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third floor of the Herald-Star , where Rex stood rigidly silhouetted in the big windows of the corner office. “He’s already on to me, Meg.”
    Miranda couldn’t take a breath until the limo had pointed itself into traffic and pulled away from the Herald-Star . Her anxiety lessened the farther she got from the noise and the newspaper.
    Bernie tore himself from the extensive array of cordials and mixers to notice Miranda’s pale face. “You’re not fretting over Miss Thing back there, are you?”
    “No,” she said, which was half true. “I’m worried about where we’re going and how long it’ll take for Meg’s contacts to phone in our location.” And how many people would already be there, swarming the joint, hoping to catch a glimpse of Lucas Fletcher and his manufactured fairy tale.
    She crawled down the length of the limo’s long backseat. Still on her hands and knees, she tapped on the glass separating the driver’s compartment from the passenger cabin. “Yes, Miss Penney,” the driver said once he had lowered the glass.
    “I’ve been kept in the dark regarding the fine details of this dinner thing,” she said.
    “Mr. Fletcher fiercely guards his privacy,” the chauffeur explained.
    “I don’t suppose you could tell me where you’re taking us?” Miranda asked testily. But realizing that she might need the chauffeur as a friend rather than adversary, she changed her tone and added, “I’m a big fan of privacy, too. I love the stuff, really, but this is practically kidnapping.”
    “Mr. Fletcher’s instructions were quite precise, Miss Penney. I am to deliver you and Mr. Reilly to your respective homes to retrieve your passports and a change of clothing. Then I will deliver you to Logan Airport. Your flight departs in two hours.”
    * * *
    Bernie asked one more time, and as promised, Miranda pinched him so hard he whimpered. “You’re not dreaming, Bernie. We’re in Wales.” Even as their second limo in nine hours carried them from a small airstrip to a paved, two-lane highway traversing endless rolling hills, Miranda had trouble believing it herself. They really were in Lucas’s homeland, transported there on the wind and across an ocean by Karmic Echo’s private jet.
    “Wales…Wales…” Bernie muttered as he noisily searched a tablecloth-sized map he had purchased at the tiny airstrip. “There’s no Wales on this map.”
    Miranda spread the map between them on the seat. With her finger, she stabbed a small island in the North Sea. “This is the United Kingdom, and this part here is Wales,” she said impatiently. “You were lost in western Europe.”
    “This little thing is the U.K.? There’s hardly room here for even one queen.”
    Miranda didn’t respond to Bernie’s jest. Her nerves were getting the best of her.
    “Mr. Fletcher values his privacy and wishes to have you join him for dinner at his residence in Wales,” a flight attendant had told Miranda once she’d been seated on the plane. Before she could register an approval or protest, the attendant had gone on to recite the planned itinerary: a seven-hour flight through calm skies to the United Kingdom, then a limo ride to Lucas’s estate. They would arrive at approximately eight a.m. local time, and had been given the options of settling in at the Fletcher residence for a rest or visiting a few tourist attractions. The same car taking them to Lucas’s home would remain at their disposal.
    Miranda sat in the limo as she’d sat in the plane, pensively staring past her reflection in the window.
    “What’s on your mind, dear?” Bernie asked as he mixed himself a mimosa. Two vodka martinis had put Bernie to sleep for the duration of the flight, and now he was as bright and chipper as a squirrel. “You’ve been too quiet, and too cranky, for far too long.”
    “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she said simply.
    Bernie set his drink in a leather-lined cup holder before moving to sit beside Miranda. He took