His irritable countenance told Savanna in no uncertain terms that he was not happy to see her. Tough, she thought. Meeting his gaze unflinchingly, she replied. "I want to talk." "It's late," he said, the words short, terse. "I don't—" She ducked under his arm and scooted into the house. She didn't wait to see if he turned to follow her; she was afraid if she didn't hurry through the foyer and into the living room he just might grab her by the scruff of the neck and haul her back outside. "Savanna!" She ignored him, planted herself on the first available chair and waited for his entrance. He didn't disappoint her. He came into the room, a frown biting deep into his forehead. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Compressing her lips, she fought the confident smile threatening to curl them upward. If she hadn't been clutching the unopened letter Susan Walsh had given her, Savanna felt she'd probably melt like hot jelly under those glinting eyes of his. But the envelope bolstered her confidence.
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