Jennifer Greene: Can’t Say No

Why me? she thought glumly. Why couldn’t God’s gift to women have settled in the smoking section?

“Are you flying farther than Charlotte?” he asked conversationally.

She shook her head no, trying to make the motion chilly and dismissing. Even his voice annoyed her; it was one of those husky, sexy baritones. She closed her eyes, ignoring him.

“Do you want me to get you a pillow?” he continued blithely. “I’ll probably sleep through the flight myself. I’ve been traveling for more than thirty-six hours.”

Unwillingly, her eyes blinked open again, and unfortunately his were there waiting for her-dark blue and suggestive of satin sheets and accomplished seduction techniques. His lips broke into a wonderful smile at having won her attention.

“Hart Manning here.” He extended his hand.

For the sake of politeness, Bree offered him her hand. His grip was firm and warm and-as expected-lingered far too long. His thumb brushed her wrist in a way that promised limitless sensual potential. Yawning, Bree tucked her hand back in her lap where it was much safer, resisted the urge to fasten the neck button of her blouse, and stared with annoyance at her skirt, which had ridden up above her knees. To push the thing down would be like admitting he was getting to her.

“You didn’t say if you wanted a pillow.”

All she really wanted was for him to shut up. She shook her head.

“Is there some reason you’re not talking?” he asked, his tone throaty with amusement. “Or maybe your name’s a deep, dark secret? It’s a long flight, you know.”

And getting longer. Luckily, the stewardess paused in front of them, diverting her seatmate’s attention. Actually, the two appeared mutually diverted. The brunette was savoring Mr. Manning as if she’d just discovered chocolate. “I’ll be serving snacks in just a bit. Would either of you like a drink in the meantime?”

Bree’s throat was parched. She parted her lips simply to ask for water…and then wearily closed them. No more. She’d already been totally mortified at the ticket counter, trying to talk via pad and pen. Once she was alone at Gram’s cabin, the squirrels wouldn’t care that she was as mute as a stone, but for now she just couldn’t handle any more complications.

“Scotch for me,” her seatmate said smoothly, but instead of looking at the stewardess he was studying Bree. A ripple of a frown dipped into his tanned forehead.

He said nothing until the stewardess returned with his drink. “The lady has changed her mind and would like a scotch as well,” he told her.

“Certainly, sir.” The brunette beamed.

Bree glowered. She hated scotch. Furthermore, Mr. Manning refused to stop staring at her. Averting her face, she again tried to ignore him.

“There you go…” Hart pulled down the tray in front of her, set her unwanted drink on it and arranged the napkin. His movements were so casual and automatic that she was totally unprepared for his next one. Firm fingers claimed her chin and tilted her face to his. “I didn’t mean to offend by teasing you before,” he said quietly. “I didn’t realize that you couldn’t speak. Look…I know how difficult it can be for you in public-I have a second cousin who’s deaf. And if I could help…”

He enunciated in clear, careful tones. Ideal for a lip reader. Frustration warred in Bree with an unfamiliar confusion. Something was wrong with her pulse rate. Something that directly related to the caress of his forefinger on her cheek.

His fingers gradually dropped, and she groped for the drink, taking a quick gulp. The scotch was awful, awful, awful. Like oil. Still, she took another slow sip before setting the glass down again. Immediately, those fingers reached for her chin again, as firmly determined as they were gentle, forcing her eyes to meet his.

“Are you still offended? I really didn’t mean to tease you,” he repeated softly. He stared at the trace of moisture on her bottom lip as if he’d just found gold. Wet gold. A wickedly elusive smile touched his mouth. “But you’re also an exceptionally attractive woman. You can hardly blame me for coming on to you. And believe me, whether or not you can talk doesn’t make a whit of difference.”

Very slowly, she removed those long fingers from her chin, replaced them in his lap and bent down to get the notepad and pen from her purse. Her thumb clicked down the ballpoint with a vengeance. Mr. Manning, she wrote swiftly, I am neither deaf nor desperate. Lay off and we’ll get along just fine.

She handed him the scribbled sheet. He burst out laughing. Not the response she was expecting. Several passengers glanced in their direction, and Bree flushed with embarrassment. Hart Manning’s eyes danced back tangos of amusement. “But you can’t talk? Don’t tell me I misunderstood that.”

She nodded.

“Since you were young?” His voice was gentle with empathy.

She shook her head no. Wearily. Wasn’t he getting tired yet?

“You’ve been ill, then,” he probed quietly. “A recent operation?”

She shook her head again.

“It isn’t physical? But then…” An absent frown puckered his forehead. “Why?”

He had just that kind of voice: one wanted to tell him everything-dark secrets, buried guilts, indecent fantasies. Bree bet a lot of women had mistaken the timbre of that seductive baritone for sympathy. She had already figured out that the man was downright nosy.

Unfastening her seat belt, she curled a leg under her, leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes. She was going to sleep if it killed her.

Naturally, instant sleep proved impossible. She felt as relaxed as a drummer in a parade. Yes, she was a thirty-year-old woman who had certainly handled her share of men. But Hart Manning still made her unreasonably nervous. Verbal defenses had always been her specialty; she felt a horrible vulnerability without them. And he was still looking at her. She could sense his curiosity; she had the terrible feeling he was the kind of man who never left a puzzle until every last piece was in place. He almost made her feel…afraid. Which was ridiculous. What was there to be afraid of?

Ten minutes later, Bree opened her eyes to see the stewardess removing their drinking glasses. “He went out like a light, didn’t he?” the brunette whispered with a little laugh.

Bree nodded, regarding her seatmate with a dry half smile. His eyes were closed, his legs stretched out, and he was clearly enjoying the deep sleep of the just.

So much for the hunt and chase, and that foolish little frisson of fear. Mr. Manning had never been a danger, anyway, not to Bree. She could take care of herself; she always had. She’d work herself out of this no-talk nonsense and get back to managing her life…

And what a tremendous job you’ve been doing of that lately, Bree, a small voice whispered in her head.

Bree sighed, suddenly feeling a mixture of depression and confusion. Closing her eyes, she curled up toward the window-as far away from her seatmate as possible-and fell asleep.

The mental pictures were so vivid to Bree that they never seemed part of a dream. It was just…happening again.

Charcoal clouds drooped low, and snow pitched down helter-skelter. Bree curled a protective arm around the diminutive shoulders of her grandmother, and squeezed. “I don’t believe I let you talk me into taking you out in this weather,” she scolded.

“Couldn’t stand to be cooped up another minute. What a winter this has been!” Gram chuckled, her pale blue eyes nestled in a sea of soft, wrinkled skin. “We bought out the stores, didn’t we, Bree? Haven’t a penny left in my purse.” Her lips compressed as Bree gradually stole two more packages from the armful Gram was toting. “What do you think I am, helpless? I can carry my own load just fine. Don’t you start treating me like a senile old woman who has to be humored.”