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“I am going to put a chair under this doorknob,” she said. “If you try to force the door open—”
“What?” Nick shook his head. “Why would I do that?”
“If you try… There’s a lamp in here made of brass. Or something. I don’t know what it’s made of and I don’t care. All I know is, if I use it, it looks heavy enough to dent even a skull as thick as yours. You got that, cowboy?”
“Look.” He stepped forward. “I didn’t mean to—”
“One more foot and you’re a dead man.”
“Ms. Wilde. Lissa. I knocked. You didn’t answer. I guess you were in the shower and you couldn’t hear me, but I didn’t know that so I knocked again and the door—this house is old, see, and the doors don’t always—”
Lissa flung the door open. He had time to see that she was wrapped in a robe the size of a tent before she rushed him and pounded her fist into the center of his chest.
A Hollywood stunt man would have been proud of her, Nick thought, even as he stumbled back, hit the wall…
And went down.
A sharp cry of pain burst from his lips.
He collapsed at Lissa’s feet.
Good, she thought grimly. Let the SOB break his stupid neck.
She stalked back into the bedroom, slammed the door, turned the lock even though Gentry had already proved that the gesture was meaningless, jumped as something big bumped against her backside.
The dog. His dog. Whining and moaning.
“Traitor,” Lissa snarled.
She jerked the door open and the Newf flew to his master.
Lissa slammed the door and fell back against it, panting.
The rat. The SOB. Was this the reason he’d told her she could spend the night in his house? Did he think he could take advantage of her?
Except, he hadn’t looked like a man who was up to taking advantage of anybody or anything.
Something was wrong with his leg. Something bad.
And she’d punched him. Put him flat on his ass.
Well, look what he’d done. Forced his way into her room. An accident, he’d said…
Maybe.
It was an old house. She’d had a tough time getting the door to close, the lock to work.
She turned. Put her ear to the door.
Nothing.
Lissa chewed on her lip.
She’d downed a guy who used a crutch. Who limped. Who was—to be blunt, if not PC—a cripple.
She breathed in. Breathed out. Then, carefully, she undid the useless lock, cracked the door and peered out.
What she saw was not good.
