Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | The Billionaire′s Handler

The Billionaire's Handler
Jennifer Greene
Dare to dream… these sparkling romances will make you laugh, cry and fall in love – again and again!A whopping inheritance should have been Carolina’s dreams come true… Instead, the money brought nothing but vultures looking for their share of the wealth. Fortunately for her, the generous gift also came with a rescuer: sexy billionaire Maguire. Instinct told Maguire that the inheritance his father had given Carolina for saving his son would send her running for help.His plan? To be her knight in shining armour and show her how to toughen up. Whisking her off for a luxurious getaway was all part of the arrangement. But letting the teacher give him a lesson in love – and transform his heart – was not…



She didn’t set out to kiss him.
It was just … a kiss seemed a way to halt him in his tracks.
All she did was frame his face in her hands and press her lips against his for a couple of seconds. That was all it took for Maguire to go from manic energy machine to statue still.
With that first contact, her lips seemed to instantly recognize that Maguire was nothing like any man she’d ever known.
She’d felt so trapped these past two months, caged so tightly she couldn’t seem to free herself. Maguire had inserted himself in the role of her white knight—more like her kidnapper—but that wasn’t the man she found herself kissing.
It wasn’t a hero who kissed her back.
It was a man.

About the Author
JENNIFER GREENE lives near Lake Michigan with her husband and an assorted menagerie of pets. Michigan State University has honored her as an outstanding woman graduate for her work with women on campus.
Jennifer has written more than seventy love stories, for which she has won numerous awards, including four RITA® Awards from the Romance Writers of America and both their Hall of Fame and Lifetime Achievement Awards.
You’re welcome to contact Jennifer through her website at www.jennifergreene.com.
Dear Reader,
I was thinking about my daughter when I wrote this book. She came out of the womb knowing how to handle men—she had her father doing anything she wanted before she could even talk. Of course she’s beautiful … and kind … so that was part of the picture.
The story idea came from that premise … The hero initially thinks he’s handling the heroine (of course). He comes into her life when she’s in trouble, pitches in like the true hero he is. (He was so fun to write!) But even though he didn’t know it—and probably still doesn’t—my heroine was really doing all the handling.
He rescues her … but she rescues him right back.
I hope you like the story! And please feel to write me, either through my website, www.jennifergreene.com, or the Facebook page for “Jennifer Greene Author.”
Jennifer Greene
THE BILLIONAIRE’S HANDLER


JENNIFER GREENE






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Jennifer Jeanne

You have the biggest heart of anyone

I know

Love you.

Prologue
Maguire climbed aboard, wasting no time before kicking off his shoes and sinking into the white leather couch. Maybe he was stuck suffering through a Puccini opera tonight, but there were advantages to being the lone traveler on a private jet. Not only did he own the escape vehicle—which was mighty convenient—but on the long-hour flight to New York, he could bank a serious snooze.
That was the plan.
But he closed his eyes, expecting to hear the door close and the engines start up. Instead, he heard a kid’s breathless voice, yelling all the way from the tarmac.
“Mr. Cochran? Mr. Cochran!”
The boy wore a courier uniform, and bounded into the cabin with a flushed face and a self-important air.
“I was told to deliver this to you immediately, sir.”
“Thank you.” Maguire tipped him and sent him on his way. The pilot had already stepped out of the cockpit to see if there was a problem. Maguire asked him to hold up for two shakes until he had a chance to find out what was so critical in the ordinary manila envelope.
The return address warned him, but the picture that spilled out brought an immediate scowl to his forehead.
He’d seen the photo before. The young woman was sitting on a carpet with a half-dozen children. The kids all appeared to be disabled in different ways. They were clapping hands with her, playing some kind of game or song. She was sitting on her knees, just like the kids, her pale hair wisping around her cheeks, her eyes full of laughter. Everything about her looked as fragile as powder.
“The situation has deteriorated,” was the opening line in the report from his investigator.
Maguire read on. Some of it, he already knew. The job she loved was in jeopardy. Her place was constantly hounded by strangers. She’d tried a change in phones, which was like plugging a finger in a dike. Then she’d tried security, but what she knew about security measures wouldn’t fill a thimble. A second photo showed an exhausted woman with shadowed eyes, who looked as if she’d been eating a nonstop diet of nerves and stress.
