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The whole thing was so darned blurry. It seemed as if she’d slept for days on days, so how could she still feel so exhausted?
Yet her pulse rate eased as she started looking around. The window view to her right was the stuff of soul smiles. She was definitely nowhere near home. South Bend had no mountains, much less such gorgeous sharp peaks scarfed with snow. At home, the hardwoods would all be reds and golds by this time in October, but not this dramatic mix of huge, droopy pines and sassy yellow aspens.
And then there was the bedroom. Granted, her own place was on the slightly untamed side—all right, all right, she was downright messy. But by any criteria, this one was a gasper.
A copper bed of coals crackled in the corner fireplace. Past a white marble hearth was an Oriental rug, thicker than a mattress, colors in a swirl of black and creams and corals and mustards. The same smoky mustard matched the silk blanket covering her, the muted hue of the walls, and the mustard leather couch in front of the giant window.
And that was when she noticed him again.
Her kidnapper.
He was sitting on the couch, facing the mountains, not her. His fingers were crossed behind his neck. Her attention latched on to what little of him she could see—the tousled head of blond hair, straight and thick. The clipped-short fingernails. He wasn’t wearing formal attire this time, but exactly the opposite. The sleeves of his sweatshirt were yanked up, frayed at the cuffs near his elbows. Hair sprinkled his forearms. Not a caveman amount. But enough.
He was such a total guy in every way.
Carolina waited a heartbeat for terror to kick in. He’d spirited her away against her choice or will; he was a strong, virile man, and she had no clue what he wanted from her. Obviously she should be afraid. Not just afraid, but panicked. Terrified.
Instead…
Her pulse bucked. But not with fear. At least not exactly. Even when, as if sensing she was awake, he suddenly whipped his head around and found her gaze on him.
He was up in a flash, crossing the room, but he lifted his hands in a universal gesture indicating, “Take it easy, take it easy.” He bent down, reached for a lipstick-red netbook and carried it toward her.
The minicomputer was already set to word processing, already had words on it.
“I’m Maguire,” the first line read. And then, “You can speak, but I know you can’t hear. So this is how I can communicate with you. Okay?”
After she read it, she looked up. He was, of course, kidding. Nothing was okay. Still, he plopped at the foot of her bed and started typing, then handed her the netbook again.
“You don’t get to grade me on typos. Or speed.” He looked up at her again, as if expecting her to reply.
Carolina blinked at him. Alice in Wonderland couldn’t have been this bewildered. A strange man was sitting on her bed, in a place where he’d kidnapped her—and seemed to think she’d be in the mood to make jokes.
“Detention for bad spelling,” she said firmly. She couldn’t hear her own voice, but apparently he did, because he winced, and grabbed the netbook again.
“Okay. Be tough then. But just so you know. I’ve got the chocolate.” He looked up.
So did she, after reading the last words. “You think I can be bought?”
He typed, “Can you? ”
She sucked in a breath. The moment of light teasing was fun—but obviously crazy. She turned serious. “I need to know what’s going on here. Right now.”
His face changed expression. The easy, lazy rascal disappeared. The tough, take-charge guy returned. He typed for a while, then turned the machine around again.
“You’re going to get your hearing back. That’s part of why you’re here. To give you a place to heal, a place with absolutely no stress.”
She read that. Looked straight into his eyes. “You know this how? Are you a doctor? Some other kind of health professional? How do you know anything about me?”
He typed for another few minutes. She saw his lips frame a swearword. Then a more volatile swearword. He was quite familiar with the delete button, she noticed, but finally he turned the netbook around again. He really couldn’t spell worth beans.
“The big questions, we’ll deal with later. Let’s just start with first things first—the information you need to know right away. You’re safe. Your family and neighbors know you’re safe. Your lawyer knows that he can reach you through me. There’s nothing you need to worry about—no bills or appointments left hanging. That’s all been taken care of.”
She read. Looked back at him. This time she had nothing to say. His comments were too audacious. Too impossible.
He grabbed the netbook again, typed fast. “Don’t look like that. All upset. It’s coming back to you, isn’t it? What was happening to you? Your losing your hearing, your brother afraid you were having a breakdown?”
