her door, she stopped. If she burst into his room and yelled at him, she’d look like an emotional maniac. Any person would be upset—no, enraged—at being maligned, even anonymously, in a book to be read by thousands. Tens of thousands if their promotional tour had its intended impact.
But she would not give Dan the satisfaction of seeing her yell or cry. She would calm down first and rationally explain how dead wrong he was.
She took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, dizzy with fury. She clenched her fists, then forced herself to release them. Calm, calm, calm. You can handle this. But her anger wouldn’t go away that fast. She began to pace, stopping each time just as she reached for the door to go to him, spinning on her heel and marching the length of the suite again, like a caged leopard—a caged, furious leopard…the source of her fury just outside the bars.
Dan McAlister was not above the sexual fray. Maybe he could fool his readers, his clients, the Rhondas of the world, but he couldn’t fool Kathleen. She knew him. That way.
For some reason, JJ’s words came to her: So sleep with him. Show him the error of his ways. No. Absolutely not. Sex was a beautiful physical connection between two caring people, dammit. It should never be an act of revenge or anger.
Besides, how could she sleep with a guy she wanted to deck?
No, she would talk to him. Gently explain in her most sensible voice what a wrongheaded, self-centered dick he was.
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