The Billionaire's Handler. Jennifer Greene

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.