She read that and said nothing. She couldn’t. Her life—her real life—suddenly roller-coastered back into mental focus for her, faster than she could stop it. And suddenly there was a lump in her throat the size of a gorilla. Even though she’d slept endlessly for at least the last couple days, she suddenly wanted to curl into a ball again. Close her eyes. She couldn’t let it loose again. The anxiety. It was waiting to lunge at her like a rabid dog, scramble with her head, leech all her joy of life again.
A long strong hand covered hers. “No,” he said, as if he thought she could hear. And then he brusquely grabbed the netbook again.
“This is the deal, Carolina. On the ottoman, there’s a tray with all kinds of breakfast foods. The bathroom’s through that far door, if you don’t remember. It’s already equipped with the basics, and if there’s anything else you need, just ask. After that, you can go back to sleep if you want … or come on downstairs, explore the place. Inside, outside, wherever you want to be. There’s an office downstairs, with shelves full of books, if you’re in the mood to read.”
He turned the netbook around. She read that, slowly nodded. His straight “information” posts were easier to handle.
He raised a finger, took the netbook back. “In return, I need you to make out two lists for me. Sometime today, if you can.”
“What kind of lists?” she asked warily.
“One—a list of foods. I need to know if you’re allergic to any foods, or if there are any foods you really don’t like. I’d like to know your favorites, too. You could make a list like that for me, couldn’t you?”
He turned the minicomputer around, let her read the message, but she didn’t waste time answering the rhetorical question. And he was already typing again.
“Then, I need you to make out a longer list. We’ll call it a dream list. I want you to close your eyes. Think about things you always wanted to see, places you always wanted to explore or visit. Things you always wanted to do that you never had a chance to. Dreams you had as a kid even, that you knew were impractical and unlikely, but you still dreamed ‘em. Got it?”
She read the post. Frowned. Some of it took deciphering. “Why?” she asked him.
He typed for a moment longer, but all the post said was, “I can’t keep typing. This is killing me. So that’s it for now—you have breakfast, check out the shower and come down whenever you’re ready. And after you give me those lists, I’ll give you more information. Okay?”
She read that, said flat out, “No, it’s not okay.”
But all she got from him was a quiet smile and a shrug. And then he simply left, making a point of closing the door behind him.
She stayed motionless for several seconds, unsure if he’d return. But when the door stayed closed, she pushed aside the covers and got up. Her head immediately swam… but then cleared. Whatever drugs she’d been taking or given, she could tell they weren’t as thick in her system. She was just darned weak.
She checked the domed tray on the round-cushioned ottoman. Found a crystal pitcher with juice, a carafe of coffee, sterling silverware, white linen, covered plates with fruit and an omelet and sides. The elegance of the tray made her pause.
Especially after the last two months, she’d become hypersensitive about money. Any normal person would instinctively assume a kidnapper wanted money, yet that fear never crossed her mind with Maguire. All the evidence indicated he had heaps and heaps of money of his own. The standard criminal hardly traveled via private luxury jet, did he? Or served breakfast with sterling and crystal. Or stashed his victims in a mountain lodge that was gorgeous in every way.
But if he didn’t want money, why on earth had he kidnapped her?
The mysteries kept mounting.
She walked into the bathroom, found another room to die for.
Every detail was elegant and lavishly comfortable—a copper sink, a tub the size of a wading pool, marble tiles in creams and clays and browns. A flat screen above the tub had menus for a choice of scenic pictures or movies. A swivel door revealing a spa’s expansive choice of scrubs and soaps and moisturizers.
She filled the tub and sank in. A hand hose enabled her to shampoo, rinse off, and then just use the pulse spray on tired muscles. A kidnappee should not be feeling safe, she kept telling herself … yet it was just there. The pure sensation of feeling clean, safe, warm.
The things she feared in her real life were far worse than anything she could fear from this stranger. For all the sleep she’d had, there’d been no moments of feeling free from anxiety or pressure.
Yet that crazy moment of safety and peace—of course—couldn’t last. Bit by bit, she noticed sudden, jolting details in her surroundings. The first was as simple as the scent of the shampoo she’d just used—she knew it. It was a specific brand to volumize thin hair. Her specific choice of brand.