The break-in was the recent development.
“The police are looking into it,” his investigator reported, “but this could be the straw that broke the camel’s back. Last night her brother visited her. He called an ambulance. At this time, I’ve been unable to substantiate what the medical problem is.”
Maguire put down the envelope, his mind spinning a hundred miles an hour. None of this should have anything to do with him. He hadn’t caused the crisis, didn’t even know the damn woman.
Even though his father had died, it seemed Maguire was still stuck cleaning up the man’s messes.
“Sir?” The pilot hovered in the cockpit doorway, waiting for instructions.
“See how fast you can change flight plans. We’re canceling the New York trip. I need to fly into South Bend, Indiana.”
He put a dozen things in motion within minutes, as if he’d been prepared for this contingency for some time—which, of course, he had. He’d known this could happen. Known he might have to become involved.
Sometimes there was a problem that only a billionaire could handle. The irony was that money had nothing to do with it.

Chapter One
When Carolina Daniels opened her eyes, she seemed to have dropped into someone else’s life.
Nothing in her vision was familiar.
The blue blanket comfortably snuggled under her chin wasn’t hers. The pillow under her head was flat instead of poofy and the serene blue walls and contemporary decor had nothing in common with her bedroom. The room wasn’t just tidy; there wasn’t a single mess in sight—no open books, no shoes, no sweaters draping chairs, no half-opened bag of Oreos by the bed.
The lack of Oreos was proof positive. Either someone had given her a character transplant, or she really was living someone else’s life.
That thought almost struck her as funny, except that her mind was groggier than glue. Someone had given her some heavy-duty drugs, judging from her woozy mind. Still, there seemed no reason to be afraid, exactly. The room was peaceful, silent. Sleeping on a comfortable bed, cuddled in a warm blanket, hardly portended a dangerous situation. It was just that her mind was so murky she really couldn’t grasp where she was or why.
But then she spotted the man. Her heart abruptly hiccuped. A major hiccup. A major, serious hiccup.
The crazy dream had taken an immediate dramatic turn, but whether it was evolving into an erotic fantasy or a nightmare, she couldn’t tell. At least not yet. She tried closing her eyes. Reopening them.
The stranger was still there, prowling the perimeter of the room like a caged-up lion, a cell phone pressed to his ear. Carolina didn’t know him. He wore a dark gray suit, of a cut and fabric that looked European. A stark white shirt and charcoal striped tie were both yanked loose at the throat. A guy could go to the opera in Paris wearing clothes that expensive and distinctive.
But it wasn’t his clothes that had her heart suddenly pounding like a trapped bird’s. It was him. Something about him.
Everything about him.
Still talking on his cell phone, he turned on his heel, about to face her way. Instinctively she closed her eyes so he wouldn’t realize she was awake, but her mind had already cataloged his features.
Only pale daylight seeped through the lone window, just enough to reveal his face, his stature. She guessed he was a few years older than her twenty-eight, but not many, maybe five or six. Although he was dressed for a formal night out, his blond hair looked hand shoveled, his chin peppered with whiskers, his sharp blue eyes shadowed with weariness. He was tall. Of course, everyone was annoyingly tall compared to Carolina’s five-four … but he was really tall. Easily a couple inches over six feet. He was built long, lean and mean, with shoulders wide enough to fill a doorway.
He wasn’t a next-door-neighbor type. He was more the kind of someone who ran things. Big things. Someone who made people jump and events happen. Energy and power charged the air around him, in the way he stalked about, the way his muscles bunched, the way his jaw squared off as he spoke into the phone. Maybe he was an extraordinarily compelling hunk … but she sure wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of an argument with him.
But those were just more reasons why she wouldn’t, didn’t, couldn’t know him. Her circle of people—from her fellow special ed teachers to family to all her neighbors in the new South Bend condo complex—just never crossed paths with anyone like this man.
Her muzzy mind processed more information. The monitors and equipment off to her right suggested she was in a hospital, even if the silk-blue walls and couch and flat-screen TV hardly resembled standard hospital decor. Again, she tried to recall why she was here, how she’d gotten here, but it was as if there was a door in her mind. On one side of the door was something huge and upsetting and exhausting, something so overwhelming that she couldn’t gather the strength to force that door open.
