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.