Time passed unnoticed. The sound of the sea finally roused Charlie, but the sunlight on her skin and the decadent comfort of the fine linens swaddling her tried to lure her back to sleep. The fragrance of some exotic fruit rose from the pillow under her cheek, as if the sinfully soft bedsheets had been washed with pineapples or mangoes. She turned her nose into the delicious scent, and a firm, smooth texture brushed across her lips.

Skin. Naked skin.

She opened one eye and looked at the chest she was nuzzling. The golden eye of a bird tattoo stared back at her, and for a moment she thought she saw its scarlet-tipped black wings flutter where they had been inked over strong collarbones. She glanced down and saw its lower body had been fashioned out of curling flames.

Not a bird, Charlie thought as she idly traced the blaze of fire and feathers with one fingertip. A phoenix.

A phoenix tattoo.

She pushed herself away from the chest. The man beside her lay sprawled over two-thirds of the enormous bed, his clean-shaven face still, his chest barely moving as he slept on.

It was Sam, the man from the bridge. But why was she in bed with him?

Charlie jerked off the scarlet cotton sheet twisted around her and saw only naked skin. She crawled away backward, not stopping until she went over the side of the bed and fell to her knees. Softness cushioned her shins, and she looked down at the black fur throw spread out over a floor made of clear blue water, coral, and tiny tropical fish. Only when she saw the ghostly image of her own wide-eyed face staring back at her did she realize the water was under a layer of crystal-clear glass.

Slowly Charlie lifted her head. If she was in a hotel room, it was the largest she’d ever seen: at least two thousand square feet, with a cathedral ceiling supported by innumerable lengths of smoothly polished bamboo. Primitive-looking motifs and murals covered the walls in bright primary colors, all of which darkened into an azure-purple ombré at the base, giving the impression that the entire room was melting into the gigantic aquarium of the floor. Irregular flat plates of multicolored stone had been stacked to form treelike columns that supported light fixtures of green glass blown in long, graceful curves that suggested palm fronds. Bowls woven from twigs and set on carved wooden pedestals held mounds of fresh fruit.

An odd dragging sensation on her scalp made her reach up and touch her hair, which had been taken out of the braid she wore for work and curled. She felt a long strand of beads woven through the curls and pulled it out, wincing as some hairs came with it. The beads turned out to be pearls, and as she remembered the dream she threw it away from her.

“Who’s here?” she called out, angry now. “Where am I?”

Through the three-story glass panels of the exterior wall Charlie could see an extended patio deck, and beyond that real palm trees, fanlike palmettos, and clustered thatches of towering bamboo. A slate-lined path led down from the deck and through the tropical landscaping to a golden sand beach, where ivory-edged turquoise waves lapped lazily over long, scrolling bands of seashells.

Charlie had seen pictures of places like this. They were called resorts instead of hotels. There would be butlers instead of bellboys, personal chefs instead of vending machines, and if you had to ask how much the room cost per night, you couldn’t afford it.

There was one person in the room who could, however, and she kept her eye on him as she looked around for some clothes. She found a pair of thick, soft, gold velour robes draped across the foot of a lounge chair and jerked one on as she came around the bed.

“Sam. Wake up.”

“Buenos días, Señorita Marena.”

Charlie whirled around, but no one else had entered the room. “Who’s there? Come out here where I can see you.”

“Welcome to Séptima Casa,” the man’s voice said, and this time she spotted the intercom panel set into the wall beside a mural of dolphins leaping from the waves. “This is your new home. We will see to it that you and Señor Taske live in complete comfort and happiness. As long as you abide by two simple rules, you will want for nothing.”

Charlie exploded. “Who the hell do you think you are?” She turned toward the bed. “Is this your idea of a practical joke? Because I don’t think it’s funny. Get up.” She strode over and shook Sam’s shoulder, but he remained limp.

“The first rule is that you must not try to escape,” the man continued smoothly, as if she’d said nothing. “Any attempt at escape will result in immediate punishment.”

“Samuel.” She shook him harder. “Wake up.”

The faintly snide voice went on. “The second rule is that you and your partner will have sexual intercourse at least once each day. If you fail to do so for any reason, again, you will be punished.”

Charlie stopped listening to the man as she felt something damp on her forearm, and turned it to see a fresh bloodstain. She pulled away the sodden sheet from a wide, bleeding gash in Samuel’s side.