Her arms were wrapped around her knees, her knees tucked to her chin. She remembered curling up this way when she was a little girl in the dark, trying to hide, to make herself invisible so the alligators under the bed couldn’t find her.
But she wasn’t a little girl, and there were no alligators now. Just the strange man who seemed to have popped into her life with no more logic than a dream. He suddenly spun around, lasered a compelling stare in her direction again—and caught her eyes open.
Immediately he snapped the cell phone shut and strode straight toward her. His mouth opened, as if he was furiously barking out orders to people unseen, people behind him, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying.
Bits and pieces of reality started seeping into her mind. Nothing about him. But about that crisis moment when she suddenly lost her hearing.
The last weeks all came back in a blotchy rush. The stunned joy and shock when she was told about the fabulous inheritance. The disbelief. The thrill. The racing around her apartment like a mad thing, screaming at the top of her lungs, calling everyone she knew. Checking back twice with the lawyer to make sure it was real.
But when that giant check arrived, so did repercussions that she’d never anticipated, and had no possible way to be prepared for.
Two days ago? Three? She remembered her brother’s face when he’d found her. Gregg looked so scared. She’d been locked in her bedroom, hands over her ears, wrapped in an old wool stadium blanket in the corner. No one could reach her, she’d thought. She’d pulled out the landline, drowned the cell phone in the tub. And anyway, she couldn’t hear anymore.
Hysterical deafness, the doctor had called it. There was nothing medically wrong with her ears, with her hearing. The doctor never specifically labeled her a head case, but Carolina had always been one to call a cigar a cigar. She’d caved like a ninny. It was embarrassing and mortifying—but being mad at herself didn’t seem to bring her hearing back.
Still. None of those events explained how she’d gotten in this specific hospital room, or who the powerful sexy stranger was … much less what he was doing anywhere near her life.

Maguire had debated between the Lear 35A or the Gulfstream III, but by late afternoon, he was pleased that he’d opted for the Gulfstream. It was the older jet, not as fancy as the Lear, but the full-size divan in back made the most comfortable possible bed for Carolina.
By then they’d passed the rainy Great Plains, hit a burst of late-afternoon sun and the first view of the mountains. Any other time, Maguire would have enjoyed the flight. Now, though, he was too restless to settle down, and kept getting up to check on the slight, blond woman in back.
Carolina didn’t need him keeping vigil. Every time he checked, she was sleeping like a stone. He just couldn’t seem to stop looking at her.
Spiriting her away—Maguire didn’t like the “kidnapping” term—had been challenging, but not impossible. Money, of course, always effectively eliminated problems. He just normally did nothing impulsively. He’d been monitoring Carolina’s life for the last two months, but he never expected she would ever have to know that—much less that he’d have to suddenly and completely step in.
It’s not as if he suddenly wanted this woman in his life.
He’d had absolutely no choice.
“Mr. Cochran?”
Maguire glanced up at the pilot’s voice. “Problem?”
“A little turbulence coming. I’d prefer you strap in.”
Right. Maguire had flown too often with Henry to believe “turbulence” was the issue. Henry was worried about their passenger, and even more worried about what his employer was up to this time.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” he said, yet still he lingered by Carolina.
He’d covered Carolina earlier with a silk sheet and lightweight blanket. She hadn’t stirred in the hours since he’d lifted her from the stretcher on the tarmac and carried her aboard.
He hadn’t been the one to sedate her, was totally against drugging her at all, and he’d had a rousing argument with the hospital doctor about … well, just about everything. Her medicines. Her treatment. What she needed. That Maguire had no business taking her off someplace without medical permission or involvement. All that blah blah blah.
But that was water over the dam at this point. He checked the straps, making sure she couldn’t fall or be thrown, and then redraped the blanket up to her chin. She kept kicking off the cover. He didn’t want her exposed to drafts.
That simplest, basic contact—his knuckles to her bare throat, nothing intimate about it in any way—sent a sharp streak of desire straight to his groin. The darned woman. There was absolutely nothing to explain that scissor stab of sexual awareness.
