in the bathroom any longer. He’d be in here any minute checking to see if she’d flushed herself down the tubes. So, wrapped in one of the room’s thick terry robes, she cut off the light and prepared to meet her doom.
He was lying beneath the sheet on the bed he’d chosen, the lamp off on his side of the nightstand, his head pillowed on both of his wrists, his eyes closed. She was glad to see he was wearing a T-shirt because, really.
A woman could hardly be held responsible for her actions when faced with a bare chest like his. It was bad enough taking in the sculpted bulge of his triceps beneath his shirt’s short sleeves.
On the far side of her bed, she shrugged out of the robe and climbed beneath the thermal blanket, the quilted spread, and the crisp clean sheet. She pulled the triple layer of covers to her chin, thinking she should’ve checked the room’s thermostat when she walked by.
But instead of getting back up to do so, she turned onto her side—her back to Harry—tucked a pillow to her chest, and settled in to go to sleep.
11:40 P.M.
Harry wasn’t sure if he’d actually slept or if he’d only dreamed that he had. He did know that he’d climbed into bed while Georgia was in the bathroom and that he’d done his best to fall asleep before she came out.
She was uncomfortable being here with him, and he didn’t want to add to her stress. He was working for an out-of-sight, out-of-mind scenario, hoping she wouldn’t freak on him and run out in the middle of the night.
She needed her sleep—not for reasons having to do with beauty rest or decompression from the tension of the day, but because he was going to be heading out in an hour or two and he had to have her down for the count.
Before he left to take care of business, however, he would rig a couple of transmitters—in her boots, her duffel bag, her backpack—so he could find her again should she vanish before he got back.
She’d been in bed now for twenty minutes, and she still tossed and turned. He hadn’t said a word. He didn’t know if she was still cold, simply restless, or as frustrated as he was. Because he was. Frustrated. Very.
And as much as he was focused, concentrating on what he had to do once he put things in play, laying out the logistics of his plan while he stared at the play of light on the ceiling where the moon shone over a gap in the top of the drapes, his body was wired and tight.
So when Georgia flopped over again and sighed, he wasn’t surprised. What did surprise him was several moments later to hear her whisper, “Harry?”
He waited, his heart racing, uncertain whether she really wanted him to answer or whether she was doing no more than testing the waters.
Then again, he mused, would she ask if she wasn’t interested?
And what exactly was it she was asking? Obviously he would never find out if he just laid here like a lifeless slab of clay…
“Harry?” She was louder this time.
And so he said, “I’m here.”
“I think I’d like it better if you were over here.”
He tossed back his sheet, started to swing his legs over the side of the bed and sit up. But then something made him stop and ask, “Are you still cold?”
“Uh, yes. And no. I’m not sure.” Her voice sounded tiny and lost in the dark.
He thought about everything she’d gone through in the last thirty hours. An arrest. A night spent in jail. The siege at the diner. The threat to her brother’s life.
Whether or not she was cold didn’t matter. She was alone. And that was one thing he could make better. He slid out of his bed and crossed the short space to hers.
Her eyes were wide and white in the pale oval of her face. She scooted over, making room, and he did as he’d promised her he’d do.
He smoothed the top sheet over his side and slid beneath the blankets, wearing his T-shirt and jogging shorts that nearly hit his knees.
He lay on his side facing her, but he didn’t move any closer and he
He was lying beneath the sheet on the bed he’d chosen, the lamp off on his side of the nightstand, his head pillowed on both of his wrists, his eyes closed. She was glad to see he was wearing a T-shirt because, really.
A woman could hardly be held responsible for her actions when faced with a bare chest like his. It was bad enough taking in the sculpted bulge of his triceps beneath his shirt’s short sleeves.
On the far side of her bed, she shrugged out of the robe and climbed beneath the thermal blanket, the quilted spread, and the crisp clean sheet. She pulled the triple layer of covers to her chin, thinking she should’ve checked the room’s thermostat when she walked by.
But instead of getting back up to do so, she turned onto her side—her back to Harry—tucked a pillow to her chest, and settled in to go to sleep.
11:40 P.M.
Harry wasn’t sure if he’d actually slept or if he’d only dreamed that he had. He did know that he’d climbed into bed while Georgia was in the bathroom and that he’d done his best to fall asleep before she came out.
She was uncomfortable being here with him, and he didn’t want to add to her stress. He was working for an out-of-sight, out-of-mind scenario, hoping she wouldn’t freak on him and run out in the middle of the night.
She needed her sleep—not for reasons having to do with beauty rest or decompression from the tension of the day, but because he was going to be heading out in an hour or two and he had to have her down for the count.
Before he left to take care of business, however, he would rig a couple of transmitters—in her boots, her duffel bag, her backpack—so he could find her again should she vanish before he got back.
She’d been in bed now for twenty minutes, and she still tossed and turned. He hadn’t said a word. He didn’t know if she was still cold, simply restless, or as frustrated as he was. Because he was. Frustrated. Very.
And as much as he was focused, concentrating on what he had to do once he put things in play, laying out the logistics of his plan while he stared at the play of light on the ceiling where the moon shone over a gap in the top of the drapes, his body was wired and tight.
So when Georgia flopped over again and sighed, he wasn’t surprised. What did surprise him was several moments later to hear her whisper, “Harry?”
He waited, his heart racing, uncertain whether she really wanted him to answer or whether she was doing no more than testing the waters.
Then again, he mused, would she ask if she wasn’t interested?
And what exactly was it she was asking? Obviously he would never find out if he just laid here like a lifeless slab of clay…
“Harry?” She was louder this time.
And so he said, “I’m here.”
“I think I’d like it better if you were over here.”
He tossed back his sheet, started to swing his legs over the side of the bed and sit up. But then something made him stop and ask, “Are you still cold?”
“Uh, yes. And no. I’m not sure.” Her voice sounded tiny and lost in the dark.
He thought about everything she’d gone through in the last thirty hours. An arrest. A night spent in jail. The siege at the diner. The threat to her brother’s life.
Whether or not she was cold didn’t matter. She was alone. And that was one thing he could make better. He slid out of his bed and crossed the short space to hers.
Her eyes were wide and white in the pale oval of her face. She scooted over, making room, and he did as he’d promised her he’d do.
He smoothed the top sheet over his side and slid beneath the blankets, wearing his T-shirt and jogging shorts that nearly hit his knees.
He lay on his side facing her, but he didn’t move any closer and he
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