No reason to run out, he’d thought when he bought them, though it hit him now that except for the slug of the stuff he’d downed last night after he’d left Lissa’s bedroom, he hadn’t so much as thought about taking a drink since she’d come to the Triple G.
And it was going to stay that way.<
br />
Nick gathered the bottles in his arms and went down the hall to the kitchen, straight to the sink.
Quickly, he unscrewed all the bottle tops. An instant’s hesitation. Then, one by one, he dumped the whiskey down the drain and tossed the empty bottles into the trash.
“Woof,” Brutus said again.
Nick laughed. It was precisely the right comment to make.
Together, man and dog trotted up the stairs and to the bedroom. Nick opened the door carefully.
Lissa was still asleep.
The dog butted his big head against Nick’s leg.
“Only if you promise to keep quiet. And to sleep on the floor, like dogs are supposed to.”
The Newf wagged his tail and grinned. Nick sighed and shut the door after them.
“Down,” he said sternly.
Brutus did a perfect down at the foot of the bed. Nick shucked his jeans, climbed under the duvet and wrapped his arm around Lissa. She was warm and silken against him, and he drew her closer and shut his eyes.
He was almost asleep when he felt the mattress shift.
Brutus was stretched horizontally across the foot of the king-size bed, his muzzle resting on his front paws.
Nick smiled.
The big dog sometimes needed help getting up here. Not this time. Tonight, he’d made it on his own.
“Good boy,” Nick said softly.
And drifted into sleep.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Two weeks later, Nick sat at the kitchen table, a mug of steaming coffee in his hands, watching Lissa as she made bread.
He loved watching her.
Well, yeah. But what he really loved was being with her. Seeing her smile. Knowing she was happy here.
He’d done everything he could to ensure that.
The one and only tough moment had been over money.
He’d known instinctively that handing a paycheck to the woman he was living with would not go over well, especially not with a woman as independent as Lissa. So he’d played it smart, or so he’d thought, lying through his teeth, telling her that he handled all the ranch’s finances through an online account.
No problem.
Marcia, the idiot agent who’d turned out to be an angel in disguise, had already provided him with Lissa’s Social Security number. All he’d needed was her bank account information, and Lissa gave it to him.
Problem solved, he’d thought, smugly complimenting himself on his brilliance…until the first morning he’d put through her week’s pay.
She’d stormed into his office, eyes blazing, cell phone held out like a weapon.
“What is this, Gentry?”
Nick had peered at the screen. “Your checking account?”
“My checking account. A new entry in it from you. For two thousand dollars more than what you’re supposed to pay me.”
“Well, yeah. Sure. I mean, now that I know you really can cook—”
“Don’t you mean, now that I’m sleeping with you?”
“No,” he said quickly, “of course not.”
“We did not agree on this amount of money.”
“Hey.” He smiled, held out his arms. “C’mere.”
“No. You pay me what you’re supposed to pay me. That’s the amount I agree to and that’s what you’ll give me.”
She wanted to play hardball? Fine. Nick had folded his arms, narrowed his eyes and given her the same kind of look she was giving him.
“I thought I hired a cook. I didn’t. I hired a chef.”
“Your agreement with Marcia—”
“What would I pay you if I owned one of those chichi places in L.A. and you were my executive chef?”
“This isn’t like one of those places.”
“You thought it was, when you came here.”
“Yes. And I still agreed to less than I’d have made if it were.”
“Because?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake! I needed the job, OK?”
Nick had risen to his feet. “And I need you,” he’d said softly. “You think I want you hired out from under my nose by some la-di-da lodge?”
“That’s crazy. I’m not applying for jobs at…” Her eyebrows rose. “Did you actually say, ‘la-di-da’?”
He’d known she was fighting against a smile. Excellent, he’d thought, and before she could move away from him, he gathered her into his arms.
“The Triple G isn’t anybody’s idea of a la-di-da lodge.”
She laughed. He felt his heart lift.
“But it deserves the best. And now it has the best. Would you really want me to underpay its chef? Well, would you?”
“That’s completely illogical,” she’d said, but she’d let him draw her closer into his embrace.
“It’s completely logical, and Marcia will agree when we tell her your salary has gone up.”
“Marcia will be your slave for life,” Lissa had said softly.
“I don’t want Marcia to be my anything,” Nick had murmured. “I only want you.”