She was as ordinary as peaches and cream. Her features were more fun than attractive—a miniature ski jump for a nose, bitsy cheekbones, a mouth almost too small to kiss. Her hair was butter yellow, mixed with a little pale wheat, might be shoulder length—it was hard to tell; it was such a curly mess. He doubted the whole package could weigh a hundred and ten pounds, and he should know, since he’d carried her up the plane’s steps. No butt or boobs that he’d noticed.
He’d caught an unexpected glimpse of her bare feet, though. The toenails were painted a wild purple—a startling surprise.
Except for those wild toenails, she looked beyond vulnerable. Frail. As if a slap would beat her down.
Maguire’s father hadn’t slapped her. At his death, Gerald Cochran had left her fifteen million dollars. What should have been an incredible gift had turned into an incredible burden—and there was precisely the problem. The doctors didn’t get it. Lawyers certainly didn’t get it. No one in Carolina’s hard-working, middle-class family had any prayer of getting it.
That money could destroy her. Maguire knew it too well. In less than two months, it almost had.
“Mr. Cochran.”
Henry again. Maguire stood, catwalked up the aisle, past the leather seats and galley to the cockpit, and then strapped himself into the copilot’s chair.
He’d hired Henry four years ago. Henry was barely thirty, but he had an old man’s face, bassett-hound eyes and forehead wrinkles of worry that were already set in. Maguire always figured Henry came out of the womb an old soul, probably never had a childhood, and for damn sure never stepped on a crack in the sidewalk. But those weren’t bad character traits for a pilot and man Friday. Henry had turned into one of the few people Maguire could trust.
“Everything on track?” Maguire asked easily.
“Should be landing by eight. Washington time, of course. Weather patterns look good.” Henry lived for flying, yet his expression was as somber as mud.
“But.” Maguire knew there was one coming.
Henry shot him a darting glance. “Even for you, sir, this is a little unusual.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“I’m not questioning you. You know that. It’s just that this is so …”
“Unusual,” Maguire supplied, when it was obvious Henry couldn’t think of another word to put out there.
“Yes. The lady there …” Henry shook his head. “I just don’t quite understand how we’re going to communicate with her if she can’t hear.”
“Beats me. We’ll figure something out.”
“You don’t think it’s slightly, say, illegal. To just take her out of that place without her permission?”
“She was having a breakdown, Henry. Because of what my father did. There was no conventional way to make this right. There’s no one in her regular life who has a clue what she’s trying to cope with. You think I should have walked away?”
“I wouldn’t presume to say, sir.”
“Well, I didn’t have that option. I couldn’t walk away. There was no one else who could make this right. This upended my life, too, you know, not just hers.” He sighed. “Try to relax, Henry. If I get taken off to prison, I’ll make sure you’re not implicated.”
“That wasn’t my concern, sir.”
“Once you get a serious night’s rest, I want you to fly back to South Bend. I have a list of things you need to do. We’re going to set up a communication base so her friends and family have an email address for her, a cell phone just for those communications. I’ll deal personally with any and all lawyers. But her place is going to need some maintenance. She’ll be with me for several weeks—”
“Several weeks?“ Harry tugged at his button-down collar.
“Maximum. I’m hoping no more than two weeks, but we could have to extend it to three. Which is why I need you to get back to her place as soon as you’ve rested up from this flight. Nothing huge to do, just details. See if she has plants to water, empty her fridge of perishables. Call me with a list of personal items in her medicine cabinet, cosmetics, medicines, that kind of thing. Put her heating at a nominal temperature—sixty. Like that.”
“No problem.”
“I don’t know what mail she’ll have come in. If there are bills, I want you to pick them up, route them to me. Personal mail, forward. Catalogs or junk, just heap up. This is too much to be telling you off the cuff. I’ll give you a list when you’re ready.”
“You don’t need me at the lodge with you?”
“I could. But when she wakes up, first thing she’s going to freak about is all the personal life she’s left hanging. So we have to take care of that, number one. Beyond those obvious life details, I won’t know more than that until she wakes up and starts talking.”
“Sir?”
“Henry. Quit doing that careful ‘sir’ thing. Whatever’s bothering you, just get it off your chest before you drive me nuts.”
“Yes, sir. What if she wakes up and wants to go home? What if she doesn’t want to stay with you?”
“Henry.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Of course she won’t want to stay with me. She doesn’t know me from Adam. But it’s my problem to build her trust. To make this work. Not yours.”
