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He had half a dozen rough-and-ready guys who needed feeding three times a day, men who wouldn’t know a quiche from a casserole. You couldn’t do a day’s work on fettuccine and foie gras. God knew he’d spent enough time in Hollywood to know what passed for food in the land of the infamously famous.
“You told this to Marcia?”
“Who?”
“My agent. She knew this?”
Did she? He couldn’t remember exactly what the conversation had been. He’d phoned the agency only because he’d been desperate; he’d Googled cooks and cooking and one of the first ads that had come up was for something called Cooks Unlimited.
“She knew,” he said, because what did it matter now? He was still without a cook and he had the feeling he would be for a long time to come. If his last cook had spread the word by now, nobody in three counties would want the job.
“I want to go back to L.A.”
“Yeah. I’m sure you do.”
“Immediately.”
“Well, Duchess, there’s a little problem with that. It’s called weathe
r.”
“I don’t care about the weather! You hear me, cowboy? I am not spending another minute here.” She drew herself up, stepped closer and jabbed her finger into the center of his chest again. “You flew me in. Now you fly me—”
She gasped as Nick grabbed her hand.
“Do not,” he said through this teeth, “do not wag your finger at me again!”
“Let go!”
“And,” he growled, hauling her closer, “do not ever think of giving me orders. I’m in charge here.”
“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.”