The wonderful, rich almond soap she’d used was exactly the same as the kind she used at home. She glanced at the basket on the marble counter, overflowing with the usual bathroom survival products, from deodorant to toothpaste, manicure tools to toothbrush. Each item was still packaged, new. But they were all her own choice of brands, the same products she bought.
An odd shiver chased up her spine. She wasn’t sure whether she should feel cosseted … or controlled.
There were too many products that were the same as the ones she was accustomed to using to be coincidental. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to know personal things about her, her daily life. And yeah, it had to be the man downstairs. Maguire.
But why?
Belatedly she spotted a robe hung on the bathroom door—Oriental silk, red and black, long, with a thin, slippery sash. The robe definitely wasn’t hers, which happened to be pink and old and sexless. Right then, she was happy to put on anything different from the hospital scrubs she’d been wearing.
She dried her hair, brushed her teeth, then wrapped the robe snugly around her before risking opening the door. There was no one in sight. The hallway revealed two closed doors on the other side, which she assumed led to other bedrooms.
At the end of the hall was an open staircase, leading to a massive downstairs area. It was a lot to take in, in a single visual gulp. A round fireplace dominated the center of the room. Furnishings splashed around that—couches, giant chairs, an oak table polished to the gleam of glass. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed mountain views on all sides, as if the house had fallen from the sky and had been plunked down in the middle of rugged, wild hills.
The place was breathtaking, yet Carolina wrapped her arms around her chest as she tiptoed downstairs. As luxurious and unique as the lodge was, it was also—for her—bizarre.
She was happy to escape the cage her life had turned into, but that still didn’t remotely make this situation right. She’d been rested, fed, cleaned up, but now she needed serious answers. A frame for this picture that someone had put her in.
She saw no sign of Maguire. But once she reached the last stair, she realized there was another wing of rooms off to the east. He’d mentioned there was an office or library with books somewhere, but she figured she’d explore that direction later.
For now, the open downstairs captured her attention. Her bare feet sank into thick, soft green carpet. Morning sunlight flushed the room with light. A squirrel scampered along a door ledge. A bevy of goofy-looking quail pecked in the yard, making her smile. It wasn’t as if the craziness in her life had disappeared, only that she’d almost forgotten what it was like to have simple moments, enjoying life and sunlight and the easy pleasure of natural things like watching a silly squirrel.
But then a photo snared her attention. Two pictures were framed on the lamp table, but only one of them instantly riveted her attention. She bent down to get a better look.
The small child in the photo was barely a toddler. He was outside—the same yard Carolina could see from the window—running in his pajamas, giggling, joy in his big eyes, his face. Someone was chasing him, causing all the laughter, the fun. The camera had just captured that moment, of a delightfully happy boy with taffy hair and pudgy fingers and unrestrained glee.
Carolina picked up the photograph with trembling fingers.
She knew the child. Tommy. It had to be Tommy.
Her eyes welled with tears. She couldn’t seem to help making a keening sound … and then realized, for the first time in ages, she’d not only made that helpless sound of affection and sorrow.
But she’d heard it. Heard her own voice.
Her hearing had finally returned.
Although Maguire never heard her walking around, some sixth sense triggered an awareness that Carolina had come downstairs. He severed the phone call and crossed the office to the door.
There she was, in the living area. Her hair fluffed around her cheeks, about as tame as gossamer, and the long robe swam on her slim frame. She was barefoot, holding Tommy’s photo in her hand.
He saw the tears in her eyes. The emotion. The vulnerability.
“Hey,” he said with alarm. But then remembered, of course, that she couldn’t hear.
On the other side of the lamp was another photo. He grabbed it, showed her. In the picture, Tommy was a little older, but not so big that Maguire couldn’t easily carry him around on his shoulders. Maybe they didn’t look physically alike, and Maguire was certainly a lot older, but the photo should have showed her their relationship. He loved Tommy. He was as crazy about his half brother as Tommy had always been about him. They may have had different mothers, but they were unmistakably kin.
