What sort of woman did he think she was?
It didn’t matter.
The entire incident had been one huge, terrible mistake. Nick Gentry was not the kind of man she’d ever sleep with; hadn’t she had enough of self-important Hollywood pretty boys?
There it was again. That word, pretty. A word, a concept to be avoided.
If only she could avoid Gentry.
It was going to be embarrassing to see the man. To be hit with the image of herself, naked in front of him, naked and kicked to the side of the road like—like trash.
Dammit.
“Get hold of yourself, Melissa,” she said.
Or at least keep your metaphors straight. She had not been kicked to the side of the road, not even metaphorically. She had been treated to an ugly display of male ego. The man had a banged-up leg, it had given way and instead of dealing with it, he’d snarled and spat and headed for his man cave.
It was good that things had not gone any further. The only thing worse than ending the night the way they had would have been actually ending it in bed.
Except—except she couldn’t get the memories out of her head.
The way he’d held her.
The heat of his hands, cupping her breasts.
The taste of his mouth. Of his skin.
The hardness of him against her, all that taut male power…
Somebody pounded on the bedroom door. Lissa jumped and shot to her feet.
The door was locked. Damn right it was locked, but she didn’t have much confidence in either the door or the lock or—
“Wilde!”
It was Gentry. Well, who else would it be? There was nobody in the house except for the two of them and Brutus. Besides, none of the ranch hands would have banged on the door and yelled her name like that.
“Wilde. You awake?”
She drew a deep breath. Then she marched across the room and undid the lock. She considered only cracking the door, abandoned the thought and swung it wide open.
No way was she going to let him think she felt intimidated.
“Awake? After that bellow, everybody between here and Yellowstone is awake. What do you want, Gentry?”
“There won’t be a plane today.”
“My oh my,” she said sweetly. “And here I was just about to go downstairs to wait for it.” She slapped her hands on her hips. “I don’t how to break it to you, but I figured that out all by myself.”
“Yeah, well, you never can tell.”
“No. You never can. I mean, why wouldn’t I stand up to my ass in snow, waiting for Hank’s plane to touch down?”
Gentry flashed a big, phony smile.
“Maybe because they don’t get blizzards in L.A. And as long as we’re exchanging info, that isn’t Hank’s plane, it’s mine.”
“If Hank works for you, he has my sincere condolences. And as long as we’re, as you put it, exchanging info, here’s some for you. I didn’t grow up in L.A. I grew up in Texas. North Texas. You want to talk about blizzards? Try spending a winter there sometime.”