She was tied to a strange man’s bed. A criminal to boot.

“Chloe Zanders, you’ve got all kinds of problems,” she murmured, testing the silken bonds for the hundredth time. A little play, no give. The man knew how to tie knots.

Why hadn’t he hurt her? she wondered. And since he hadn’t, just what did he plan to do with her? The facts were pretty simple and quite horrifying; she’d managed to stumble into the lair of an expert, slick, thoroughly top-notch thief. Not a petty thief or a bank robber, but a master thief who broke into impossible places and stole fabulous treasures.

This was not small-time stuff.

There weren’t thousands riding on her silence, but millions.

She shivered. That dismal thought could send her straight into hysterics, or at the least, a potentially terminal bout of hiccups.

Desperate for a distraction, she wriggled as far to the edge of the bed as the bonds permitted, and peered down at the stolen texts.

She sighed longingly, aching to touch. Though not originals—any originals worth having were securely tucked away in the Royal Irish Academy or Trinity College Library—they were superb late-medieval copies. One of them had fallen open, revealing a lovely page of Irish majuscule script, the capital letters gloriously embellished with the intricate interlacing knotwork for which the Celts were renowned.

There was a copy of Lebor Laignech (the Book of Leinster), Leborna hUidre (the Book of the Dun Cow), Lebor Gabála Érenn (the Book of Invasions), and several lesser texts from the Mythological Cycle.

Fascinating. All of them about the earliest days of Éire, or Ireland. Full of tales of the Partholonians, the Nemedians, the Fir Bolg, the Tuatha Dé Danaan, and the Milesians. Rich in legend and magic, and endlessly disputed by scholars.

Why did he want them? Was he selling them to fund his fabulous lifestyle? Chloe knew there were private collectors who didn’t give a damn where the item came from, so long as they could own it. There was always a market for stolen artifacts.

But, she puzzled, he had only Celtic artifacts. And she knew for a fact that most of the collections he’d raided for those texts boasted far more valuable items from many different cultures. Items he’d not taken.

Which meant, for whatever reason, that he was highly selective and not motivated solely by the value of the artifact.

She shook her head, befuddled. It didn’t make any sense. What thief wasn’t motivated by the value of the artifact? What thief stole a lesser-valued text and left dozens of more valuable items untouched once he’d gone to the trouble of breaching security? And how was he managing to breach security? The collections he’d robbed had some of the most sophisticated anti-theft systems in the world, requiring sheer genius to penetrate.

The door suddenly opened, and she scrunched hastily away from the edge of the bed, donning her most innocent expression.

“Are you hungry, lass?” he said in his deep burr, glancing around the partially opened door at her.