Bree closed her eyes in frustration, dragging one hand through her hair.

“Now what’s the problem?” growled a baritone next to her.

Bree’s spine turned ruler-straight, her lips twisting in a stiff smile. “Nothing,” she mouthed to Hart.

“No problem exactly, mister…” The redhead explained the mix-up with a happy grin. That grin gradually faded as Hart let forth a stream of invective.

Fifteen minutes later, Bree had in her hand the keys to an affordable compact, and faced the nasty job of having to thank her rescuer. “Thanks,” she mouthed tightly.

“Can’t understand a word. I admit I’m fascinated by your game of not talking, but the immediate priority is food for the hungry. Usually, I offer a woman a meal before we’ve slept together-you’re a passionate snuggler, aren’t you, Bree? Or at least you were until you decided to start screaming. Now, now…” Hart shot her a lazy grin when her eyebrows shot up in outrage. He added in a whisper, “I had to pick up your name from the rental agent, since you’re so stingy with conversation. You look like hell, you know. Actually, a lot of men would probably burn for the way you look. I fail to understand why there isn’t a ring on your finger. You’ve been in Siberia for the last decade? Never mind. You can explain it all to me in sign language while we’re eating.”

A lynching, truthfully, would be too good for him. People were staring at them. Actually, it wasn’t people but women, looking not at them but at him. He drew every feminine eye as they passed, with his nauseating Greek-god profile and commanding stride. Furthermore, he was actually trying to tow her along with him…at least until she dug in her heels at the restaurant door, shaking her head vigorously.