The discussion, the argument, whatever it was, had ended with the office door shut and the old couch against the far wall put to good use.
Changing Lissa’s pay had only been the first change he’d made, Nick thought now, as he sat watching her beat the hell out of the bread dough.
New appliances lined the walls of the big kitchen.
The pantry, the cupboards, the freezer were fully stocked.
And the place was clean from top to bottom, not just the kitchen but the bedrooms, bathrooms, his office, the living room, the dining room, the den.
Lissa had started scrubbing things; he’d joined her; his men had added their muscle to the mix and finally it had dawned on him that Esther Finch might be willing to help and that she might also agree to come in every afternoon to tend to the house and help Lissa in the kitchen.
Esther had already been showing up to clean the place every couple of weeks, well, actually, whenever he got around to asking her.
It turned out that working on a steady basis suited her perfectly.
Nick drank some of his coffee.
What suited him perfectly was Lissa.
She was an amazing woman. Determined. Tender. Strong. Feminine. And, unlike most of the long procession of women who’d wandered through his life, she didn’t play games. No pretense. She didn’t back down from her own opinions; she didn’t automatically defer to him.
She was a challenge, and it had been a very long time since anyone had dared challenge Nick Gentry.
Turned out he liked being challenged just fine.
They were equals.
Turned out he liked that, too.
She could beat him at gin rummy. No problem. He could beat her at chess. She rolled her eyes at Little Richard and the Rolling Stones; he rolled his at the Black Eyed Peas and Coldplay. They compromised by downloading a lot of classical guitar because it turned out they both liked it, and because, more than anything, he wanted her to be happy that she hadn’t gone back to L.A.
That she had, instead, chosen to stay here. With him.
Because they were, he’d realized with mild surprise, living together.
He’d had a lot of women. More, he knew, than most men, but he had never actually lived with one. He’d always imagined that living with, being tied to one woman, her toothbrush on the sink next to his, her lipstick on his dresser, would make him feel trapped.
Wrong.
What he felt was honored. Sharing his room with Lissa, his bed, his day-to-day existence made him feel—made him feel—
“Would you hand me that pan?”
Nick blinked. “Sorry. What did you say?”
“That pan. Could you give it to me, please?”
He reached for the pan. She smiled and he felt that smile straight down to his toes.
“Got to pay the price,” he said, whisking it away from her outstretched hand.
She sighed. Dramatically. “You drive a hard bargain.”
“Uh h
uh,” he said, keeping the pan just out of reach.
She sighed again, leaned in and brushed her lips lightly over his.
“Nice,” he said, “but that was only a down payment.”
“Nick. I am baking bread here. I have to get this last loaf ready for the ov—”
She shrieked as he tugged her into his lap.
“I know.” He waggled his eyebrows. “But I’m already ready, Duchess.”
“Already ready?” she said, laughing.
“Already ready,” he repeated, and he put the bowl on the table, put his arms around her and kissed her.
When the kiss ended, she gave another sigh, but this one made him smile.
“See?” he said. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“I don’t know,” she said, her eyes wide with innocence. “We’ll have to try it again before I can give you an answer.”
She kissed him. He took the kiss deeper. His hand went under her T-shirt, cupped her breast, and she caught her breath.
“How about leaving the baking until later?” he whispered.
“Can’t. Bread dough can be temperamental.”
He laughed softly. “Dough can be temperamental?”
“So can Ace and the rest of the guys. I promised them sourdough bread for supper tonight.”
Nick sighed. “In that case—”
He kissed her. She kissed him back, got to her feet and went back to work, kneading the final batch of dough. Every part of her was involved in what she was doing, from the angle of her head to the sway of her body.
Nick’s eyes swept over her.
He knew every inch of that body. The fullness of her breasts. The gentle curve of her belly. The exquisite taste of her between her thighs.
Damn.
He shifted his weight in the chair.
Way to go, Gentry. Sit at a kitchen table, watch a woman do something as basic as make bread, and get yourself turned on.
Why not?
They were alone in the house. There was nobody else around, wouldn’t be until late afternoon. They didn’t have to go upstairs, and the way he felt, this wouldn’t take very long. He could get to his feet, tug down her jeans, unzip his fly, bend her over the table or the back of a chair and—
“I know what you’re thinking.”