by Laura Wright
Michael's features tightened. "Fifteen years ago you and your father took me in, Bella, treated me like family. It's a debt I've never forgotten. And one I intend to repay." He graced her with a slash of a smile—something she imagined he didn't do very often. "I'm glad you're here, and you're welcome to stay as long as you want."
Her heart began to soften like clay in a warm palm, but she fought it. His voice was thoughtful, but the meaning was clear. He was offering her his home and his protection because he felt be owed her and her father.
"Thanks," she said with a calm she didn't feel. "That's a very generous thing to say. But you don't owe me anything. One night's stay is all I'll be—"
"We'll see about that," he interrupted, plowing a hand through his hair. "We'll see what the doctor says tomorrow."
Just then, an arrow of pain shot into her lower back, making her wince. These little jolts were coming all too frequently the past few weeks. Her little one obviously wanted to see the world. And Mommy can't wait to see you, my sweetie. Just give me a little longer.
"All right, Michael," she said, too tired to argue something that sounded so reasonable no matter what his motivations were. "But I don't want to take your room from you. I can easily move into a guest room or—"
"That's not necessary." His smoky gaze briefly scanned hers. "You look very comfortable right here in my bed."
Her eyes widened and her breasts tightened. One night. Just one night.
"I won't have you moving," he said. "I'm going downstairs to make sure that Thomas is on his way. I'll bring you up some dinner. Soup sound all right?"
She nodded, grateful that he was going to leave for a while so she could breathe normally again. "Sounds perfect."
"My housekeeper only comes during the week, so we'll both have to suffer my cooking until tomorrow. Anything else you need?"
"A little sunshine would be great," she joked lamely.
He turned then and uttered the word "drapes," and the wall of chestnut fabric in front of her parted to reveal floor-to-ceiling windows.
Isabella gasped, both at what seemed to be his magic and at the view. The dim bluish light of a late afternoon in early winter seeped into the room. Outside, she could see gnarled, leafless trees, a pond frozen over and acres and acres of white under a gray sky. To any true Midwesterner, it was a beautiful scene.
And Michael's amazing technology had brought it to her in one simple command. She'd certainly read about his inventions, just never seen one.
"Very impressive, Michael."
He shrugged. "It's actually a pretty simple process."
"Not to the technologically impaired. My VCR has been blinking 12:00 for a good decade."
"Well, I can't make a cinnamon roll. To me, that's impressive." He regarded her for moment, the cogs of his mind working behind his eyes, then he turned to leave.
"It's good to see you again," she called after him.
He paused at the door, but didn't look back. "It's good to see you, too, Bella."
Then he was gone, and the room felt cooler. Which was odd because his attitude and manner were not particularly warm.
She turned toward the fire. Why in the world did she feel so safe here, in his lair, his hideout from the world, as the media called it?
"The millionaire recluse who lives in an enormous house of glass on thirty acres of woodland high above a sleepy town," she'd read. "Driven to levels of success that most mortals wouldn't dare strive for."
He was an enigma, they said. At thirty-one, Michael Wulf made the world wonder—about his personal history, as well as his extraordinarily profitable high-tech developments.
Though he seemed to have no past, he was truly a man of the future. He created houses with brains and cars that responded to vocal commands. But unlike others in his field, he had no taste for celebrity.
They also wrote that he had no wife, no family, few friends and a giant chip on his shoulder. They said that he walked with a limp. And they speculated that perhaps the lone wolf had once been caught in a trap.
But Isabella knew a truth that all those journalists who wrote about him would never know. How he'd been tossed away by his parents for a handicap he couldn't control and shoved into a boys' home. How he'd been treated by his peers for being different. How determined he'd been to rise above them all.
And it seemed that he'd succeeded. He did indeed live high above a sleepy little town, a town that had once rejected him. But in her opinion, living in hiding was no way to live.
She exhaled heavily, her hands moving to her belly. Perhaps it was this new nurturing side of her, but she wanted to help him, lift him out of that black hole that held him hostage. But somehow she knew that if she did, if she got close to him again, the odds of reviving that adolescent crush were great.
Not that her potential desires mattered. The boy from years ago had looked on her as a little girl, while the man today apparently looked on her as an unpaid debt.
Not to mention that you're eight months pregnant and resemble a beach ball.
She rubbed her stomach and said softly, "But I wouldn't have it any other way."
What she needed to do was concentrate on this new life she was carving out for herself: opening her pastry shop, creating a home, raising her child and putting the past to rest.
But rest appeared unlikely as long as she was under the same roof as that past: the very handsome and disturbing Michael Wulf.
* * *
Chapter 2
« ^ »
Michael leaned back in his armchair and took in the view.
Several feet away, Bella lay asleep in his massive bed, wrapped in the royal-blue robe he'd loaned her. She'd grown into a beautiful woman over the past decade, and her pregnancy only accentuated that beauty.
She hugged the down pillow like a lover, her face content, her tawny lashes brushing the tops of her cheekbones. And as the last flicker of red from the fire illuminated her long blond hair, he couldn't help but wonder if this angel from his past had been sent from heaven to torture him.
