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place.”
    â€œMaguire.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œYou set this up because it was on my list.”
    â€œWell, yeah. It was an easy twofer. You wanted to sleep in a castle. And do the spa thing.”
    â€œI want my list back.”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œI thought it was a game. Just something silly. I don’t want or expect anything else from that list.”
    â€œUh-huh. Damn, I seem to have a fax coming in, and need to do some business here for a while…”
    Right. She believed the moon was made of cheese, too. Maguire somehow never answered questions he didn’t want to answer. And even though she’d spent long days with him now, she still didn’t know where he lived, or what he did with his time.
    If he had a woman in his life.
    Or what he’d thought of those kisses they’d shared a few days ago. She really wanted to know if they’d haunted him the way they were haunting her.
    Temporarily, there was no possible way to address the idea. Greta showed up again, did more terrifying things. It took ages to rinse off all the mud, and then she was coated with warm spicy oils and rubbed down. After that, her feet and hands were encased in warm packs, and her hair coated with something that looked like mayonnaise and smelled like vanilla.
    By the time she was starting to feel like a recipe, Greta let her shower the whole thing off. Her hair was dried, her toes and nails pampered. She was snuggled into a black, whisper-satin gown like the kind moviestars wore in the forties, warned that she’d need a good long nap after all the treatments, and put in a wrought-iron elevator.
    Their suite was on the third floor. Carolina had no idea how many others were enjoying the spa, but so far she’d only seen staff—and Maguire. The suite took her breath the first time she saw it.
    His-and-her bedrooms both had their own bathrooms. The central living area between held a fireplace, a medieval round table and a wall tapestry that concealed a minifridge with snacks and drinks. Her bed was on a pedestal, with velvet drapes and hand-embroidered pillows. Greta had told her the truth. She barely made it inside before folding up on the bed and sleeping hard and deep.
    When she wakened, though, the sensation of luxurious pampering and contentment was gone. Her head was thudding, her heart pounding. The long, whisper-satin gown still felt embarrassingly sexy against her skin, the heap of Swiss feather bed no less fabulous, but she headed into the main room, knelt down on the stone hearth.
    This whole week had been disturbing and tantalizing and scary and wonderful, and above all, distracting.
    But she had a life in shambles back home. It hadn’t disappeared. Maybe she’d desperately needed a break. Maybe she could be excused for hiding out for a fewdays. But she’d done that now, and the crushing weight of decisions and problems was still waiting for her.
    She had to push the stop button. She couldn’t keep falling for a man who wasn’t for her, living a fantasy life that wasn’t hers…behaving like a woman she couldn’t be.
    Â 
    Maguire disconnected from all electronics, locked down his business and headed upstairs. The staff claimed Carolina would likely take a solid two-hour nap, but he hadn’t checked on her in a while now. He didn’t want to make further plans for the day until he evaluated what she felt up to.
    As the elevator let him out on the third floor, he considered that he wouldn’t mind a serious nap himself. His neck creaked, and a sharp headache threatened around his eyes. He was used to lack of sleep, but he’d been pouring on work hours on top of time changes and travel.
    Adding Carolina to his life had created all kinds of complications. Some, he’d expected. Some were mightily confounding him.
    The door to their suite was an oval-shaped piece of carved wood—very cool and castle-like—but it was darned hard