“Yes, sir.”
Maguire sighed. “What’s the ‘but’ now, Henry?”
“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.

Chapter Two
Carolina 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 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 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 other side of the lamp was another photo. He grabbed it, showed her. In the picture, Tommy was a little older, but not so big that Maguire couldn’t easily carry him around on his shoulders. Maybe they didn’t look physically alike, and Maguire was certainly a lot older, but the photo should have showed her their relationship. He loved Tommy. He was as crazy about his half brother as Tommy had always been about him. They may have had different mothers, but they were unmistakably kin.
She saw. “So that’s how you knew about me?” she asked. “Because of Tommy? Because you’re part of Tommy’s family?”
He nodded. Eventually that answer would undoubtedly raise more questions for her than it revealed … but it was still a punch of information that mattered. Her shoulders lost some of that stiff wariness.
It was a beginning.
Rather than grab the netbook and trying to typetalk to her, he figured he’d see how far they could get with sign language for a while. Would she like to go outside? Walk? He brought sweatpants and a sweatshirt 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.
It was mighty stupid, she knew, to travel even for a minute down that silly road. As sporadically as her hearing was returning, her memory seemed to be resurfacing the same way. Everything wasn’t clear. But she’d recalled enough to make her want to curl up in a closet again, go back to where she’d become so agitated she couldn’t keep food down, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t rest, couldn’t escape. Anywhere.
So maybe it was irresponsible and downright dumb to dwell on Maguire’s voice … but temporarily, it felt like self-preservation. Just listening to him allowed her to push her real life away for a little longer. It was hard to feel too guilty. Nothing was waiting for her in real life but more unsolvable problems and anxiety.
“Okay,” Maguire mumbled. “Moving away from the food list and onto the major life wishes list. And right off the bat, cookie, I can see this list has more potential to be challenging …” He was still obviously talking to himself. He hadn’t lifted his head from the legal pad. “You want to have dinner in a tree house. A real tree house. Hmm. You want fifteen pairs of Italian shoes. No surprise there—the shopping gene was bound to surface sooner or later. You want to sleep in a castle. A real castle. You’d like a weekend at a spa. Now you’re talking. You want to ride in an old MG, like a ‘53, one of those ‘darling ones’ with running boards and all. You want … well, hey. Are you actually listening to this monologue, Carolina?”
Maguire had abruptly looked up. Looked straight at her.
He’d caught her. There was nothing she could do but fess up, so she nodded. “My hearing’s coming back. I can’t make it stay, but I’ve been listening to you talk. And I can hear my own voice. My hearing just seems to fade in and out. It’s not consistent. I don’t understand it.”
“I do. The doctors all explained it the same way. You stopped hearing because your life had become an overwhelming pressure cooker. Remove the pressure, and there was every reason to believe you’d get your hearing back again.”
“But nothing’s changed.” Anxiety nipped at her nerves, then took a serious raw bite. “The pressure and problems are all there, all real. In fact, I have to go home. I have to get up. I have to—”
When she made a move to push off the couch, he interrupted. His voice was quiet, calm. “I’ve got a deal for you.”
“I’m not a make-a-deal kind of person, Maguire. There is no deal. As crazy as it sounds, I haven’t minded being kidnapped, but now … it’s all coming back. I don’t have time to mess around. I have to go home—”
“Hold it, hold it. This is a deal that’s going to work for you. I promise. You want to know how I happened to bring you here, don’t you? So I’ll fill in all the missing information. All you have to do is give me a chance to do that.”
She hesitated. She did want to understand—fiercely—how this whole crazy thing had happened. But she wanted to hear about it right away, with no interruptions.
She should have known better. Everything had to be his way. He came through with a man’s parka and hat and gloves for her, dragged her outside again. Early evening, the last color was just purpling the snow on the mountaintops. Not a breath of wind stirred. He helped her into an old Adirondack chair, buried in down blankets, but mittens out—so she could hold a glass of wine. Maguire started building a fire in a copper pit by the chairs.
It only took a few minutes before a blaze of golden sparks lit up the night. Wood smoke whiskered off in the valley, mingling with the pungent scent of pine. Maguire, wearing a leather jacket so old Goodwill would probably reject it, took the chair next to her, but his attention was on hunching over, stirring the fire, keeping it heaped up and hot.
