She’d not known she had it in her.

She was feeling . . . well . . . rather intrepid.

Hours later, Chloe lay in the dark, watching the fire sputter and spark, her mind racing over the events of the day, reaching no satisfying conclusions.

It had been, by far, the strangest day of her life.

Had someone told her that morning, when she’d tugged on her panty hose and suit, how this ordinary, chilly, drizzly Wednesday in March would unfold, she’d have laughed it off as pure nonsense.

Had someone told her she would finish the day tied to a sumptuous bed in a luxurious corner penthouse in custody of the Gaulish Ghost, watching a fire burn down to embers, well fed and sleepy, she’d have escorted that person to the nearest psychiatric ward.

She was frightened—oh, who was she kidding? Embarrassed though she was to admit it, she was every bit as fascinated as she was frightened.

Life had taken a decidedly loopy turn and she wasn’t as upset about it as she suspected she probably should be. It was a little difficult to work oneself into a satisfying fit of fear-for-one’s-life, when one’s captor was such an intriguing, seductive man. A man who cooked a full Scots meal for his prisoner, built a fire for her, and played classical music. An intelligent, well-educated man.

A sinfully sexy man.

When not only hadn’t one been harmed, one had been quite tantalizingly kissed.

And although she had no idea what tomorrow would bring, she was curious to find out. What could he be looking for? Was it possible he was no more than what he presented himself as? A wealthy man who needed certain information for some reason, who—if he couldn’t obtain the texts he needed by legitimate means—stole them, intending to return them?

“Right. Color me stupid.” Chloe rolled her eyes.

Still, throwing a wrench into the works, impairing her ability to neatly label him a thief, was the fact that he’d donated valuable, authenticated artifacts in exchange for the third Book of Manannán.

Why would the Gaulish Ghost do such a thing? The facts just weren’t adding up to the profile of a cold-blooded mercenary. She was bursting with curiosity. She’d long suspected it might one day be her downfall and, indeed, it had landed her in quite a pickle.

After dinner, he’d untied her and escorted her to the bathroom adjoining the master suite (walking a bit too close for her comfort, making her painfully aware of two hundred-plus pounds of solid male muscle behind her). A few minutes and a knock later, he’d informed her he’d placed a shirt and sweats (he’d called them trews) outside the door.

She’d spent thirty minutes in the locked bathroom, first snooping for a convenient person-sized heating duct—the kind one frequently saw in the movies but never found in real life—then deliberating over whether writing an SOS message in lipstick on the window might accomplish anything. Other than him finding it and getting aggravated. She’d opted not. Not just yet anyway. No need to alert him to her intention to escape at the earliest opportunity.