He could make her remember that.
Sweet-talk her until that la-di-da expression became a smile. Ease into her space. Not too close. Just a little. Just enough so he could gaze into her eyes. Make some skin-to-skin contact. A brush of his hand on hers, maybe; a stroke of his finger along her lips.
Lean in, breathe in the scent of her hair.
Entice her into a couple of kisses.
Soft kisses, to let her sense that he wanted her.
Then he’d draw her to him, let her feel his hardness against her belly. And when she caught her breath at the sensation, he’d bring her even closer. Stroke her tongue with his. Undo the zipper of her jeans, slip his hand under the waistband, slide his fingers over the sweet, smooth skin until he felt her heat, her wetness, her desire for him against his palm…
Christ.
Nick shuddered.
He had a hard-on the size of Montana, and for a woman he didn’t even like.
No problem. Not after this coming weekend. Hadn’t he already decided that?
For now, he needed a cook. Correction. That was tomorrow’s problem. Today’s was getting a meal of some kind, of any kind, out of Lissa Wilde. If she could cook, fine. If she couldn’t, which was what he expected, that was fine, too.
She could open a dozen cans of soup. Fry some eggs. A couple of pounds of bacon. She could put up a pot of coffee, couldn’t she? Damn right she could—
Bong.
Nick’s head came up. The clock in the hall coughed out the time. Man, it was five thirty! A meal on the table by six? Even one dumped out of cans?
“No way,” he said grimly, planting the crutch hard against the oak-planked floor and struggling to his feet.
Ridiculous, this entire thing. Did she actually think she was going to avoid responsibility for this mess? Either she or her agent was the person who’d caused it and since her agent wasn’t here, Wilde drew the penalty by default.
He hobbled toward the door, automatically paused to give Brutus a chance to catch up to him and then remembered that she’d somehow lured his dog upstairs.
Terrific. No cook. No dog.
“Enough,” he growled.
It was a tough growl, a sexy growl; it had thrilled hundreds of millions of female fans, but right now Nick didn’t give a damn about how it sounded. He only knew that his unwanted guest was about to learn that the good times were over.
Getting up the stairs was the usual endless battle of maneuvering crutch, handrail and steps. The private-duty nurse his doctors had insisted on had taken one look at the stairs and suggested he rent a hospital bed and set it up in the living room.
She’d been out the door twenty minutes later.
He didn’t need hospital beds, didn’t need to turn the house he already hated into a refuge for invalids, didn’t need anything but to be left alone.
At last, he reached the second floor. He clomped down the corridor, taking the same direction the duchess had taken hours ago, passing open door after open door until, yeah, just as he’d figured, he reached the last door and found it closed.
He was breathing hard. From exertion. From anger. From the effing disaster his life had become, and here was this stranger, this lying-through-her-teeth female, adding to it.
He raised his hand, formed a fist, banged it against the door.
Nothing.
Hell. This was his house. Did she really think she could ignore him?
“Wilde,” he said loudly.
No answer.