“Christ.” Now she saw the ashen tone of his skin and felt the cool moistness of it as she checked his pulse, which was weak and fluttered rapidly under her fingertips. She saw no swelling or bruising across his abdomen, and when she thumbed up his eyelids his pupils appeared enlarged.

Quickly she dragged down one of the pillows and elevated his legs before she tore a dry section away from the bottom of the sheet. Once she had folded and pressed it against the wound, she turned her head toward the speaker. “This man is wounded and in shock,” she shouted. “He needs to be taken to a hospital. Immediately.”

“Buenos días, Señorita Marena,” the man’s voice said, exactly as he had before. “Welcome to Séptima Casa. This is your new home. We will see to it that you and Señor Taske live in complete comfort and happiness. . . .”

The voice was a looped recording, Charlie realized, and swore under her breath as she quickly inspected the wound. She saw no indication of internal injuries or serious bleeders, which was the only good news. She had no way to measure how much blood he’d lost or how long he’d been in shock.

Under her arm, Samuel’s chest fell and didn’t rise again.

“Sam.” She couldn’t find a pulse anymore, and tilted his head back, putting her ear down by his nose and mouth to listen and feel for a breath that never came. She opened his mouth to check his airway and found two fresh puncture wounds in his upper palate. She ignored them as she tipped his head back, pinched his nostrils shut, sealed her lips over his, and forced her breath into his lungs.

He didn’t start breathing.

Charlie centered her hands on his chest and began compressions, counting under her breath until she reached thirty before giving him another breath. The muddy gray of his skin made her swear as she began the second set of compressions.

“Come on, Sam,” she told him as she worked his chest. “You’re not dying on me, not here. Are you listening?”

His body heaved under her hands as violent tremors racked his limbs. Just as quickly he fell still and coughed several times before he began breathing on his own. His features remained ashen in color, and against her skin she could feel his body temperature dropping.

Charlie kept her fingers pressed against his throat; feeling his sluggish pulse throb dully, she watched a little color return to his face. “Okay, Sam, that’s better. You just keep those lungs working.” She glanced down at the wound in his side to check the bleeding, which had slowed dramatically.

She didn’t know whether he’d had a seizure or a stroke, but she couldn’t be concerned with that now. The wound probably wasn’t going to kill him, but the blood loss would.

She used the belt from the other robe to bind her makeshift bandage in place, and then ran across the glass floor to the arched open doorway opposite the exterior glass wall. She hurried out into a corridor filled with doors.

Judging by the vast interior dimensions and artful decor, they’d been brought to someone’s private mansion. As she hurried down the hall she began jerking open doors and glancing inside, but found the other rooms just as empty.

“Is anyone here? I have a wounded man who needs a doctor,” she called out several times, but the only thing that answered her was the echo of her own voice. At the end of the hall she opened the last door and then stopped, aghast to see that the interior had been outfitted to serve as a medical treatment room. Someone had installed an exam table, lab equipment, and glass-fronted cabinets filled with supplies. Her own carry-in bag sat on a rolling cart next to the table.

Charlie went to the refrigerated storage unit and opened the door. Inside were several vials of insulin, antibiotics, and other perishable drugs, along with enough units of blood to stock a small blood bank.

Sam’s desperate need for a transfusion made her reach for the blood. The packaging looked unfamiliar, and none of the units had been labeled or typed, although different symbols had been drawn in black marker on each of the bags. She had no way to tell what sort of blood it was, nor the time to test it to see whether it was safe.

There was only one thing she could do.

She replaced the bag in the storage unit and slammed the door shut, turning to the cabinets to pull what she needed. After she stuffed the supplies in her bag she grabbed it and ran back down the hall.

“Sam,” she said as she pulled on a pair of gloves and began to set up. “Can you hear me? I need you to wake up now. I’m going to take care of you, but I have to know what happened.”

She had to repeat herself several times before he stirred, and then at last his eyes opened. “Charlotte.” His voice barely registered above a whisper, and he grimaced as if it hurt to speak. “Safe?”

“For now,” she lied. “Do you remember how you got this wound in your side? Did someone stab you?”

He shook his head. “Accident. In Denver. Weeks ago.” His eyelids began to droop. “So tired . . .”

“You can’t go to sleep yet, Sam,” she said, putting her hand on his cheek. “Look at me. That’s it. Can you tell me what your blood type is?”