And then he finally started talking. “Once upon a time,” he said, “there was a man named Gerald who had three sons. Gerald’s daddy had invented something so fantastic that he made millions, then billions, and Gerald inherited it all. He devoted his life to buying anything he wanted … That wine okay with you? ”
“The wine’s fine,” she said impatiently. It was better than fine. It was some kind of fancy Pinot Noir, rich and dry and deep as the night. “Don’t trying diverting me, Maguire. Keep talking.”
“Okay, okay. Well, Gerald’s first son was named Jay. Jay never worked, and probably never will. From the time he was sixteen, he was going through drugs and women, smashing fast cars, getting into every kind of trouble he could think of. He sounds rotten, but I swear you’d like him. Everyone does. He’s a charmer.”
Maguire checked her glass, saw she’d only had a sip or two, poured himself some, then went on. “Gerald went through that wife, then another. Eventually he had a second son. They got along like a snake and a mongoose. About the time Second Son was in college, he had a huge fight with his father because Gerald made a manslaughter charge against Jay disappear. Jay happened to be driving drunk, and hit an old man. The guy was homeless, so he didn’t matter, right? No one knew him. No one missed him. The father couldn’t figure out why his second son got his Jockeys in such a twist, but that was the last time Second Son spoke directly to his father.”
Maguire paused for breath, but Carolina didn’t comment. She’d stopped breathing altogether. For the first time in months, she easily put aside her own life and problems. It didn’t take rocket science to figure out that Maguire was the second son, that he was talking about himself.
“A wife or two later, a third son came into the picture. Tommy was a complete surprise. Unfortunately, when Gerald’s wife was eight months pregnant, he thought she’d enjoy taking a hang-glider ride. Apparently, they both did enjoy it, until the glider crashed. Gerald wasn’t hurt, but his wife went into premature labor. She never made it out of the delivery room, lots of complications. Tommy lived, but he was born weeks too soon, was never right.
“Gerald solved the problem of Tommy like he did everything else. Threw money at it. The kid had full-time help at home, every toy ever made, was dragged to the best medical specialists on a regular basis. Since all the records pointed to the premature birth, the lack of oxygen—and maybe to the recreational drugs Gerald and his wife enjoyed—no one really expected to find miracles for Tommy. But at least there was no fear he wouldn’t always be well taken care of.”
Carolina watched him. He was restless now, couldn’t sit still, had to fuss with the coals again, even though the fire was vibrantly shooting gold sparks into the night sky. “Last summer, Gerald put Tommy in a special place. He’d heard there was this really unusual summer program near South Bend, a school that had fresh ideas for the range of kids who just can’t seem to progress because of their mental disabilities. Gerald wasn’t really expecting Tommy to improve, of course. He just wanted to vacation in Corfu, wanted a place to stash him.”
“Maguire.” She said his voice softly, gently. She couldn’t just let him go on, not when he was expressing so much hurt—in such a tough voice.
But he motioned her with a hand. “I know this is a long story, Carolina, but I really hate telling it. I’m almost at the end, so just let me get through it, okay?”
She nodded.
“So Tommy goes to this incredible place. And he has a seizure. Seizures aren’t unusual for someone with Tommy’s brain issues, but this teacher thinks there’s something that doesn’t make sense. So when an ambulance picks him up from the school, she goes to the hospital with him. Everybody starts getting mad at her. The doctor, the medical staff. They think she’s interfering, full of herself, doesn’t know anything. But the thing is, this teacher—by the name of Carolina Daniels—was right. All this time, there was actually a reason for a lot of Tommy’s mental and physical disabilities. He had a tumor behind one eye.
“Now Tommy still isn’t perfect. Never will be. But his life just became damn close to normal, thanks to her. Gerald, being Gerald, offers her money. This Carolina woman won’t take it. But that’s all Gerald has ever known how to do—throw money at problems—so he puts her in his will, leaves this unsuspecting teacher somewhere around fifteen million dollars. Of course, Gerald wasn’t actually planning on dying. But whatever. Gerald wanted her to have some payback, and being Gerald, he got what he wanted.”
