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“We’re building a restaurant. Something special. Handsome. Unique. And with a menu that will, I hope, match the view. It’s going to be called Basic Elegance.”
Her mouth dropped open.
“It’s going to be called what?” she said, and just as if he’d heard her, Nick repeated the name.
“Basic Elegance.”
Lissa punched the remote button. The TV went mute.
“Dammit,” she said, “dammit to hell!”
She’d been right about Nick Gentry all along. “Selfish” didn’t even come close to describing him.
Her idea. Her dream. Even her name. He’d stolen it all, he was going to use it all, and now she knew why he surely wanted to see her, because he was selfish but he wasn’t stupid and he figured he might run into some legal troubles if he stole a plan, a dream of a lifetime from her.
The doorbell rang. More flowers or chocolates, and she was not in the mood for either.
“Rat,” she said to Nick’s image on the screen as stalked to the door, undoing the locks without first looking out the peephole, behaving foolishly and unthinkingly because she was angry, beyond angry, beyond logic or reason. “Thief!” she snarled as she pulled the door open—
“Hello, Melissa.”
It was not flowers, not a letter, not a box of candy. It was Nick, and it took her all of two seconds to haul back her arm and punch him right in the gut.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The last time she’d hit him, he’d fallen back against the wall and slid to the floor.
Not this time, dammit.
He went “Oof,” and she knew that was mostly because she’d caught him by surprise, but he didn’t fall back; he didn’t even bounce. He was holding a cane in his hand—no, not a cane. A walking stick, but he wasn’t leaning on it.
He just stood there, tall and broad-shouldered, long-legged and narrow-hipped, his hair ruffled by the wind, end-of-day stubble on his jaw, and the only thing that made her feel good was that other thing on his jaw, the bruise, the swelling, and what a joy to know that a Wilde was responsible for it.
“Get out of my sight, Gentry! I have nothing to say to you.”
“I have things to say to you.”
“Save them for your lawyer. I’m gonna sue the pants off you.”
“Look, if it’ll make you feel better to slug me again, go for it.”
“I’m dead serious, Nick. I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Yeah, well, if we’re being serious, Duchess, you might as well know that I don’t really want to talk to you, either.”
“Then what in hell are you doing here?”
“I’ll show you,” he said, and he let go of the walking stick, reached for her and drew her into his arms.
“Don’t,” she said. “Dammit, Nicholas Gentry, don’t you dare—”
He kissed her.
Kissed her, slipped one hand into her wet, tangled hair, cupped the back of her head so he could gain better access to her mouth, and she was lost.
The taste of him, the feel of him were everything she’d wanted to forget.
“Lissa,” he whispered, and her knees, her silly knees, buckled and he kicked the walking stick into her sad excuse for a foyer, swung her into his arms, elbowed the door shut behind him…
