“You want to stomp off, darlin’?” he asked lazily. “No,” Whitney admitted, “I’m too tired to stomp.” “Head hurt?” “Feels fine.” “Mad?” “I guess we both deserved what we got.” “Want an apology?” She smiled up at him. “I thought that was my line.” He laughed. “Why don’t you blame Paddie and I’ll blame Harry?” “Sounds good to me.” “You care about Harry, don’t you?” “We go back a long way.” “He cares about you, too, although I must admit he has a peculiar way of showing it.” “I know,” she said softly. “I guess I always have. Look, you must be exhausted. You don’t have to sit up and talk to me.” “You must be exhausted, too, darlin’.” His deep, sexy drawl seemed to vibrate in the small of her back, and lower, until she was tingling all over and was aware only of the man beside her. Harry, Paddie, guns, questions, danger—they all faded into her subconscious. Even remembering his comment required a concerted effort.