Maguire finally tried stretching out his long legs toward the fire, leaning back in the chair. “My guess is that our mysterious teacher—Carolina Daniels—was initially thrilled about the money. I mean, hey, who wouldn’t be? Isn’t that everybody’s dream, to have total financial security, financial freedom, never have to worry about money again? Only, it didn’t seem to work out quite that simple for her.” For the first time since he started talking, he shot her a glance. “You cold?”
“No, not at all.”
“We’re going inside the minute you’re cold. You hungry?”
“No.”
“More wine?”
“No. Good grief.”
“Okay then. We’re getting to the last part of the story. The awkward part. Here’s the deal. The second son was always an interfering son of a gun. Selfrighteous. Thinks he knows everything. That kind of pain-in-the-neck type of character. But he happens to really love his little brother. And even though Tommy’s got a trust set up that will protect him forever financially, that second son has always been a part of Tommy’s life. So that’s how he knows about this teacher of Tommy’s. How she saved Tommy’s life. How she inherited that nest egg from Gerald.”
Carolina opened her mouth, closed it. She had to let him finish.
“Okay. So Second Son—even though he hasn’t got a legal right in the universe, even though it’s none of his business in any way, even though he doesn’t have time to mess around with a stranger’s life—tracks down this Carolina Daniels. I don’t know what you call that. Guilt? Lunacy? Trying to fix the sins of the father? Whatever. Second Son gets the impression that maybe this teacher isn’t the toughest nut on the tree. In fact, this new, fabulous fortune isn’t working at all like the fairy tale’s supposed to be. Her money’s brought out every vulture and piranha in the area. She’s never had to cope with sharks before. She’s never been trained to deal with greed at this level—or what levels people will fall to—to get a cut out of her. All that money, but she can’t get safe. She can’t …”
Carolina was still listening, but some of his monologue made her zone out. Her heart suddenly felt hugely full, brimming over. She still didn’t have all the answers she wanted, and she hadn’t had time to phrase even half the questions she wanted to. But he’d told her enough.
Her kidnapper was a good man. Better than a good man. Maguire was a true modern-day white knight who actually stepped up for damsels in distress—even if she wasn’t a damsel, much less the kind of woman who counted on a man to save her from anything. Carolina never needed saving, anyway. She’d just desperately needed two seconds to think, to put her new life together, and there hadn’t been a single stretch where she could hide from the bombardment of ceaseless pressures and demands being made of her.
“Maguire?”
“Yeah?” His voice edgy, wary now.
“You know I thought Maguire was your last name. You never once let on your real last name was Cochran.”
He answered, “Well, hell. I didn’t want you to have a negative impression right off the bat. It’s not like I had any choice over the family I was born into. Believe me, I would have chosen Smith. Or Jones.”
She got it, that he was hoping she’d laugh off the “little deceit” he’d pulled on her. But she couldn’t stop thinking. “I kept trying to understand why I felt an … instinctive trust for you. Why I wasn’t more afraid. I mean, for Pete’s sake, you were kidnapping me.”
“Borrowing,” he corrected her swiftly. “Less prison time if we use a little different term than kidnapping.”
“I had every reason to think you’d be after my money. Because everyone’s been after my money. So why would you have taken me if not for ransom? It’s the conclusion any sane person would come to, wouldn’t you think? But it just didn’t make sense in my mind. It just didn’t … fit.”
“You’ve been pretty drugged up, cookie. You shouldn’t be expecting yourself to think rationally or normally for a while yet.”
“Maybe. But I still knew. Somehow. That you weren’t going to hurt me. That this wasn’t about your wanting something from me.” She leaned forward. “Maguire, how’s Tommy?”
“Good. He’s in Seattle. I petitioned the court for custody after my dad died, but as I mentioned, Gerald and I had issues. Dad did a good job of financially protecting him, but that’s the best I can say. I see him at least twice a month, and sometimes he stays with me for weeks at a time …”
“So who is he with?”
“As odd as it sounds … with Jay’s ex-wife. One of Jay’s ex-wives. Shannon. The one thing Tommy needed that no amount of money could give him was a plain old mom. The nurturing of a mom, the warmth of a mom, the parenting relationship of a mom. He’s crazy about Shannon. So it isn’t a blood tie, but probably that’s best. The Cochrans aren’t exactly famous for their maternal or paternal judgment.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/jennifer-greene/the-billionaire-s-handler/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.