The Billionaire's Handler. Jennifer Greene
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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