Tonight, however, he hadn't let himself spend enough time with her to find out. After Thomas had left, he'd gone down to the kitchen and opened a can of chicken soup, made some toast to go with it, then brought it up to her on a tray. She'd wanted him to stay and have dinner with her, but he'd declined.
He never ate with anyone. As a child, the chaos of living and eating with sixty hungry boys, of having to fight for every scrap of food, had made him yearn for solitude and peace. And he'd found them both out on the road when he'd finally escaped from Youngstown School.
Even when he'd come to Fielding, stayed with Bella and her father, his newfound independence had continued. Emmett would say something like "A man has to have a little space," then hand Michael a plate of food and a glass of milk.
Emmett Spencer had been one in a million. Michael knew he would never forget how the man had taken him in, no questions asked, and acted as a father figure, a mentor, even taught him all about electronics. Then there was Bella, who had taught him about kindness and given him her friendship.
But tonight, Michael thought as he watched her, tonight, as he'd laid that dinner tray before her, he hadn't looked on her as a friend. He'd even contemplated making an exception to his dining rule. For her. And both of those realizations unnerved him. Unnerved him enough to cry "work" as an excuse and get the hell out of there.
Just then, Bella sighed in her sleep. Rubbing his jaw, Michael cursed softly. He'd never been a voyeur. And he didn't have time to think about the past. There was work to be done and deals to be made.
But today, when he'd opened that car door, seen those eyes—held a very grown-up Bella against him in that car—an addictive warmth had seeped into his icy blood, making him want to stay put, hold on to her this time. And that sense of longing hadn't subsided one ounce in the hours since. Instead, it had seemed to grow.
Obviously she was potent acid to his iron will, eating away at his resolve, and h
e knew that he'd better remember why she was here. Remember the only thing he wanted from her.
Acknowledgment of a debt paid in full.
So although his mind warned him to get out of this room, what was left of his sense of duty would not allow it. If she needed him for anything, he would be here.
On another soft, sleepy sigh, Isabella kicked the covers off her legs. The robe she wore lay open from toes to midthigh, and Michael couldn't help but catch a glimpse of those long, toned legs before he forced his gaze back to the dying fire.
He slid his heel along the rug and stretched out his leg. The damn thing hurt tonight. More than usual. But he fought the pain head-on, always had. At three when he'd taken a tumble down the basement steps and broken his leg, he'd been as brave as a three-year-old could be. When the simple break had damaged a nerve and turned into a not-so-simple life-long affliction, he'd held his own. And even when his parents couldn't handle raising a crippled child and had abandoned him to the state's foster-care system, he'd done his best to take care of himself and get on with it.
Flinching slightly, he stood up and walked over to the window, gritting his teeth as he shoved the ache away. The break in the snow this afternoon had been fleeting. Outside a storm of white raged against the night sky, glazing the trees, blanketing the earth as far as he could see. And it showed no signs of stopping.
It would be a miracle if Thomas made it out to the house tomorrow. What Michael had imagined to be a couple of days caring for Bella to pay back an old debt was beginning to look as if it could stretch into a week.
His gut tightened. Why did that worry him so much? He didn't have to see her except to bring her meals, watch over her at night.
Pushing away from the window, he went to stand beside the bed. Damn, she was beautiful. And harmless and pregnant and… And what, Wulf? What is it? What's she doing to you?
The devil's response hung in the air as he covered her with the blanket she'd kicked off, then returned to his chair by the fire.
Bella made him feel … alive.
*
By five o'clock the following afternoon, Isabella had one bad case of cabin fever.
All hopes of being released from Michael Wulf's hideout and the heat of Michael Wulf's gaze had disappeared the moment she'd woken up that morning and seen God's endless shower of snow. The cleaning crew had been canceled, Doc Pinta hadn't been able to come, and neither had the housekeeper. Isabella and Michael were alone, trapped by a blizzard that showed no signs of ending.
Ever the gentleman, Michael had brought her some magazines that his housekeeper had left behind and, of course, two square meals. But he never stayed, and she was growing increasingly weary of reading about secret celebrity hideaways and the world's largest pan of lasagna.
What she needed was a respite from rest.
She wrapped the terry-cloth robe tighter around her—the robe that held the faint scent of spicy male to it—and headed for the door.
Fortunately, when Doc Pinta had phoned that morning, he'd told her that if she felt strong enough, she could get out of bed for a bit. And that was just what she intended to do.
Snug in a pair of Michael's large wool socks, she stepped out into the hallway—a glass hallway suspended ten feet above the ground to be exact. Isabella glanced around, feeling a little off balance, not unusual considering her center of gravity had shifted considerably over the past few months.
Twilight came early at this time of year and even earlier in a storm, so the passage was dim. It appeared unlit, but that quickly changed the moment she took a wary step into it. Apparently the floor was pressure sensitive, because for each step she took, another section of hallway lit up.
Isabella just stared, openmouthed. How could she help it? It wasn't just the glowing floor that impressed her, it was the view the hallway presented. On either side of her lay acres of snowy woodland, and over her head, a blanket of thick white covered the glass ceiling.
