The Billionaire's Handler. Jennifer Greene

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.

      “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?”