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Nick pounded on the door again and he heard Brutus give a short, sharp bark. The Newf was a prisoner in there. Aside from everything else, did she think she could keep his dog from him?
“Wilde,” Nick snarled. “Open up!”
He hit the door again. Hard. It swung open…
His heart damn near stopped.
Lissa Wilde stood in the open door of the bathroom. Steam curled in the air behind her.
Never mind that.
Concentrate on her. On the naked woman who was more beautiful than any woman he’d ever seen.
Her hair was pinned up, long wavy tendrils of it falling down and kissing her throat.
Her breasts were lush and round and, God, and perfect. Handfuls, lovely handfuls that a man could cup and caress.
Her waist was slender, her hips curved. Her thighs were firm. Creamy. The ideal frame for pale curls she had not been foolish enough to shave or wax into submission.
Nick’s heart did a shuddering restart; he could hear the pulse of his blood in his ears. His brain began functioning again; it told him to turn around, go out the door, pretend that he had not seen her, that the urge to go to her, sweep her into his arms, claim her mouth, her body, was not beating through him.
“Get out!”
His gaze swept to her face. She had gone pale; as he watched, she reached behind her, grabbed a towel, covered herself with it.
“Did you hear me, Gentry? I said—”
“I heard you.” Nick cleared his throat. Turned his back because, heaven help him, how could a man who’d damn near wiped himself out just climbing a flight of stairs have an erection? “Look,” he said, “I didn’t mean to—”
“GET OUT!”
Something sailed past his head. A book. A hairbrush. Whatever it was missed him and he stumbled into the hall.
The door slammed behind him.
He all but fell back against the wall.
What the hell had just happened?
Sex had been the furthest thing from his thoughts. Besides, weeks of celibacy or not, he wasn’t a kid. The sight of a naked woman wasn’t enough to do him in. He was long past the days when a Playboy centerfold could bring him to his knees.
Nick shut his eyes. It didn’t help. The image of Lissa Wilde was seared on the inside of his eyelids.
He had seen naked movie stars, nipped and tucked to perfection. Lissa Wilde didn’t measure up to any of them.
And yet she was more beautiful.
She wasn’t a sculptor’s creation or a surgeon’s idealization. She was real.
And, Christ, he owed her an apology. An explanation. She’d reacted as
if he’d stormed her room…
Her door opened.
An inch.
Nick looked up. Met a pair of blue-green eyes that blazed with fury. Heard a voice that was frigid with hatred.
