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.