Extraordinary.
It was with great regret that she left the hallway at its end and entered a large room with a marble floor, a grand piano and a jungle of plants surrounding an elevator.
An elevator that stood open, waiting.
She took a deep breath and looked around her. Okay, Michael probably wouldn't love her poking around his house unaccompanied. But he was obviously too busy with his work to entertain guests. If she looked at it that way, she was helping him out by entertaining herself, right?
With that bit of warped logic to fuel her quest, she moseyed into the silver cylinder. She could do a little exploring, then be back in her room by the time Michael brought dinner. No harm done.
But she wasn't going anywhere, she quickly realized. Because as she glanced around, she noticed that there were no buttons to push anywhere.
"All right," she said, touching the smooth walls. "First things first. How do I make this door close?"
Isabella gasped as the door closed instantly.
"I guess that's the way," she muttered. "Now, I suppose saying the word 'up' would be just too easy."
The elevator didn't move.
"That's what I thought."
She tried a few synonyms for the word up, but nothing happened. She tried the words guest, Michael, Wulf and Fielding. Still the elevator remained immobile.
As she racked her brain for a more clever answer to this riddle, a wrench of pain shot across her lower back. She arched, stretching a little, then settled both hands on her belly and rubbed. "Are you as frustrated as Mommy, sweetie? Or are you just ready to meet the world and see your new home—"
At that the elevator shot upward. Stunned, Isabella gripped the steel railing to hold her steady and tried to remember the last word she'd uttered.
Home.
An interesting choice.
And one she never would've thought of.
The elevator came to a smooth stop at what she guessed was the top of the house, and the doors slid open. Cautiously she stepped out into a room bathed in bright yellow light. It was an office. And what Michael deemed home.
"Michael," she called out tentatively, "you here?"
There was no answer, and she walked into the room, her gaze riveted on the scenery before her. Constructed primarily of glass and steel, the turret-shaped room boasted hardwood floors covered in tan rugs, two worn brown leather couches, a state-of-the-art workout contraption, a massive television and stereo system, and two arcade-size, freestanding video games.
For just a moment, her gaze rested on the video games. It warmed her heart to see them and to know that her father's influence on Michael had remained.
She walked farther into the circular space toward the massive desk, which held two computers, a fax machine and a printer. She noted the clutter there, as well—stacks of paper, disks, files, pens and pencils.
She would never have guessed it, but stern, rigid Michael Wulf was a messy guy.
She chuckled at the thought just as her gaze caught on a framed drawing just above the desk. It was an etching, very old, but in fine condition. It was a scene from the fairy tale "Rumplestiltskin." And at different points on the wall were more etchings of other fairy tales: "Sleeping Beauty," "The Princess and the Pea," "The Nightingale," "The Ugly Duckling."
"What are you doing?"
She whirled around to see Michael emerge from the elevator, looking drop-dead sexy in a dark-gray sweater and black jeans, his jaw tight, his eyes dark as thunderclouds.
"What am I doing in here?" she asked innocently. "Or out of bed?"
"Both."
"I was going a little stir-crazy," she said, smiling into his glower. "You know, locked up in the tower?"
His brow rose. "Obviously you weren't locked in well enough."
She touched her belly. "We're both a little weary of being cooped up."
His eyes softened as he looked at her stomach. "I understand that, but you really should be resting. What happened to doctor's orders?"
"He said I could take a wal
k if I felt up to it."
Michael didn't move from his spot in front of the elevator. "I don't allow people up here, Bella."
"Not even to clean or—"
"I do that myself."
She glanced at the desk with its overflowing mess and grinned. "So I see."
With something close to a growl, he stepped back into the elevator and motioned for her to follow. "All right. Let's go. Back downstairs and off your feet."
"I could sit," she suggested. The twinge running up her spine heartily agreed.
"You came way too close to having hypothermia yesterday, Bella."
"That's a little overly dramatic, don't you think?"
"What I think is that I'm not taking any chances. I'm going to walk you down—"
"Wait, please. It's nice up here. The view." She laughed. "The clutter."
He glared at her.
"Okay, okay," she muttered dejectedly. She must've pulled off one great downcast expression, because he breathed an impatient sigh and said, "How about we go into the kitchen? You can sit down and relax while I make you some dinner."
"How about you make us some dinner?" she suggested as she walked toward him.
"We'll see."
"That expression is beginning to annoy me." She stepped into the elevator and tried to ignore the woodsy scent of him.
He mumbled, "Second floor," and they descended.
Shaking her head, she said, "I wouldn't have started with anything that easy."
He turned to look at her, his brow arched. "By the way, how did you manage to get up there?"
She smiled. "I stumbled on the password."
"No more stumbling," he warned.
"But—"
"No buts, either."
She placed her hands on what used to be her hips. "You know, you're not supposed to argue with a pregnant woman."
"Who says?" The look he tossed her was somewhere between irritated and interested.
"It's in the book of pregnancy rules."
"And the author of that book is…"
"Gosh, can't remember." The elevator stopped and the door opened.