While she’s under my care, she couldn’t be safer.”
“Got it, sir.”
“Now, are there any more questions, or can I go back and catch an hour of shut-eye?”
“Absolutely no questions, sir.”
About every three months or so, Henry revealed a sense of humor. Otherwise it was like having an old-fashioned aunt around, always underfoot, worrying whether he had an umbrella in the rain, whether he’d eaten, whether he was hot or cold or tired. Damn good employee. But exhausting sometimes.
Maguire headed back, grabbed a blanket from an overhead bin and dropped into the oversize lounge chair closest to her. He considered turning on the tube, or switching on his computer, or opening his briefcase. Instead, he found himself staring at Carolina again.
Everything about her was soft. Skin. Hair. Mouth. There wasn’t a single hint of toughness in her.
He could well believe she’d risked her life to save his little brother, even though Tommy was a relative stranger to her. He could well believe she wouldn’t think, before leaping in, to help someone else.
He couldn’t imagine her being tough enough, resilient enough, to handle the pressure that had been heaped on her in the last two months. She’d never had the training for it, the upbringing that could have prepared her.
His father, so typically, had impulsively left her a gift that was supposed to be generous and wonderful. It would never have occurred to Gerald that he’d thrown a young woman into the deep end with no life raft in sight.
Maguire had to be the life raft.
There was no one else.
And that meant exactly what he’d told Henry. It didn’t matter, about her soft skin, or that silky blond hair. It didn’t matter that those small, perfect lips challenged a man to want to take them, to mold them, to see exactly what kind of passion might be awakened there. She was a sweet woman. A giver. Those were the facts Maguire already knew.
But whether there was more under that surface, he had to find out. Without touching her. Without harming her in any way.
No matter what it cost him.
Chapter Two
Carolina opened sleepy eyes and abruptly frowned. You’d think she had a wild love life, considering how many strange beds she’d woken up in lately.
Waking up in strange beds was kind of interesting, but waking up feeling drunk-drugged was getting mighty old.
Memories from the last two days came back to her in patches. She remembered her mysterious stranger having a fight with her doctor in the hospital—she couldn’t hear it—but remembered them both shaking their heads, stomping around, in each other’s faces.
Then … she had no recollection of leaving the hospital, but of waking up on an ultra-fancy private jet on a cushy leather couch. Her kidnapper showed up from time to time. She remembered his hand on her cheek, remembered his finger brushing her hair. Then a landing in a tiny private airport in the dark. At some point there’d been soup. Wild rice. Chicken with basil and cilantro. Incredible cilantro. Then an omelet. Or maybe she’d had the omelet before? And wasn’t there another man there? Kind of a little guy, youngish, with thin hair and old-man worried eyes.
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.
