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?