She saw. “So that’s how you knew about me?” she asked. “Because of Tommy? Because you’re part of Tommy’s family?”
He nodded. Eventually that answer would undoubtedly raise more questions for her than it revealed … but it was still a punch of information that mattered. Her shoulders lost some of that stiff wariness.
It was a beginning.
Rather than grab the netbook and trying to typetalk to her, he figured he’d see how far they could get with sign language for a while. Would she like to go outside? Walk? He brought sweatpants and a sweatshirt for her to wear, boots she could pad up with thick wool socks, a jacket of his.
Initially she seemed to hesitate, but she shot such a longing look at the outside that he knew she was sold on the idea. It only took her a few minutes to take the makeshift clothes into the bathroom and emerge, looking like a homeless waif—but definitely a waif up for an adventure. The doctors had warned him that she needed serious rest and no exertion, but Maguire had to believe a little fresh air and sunshine would do her good.
Their first step outside, and he heard her chuckle, and saw how a natural smile transformed her face. Quail had hung out on the property for years, and this particular community of twenty-five or so looked exactly like what they were. Doofuses. Bobbing doofuses. They followed the leader, even when the leader was clumsy enough to trip on a rock and lead them through puddles.
A sassy wind blushed Carolina’s cheeks, combed wildly through her hair. He grabbed her hand, climbing over a tall rock through the pines. Her eyes shot to his at the physical contact, but she didn’t object.
A quarter-mile hike through pines led to a cliff edge. It wasn’t the best view, just a pretty vista—the mountains were getting a drench of snow in the distance, with a sunlit valley just below, salted with grazing deer.
Abruptly, though, he realized that he was still holding her hand, that they were standing hip-bumping close. His pulse gave an uneasy buck. The view was nice, but the way she looked at him, you’d have thought he’d given her gold.
He wanted—needed—Carolina to believe she could trust him, but those soft eyes conveyed something else. Something more. Something … worrisome.
Swiftly he dropped her hand. “Okay, Cee. That’s enough exercise for today. The more fresh air for you, the better, but I think we’d better build up to it.”
He forgot. She couldn’t hear. But she seemed to respond to his intention, because she turned when he did, headed back down the trail. The last dozen yards, her face seemed to lose that wind-brushed color, and her eyes got that glazed, exhausted look again. He wanted to scoop an arm around her, but stopped himself just in time.
At the back door, he mouthed, “Nap for you,” which provoked an immediate negative response. She shook her head frantically.
“No, Maguire. This is all too crazy. I need to know what’s going on. Especially since I saw the picture of Tommy—”
Yeah, well. He was more than willing to talk with her, but first he had to get things back on the right footing. He got her inside, did the bossy domineering thing, yanking off her boots, settling her on the couch with a pillow and comforter, giving her a pad of paper so she could start working on those lists, then he got out of her way. His excuse for disappearing into the kitchen area was that he was making cocoa.
That turned out to be unnecessary. By the time he returned with a steaming mug of cocoa, brimming with melting marshmallows, she’d fallen asleep again.
He felt his stomach declench, his shoulder muscles loosen up. He’d made too much of that “look.” Everything was fine. She needed to see him as a leader or a benevolent caretaker or someone who’d taken control of their situation. Actually, he didn’t much care what label she gave him, or what she thought of him—as long as she didn’t mistake him as a potential lover.
And obviously that wasn’t a problem, if she could nap this easily. Everything was going hunky-dory, nothing to worry about, Maguire was sure.
Chapter Three
Maguire was quite a piece of work, Carolina mused. She needed to understand him, but figuring the man out was no easy task. Some of the puzzle pieces were definitely jagged fits. He was tough. He took charge and wanted everything his own way, and wasn’t big on democracy in a household. He spelled “high-maintenance guy” in any language.
On the surface, he wasn’t a man she’d normally like, much less be attracted to.
Carolina turned the page on her book. The office/library—no surprise—had whole shelves of books on birth defects related to brain function. Tommy had been one of those. And the room, like everything else in the lodge, was fabulous … three walls of fruit-wood bookshelves, a semicircular desk, little ladders to get to the top of the bookshelves, a couch and chair to sit in—and an old-fashioned fainting couch. The fainting couch was in a thick, suedey kind of fabric, and Carolina had taken one look and claimed it the minute she walked in here.
