The Billionaire’s Handler (2 page)

“It's just…. she's young. And very, well, pretty. Very pretty.”

“Henry.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Have I ever struck you as the kind of man who'd take advantage of a wounded woman?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you noticed that I have any lack of attractive women in my life?”

“No, sir.”

“And here's the punch line, Henry. I kidnapped her. That means I have the power over the situation. And that means there's no way I'd touch a hair on her head. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If I were burning in hell, Henry. If she begged me. If she were my last chance to have sex in my entire life. Some things are plain wrong, and the line here is
crystal clear. 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.

C
arolina 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 teas
ing 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.