The Billionaire's Handler. Jennifer Greene

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СКАЧАТЬ 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?”

      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 СКАЧАТЬ