4
Mitch felt like hell.
Looked like it, too.
His bloodshot eyes were on fire. His head felt like the bass drum at an acid rock concert. His throat ached where Gwen’s clenched fists had bruised his larynx; his tongue was fuzzy enough to shave; his mouth tasted like the bottom of a very filthy bird cage. And he wasn’t feeling too great below the belt, either.
He’d earned every bit of it. But that didn’t ease his misery when he risked a quick peek through the round porthole over his bed, and blinding sunlight sent him burrowing back under his thick pillow. His muffled agonized groan echoed through the elegant stateroom where Gavin had left him late last night.
What the holy hell had he been thinking, breaking protocol by refusing to dine at the Captain’s Table, drinking himself stupid, t