Nobody was getting her off that couch. Not Maguire. Not the army. No one or nothing. She was in love, and that was that.
In the meantime, dusk had already fallen. The day had passed amazingly fast—Maguire did some kind of work, but he’d left her upstairs with a pile of packages to sort through. Clothes. Not hers, but her size, nothing formal or fancy, just jeans and sweatshirts and socks, that kind of thing. And she’d napped. How on earth she could need more rest was beyond her, but apparently her body wanted to zone out every few hours, and there was nothing she could do about it.
Late afternoon, Maguire had pawed through the freezer, and come through with a gourmet French stew that just needed unthawing and heating to be savored. While he’d done that, she’d made her lists, but after dinner, she’d taken great pleasure in doing the dishes—primarily to give Maguire another fit. Apparently she wasn’t supposed to do a thing for herself.
And after all that, they’d both settled in. She’d pounced on her fainting couch with a book on special ed kids, while Maguire had taken the long couch, cocked his stocking feet on the trunk coffee table and was penciling through her lists. Initially he’d done so quietly, but Maguire being Maguire, eventually had to get a pen, a legal pad, to make notes and comments, and eventually he started muttering to himself. Probably because he still thought she couldn’t hear.
“Lobster. Crab. Lobster. Scallops. Hmm. I’m sensing a common theme on your food list. Salmon from Alaska, only really from Alaska. Fresh sweet corn straight from a farmer’s field. Blueberries right off a bush … for Pete’s sake. Has no one ever fed you, girl …?”
He jotted some more scribbles on his legal pad. The last she’d peeked—less than a minute ago—no one had a prayer of reading his writing, including him.
“.Grape leaves. Stuffed, you know, the way the real Greeks do it. Actually, I don’t know, tiger, but I get it that you want authentic. If you’re going to be this easy to please, though, we’re not going to have any fun. This isn’t even challenging. And yeah, I know you can’t hear me. But it’s interesting, having a one-way conversation with a woman who can’t talk back. Kind of every guy’s favorite fantasy … well. Favorite fantasy separate from sex, of course …”
She could hear. Seeing Tommy’s photo had jolted something that morning … but not consistently. Her hearing, the volume of it, had gone in and out for hours now. It was only since dinner that she’d been able to hear anything consistently.
Once he’d hurled himself on the couch with her lists and started muttering, though, she’d heard every word.
She could have confessed that her hearing was back. She intended to come clean, eventually. Even little lies had always bugged her. But since she was distinctly at the most vulnerable disadvantage in this twosome, Carolina figured it was fair to find out what she could—any way she could. And there was an extraordinarily terrific side benefit to her deceit.
His voice.
Hearing the sound of his voice was like a powerful, free turn-on pill, with no risk and no side effects—beyond a tickle of her hormones. The pitch was low, not a bass, but definitely a low tenor, with a roll and timbre to his accent that put a shiver down her spine now and then. Sexy. He was just so altogether hopelessly, helplessly sexy. Those lethally blue eyes. Those all-guy bones of his, the overall look of him, the way he thought, the way he moved. It all came through in his voice. I am man, hear me roar.
It was that kind of voice. A baby-you’re-gonna-love-how-I-kiss voice. A you-can’t-imagine-how-much-trouble-I-can-get-you-into kind of voice.
It was mighty stupid, she knew, to travel even for a minute down that silly road. As sporadically as her hearing was returning, her memory seemed to be resurfacing the same way. Everything wasn’t clear. But she’d recalled enough to make her want to curl up in a closet again, go back to where she’d become so agitated she couldn’t keep food down, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t rest, couldn’t escape. Anywhere.
So maybe it was irresponsible and downright dumb to dwell on Maguire’s voice … but temporarily, it felt like self-preservation. Just listening to him allowed her to push her real life away for a little longer. It was hard to feel too guilty. Nothing was waiting for her in real life but more unsolvable problems and anxiety.