by Laura Wright
At last she sat back and smiled. "You're a pretty good heater-up-er. I'm impressed. Two great feats in only thirty-one years. Dinner and diapering."
"Well, I have to confess that Emily helped me out with the latter. She's one patient girl."
Bella turned to her daughter and whispered, "That's what's called sweet talk, Emily. Watch out for boys who use it."
Michael smiled down at the little girl. "Don't listen to her, princess."
Bella raised a brow. "Princess?"
Where had that come from? And when was that snow going to stop? "She looks like a little princess with all that blond hair and those regal blue eyes, that's all."
And as he said it, he realized he could've been describing Bella. And she must've thought so, too, because she looked up at him with startled eyes.
He sat back in his chair. Endearments were coming from a mouth that rarely uttered anything but words involving business. And talking about nothing in particular, too—just banter? He'd always thought that banter was a waste of time. Get to the point, get the deal done, get out, that was his creed. At least, it had been until Bella had come here.
"So tell me about the pastry shop," he said, diverting his thoughts and the direction of the conversation to something safe. "When did pushing calories on your hometown become business, as well as pleasure?"
"About four and a half years ago. I'd been planning to open it in Fielding, but then I met Rick."
Emily fussed a little and Michael reached over, took the cart's handle and began to rock it back and forth. "And he didn't want you to work?"
She nodded, her gaze shifting from his hand on the cart back to him. "Rick really didn't want a wife who worked," she said. "But whenever I brought dessert to a social event or to a neighbor, they raved and raved."
"I bet they did." He rubbed a hand over his jaw. "I remember you making something pretty special for your dad and me every Sunday morning."
"What was that?"
"You don't remember?" He felt almost as disappointed as he was pretending to be.
She smiled softly. "I must be getting a little tired."
He stood up, concerned. "Of course you are. How about I walk you back to your room?" It was time for her to rest and time for him to say good-night, go upstairs and work, then wait for her to fall asleep and hope that tomorrow the sun would come out.
Emily was sleeping in her cradle on wheels by the time they reached the bedroom door. Bella turned to him and smiled. "I know I'm saying this a lot, but thanks. Thanks for taking such good care of us and being such a good friend."
He nodded even as that razor-sharp word plunged into his gut.
And to make matters worse, Bella stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. A soft peck, meant for a friend, but it reached him, deep down. And he couldn't be stopped.
His arm snaked around her waist and he pulled her close. Her eyes locked with his and he stared at her mouth like the hungry wolf he was.
"Are you going to kiss me?" she whispered, her breath warm and sweet.
"Would you stop me if I did?"
She shook her head. "No."
A growl escaped his throat as he bent his head and eased her into a series of soft kisses, gentle kisses. But she was no fragile flower. Pressing her tender breasts lightly against his chest, she parted her lips, urging him, welcoming him into her warmth. His pulse smacked against the base of his throat as he tasted, his tongue flicking, moving to a rhythm they created together.
Sweet as honey. He knew she'd taste like that.
"Michael," she breathed as she wrapped her arms around his neck and deepened the kiss.
Her saying his name seemed to drag him back from the brink. Somewhere in the cavern of his mind, he knew this was trouble. He knew he'd better back off before he welcomed that trouble with open arms.
With every ounce of determination he possessed, he dropped his ravenous grip on her waist and stepped back. "I'm sorry, Bella."
Her eyes glowed liquid blue. "I'm not."
Startled at her honesty, it took him a moment to recover. But he did. He had to. "That can't happen again. And I won't let it."
Her jaw quivered with frustration. "Why is that?"
"I don't want you getting involved with me."
"So you're protecting me from you, is that it?"
"In a sense."
Her jaw went tight. "I'm a grown-up, Michael. No longer thirteen and no longer in need of protection." She stared at him, trying to read his eyes. "That's it, isn't it? You don't see me as a woman."
Michael almost laughed at her suggestion. He wanted to tell her that he saw her as every inch a woman. He wanted to tell her he couldn't stop staring at her mouth, pink from his kiss. But what point was there in telling her either? She wasn't for him. She was going to be gone in a day or two and to say anything more or do anything more would be leading her down a pointless path.
"Good night, Bella," he muttered as he turned around and headed down the hall.
But it wasn't really good-night, he thought as he heard the bedroom door shut behind him. Not for him, anyway. As soon as she fell asleep, he'd be back at his seat by the fire, back to watching over his charges—and back to wanting more of what he'd just tasted, more than he would ever allow himself to have.
* * *
Chapter 5
« ^ »
Five days later the lines were still down and the snow still hadn't let up.
And neither had the impact of that good-night kiss on Isabella's mind and heart.
Even now as she stood at the stove making doughnuts, she wondered what part of her mind had allowed her to start that madness—for she had started it. But how could she have known that her simple thank-you kiss would turn so heated?
Maybe because she'd wanted it to.
But look where her want had gotten her. A state of massive confusion.
She walked over to the makeshift cradle that held her sleeping daughter and kissed her softly on the cheek. Emily looked so content, curled up with her blanket in the basket that Michael had made for her.
Michael. She wished she could figure him out. Why had he pulled away from her? Was it Emily? Or was it that he couldn't let down his guard, move away from his past, forget about protecting her and see her as a woman? Had his compliments at dinner been just a ploy to boost her confidence?
The scent of dough turning swiftly into fragrant doughnut wafted through the air. As she plucked the sweet rolls from the hot oil and placed them on a paper towel, she was reminded again of the heat that lay just below the surface of that kiss she and Michael had shared.
He must feel something for her. After all, he still slept in her room every night. He crept in around 1:00 a.m., planted himself in that chair and pretended to be asleep as she fed her child. And every morning when she awoke he was gone.
He had pretty much avoided her during the day, except for the encyclopedia-inspired questions and suggestions about after-care for her and Emily. Concern, but with little emotion.
While time had moved slowly, she'd made use of the kitchen, cooking him meals and sending them up to him on the elevator. True, he'd always come to thank her, but then he'd disappear again. The only variation in that routine was when he offered to take Emily with him to give Isabella a break.
She appreciated his generosity with his time, but couldn't help wishing that he would open up his heart, as well.
"You're going to draw the whole town up here on snowmobiles with that smell."
She turned at the gruff baritone and her breath caught in her throat. He looked so handsome, freshly shaven, hair wet from the shower, dressed in easy, modern black. So he'd finally emerged, she mused. They always seemed to have an enjoyable time together when he let his guard down. Perhaps that was why he tried to avoid her.
As he paused by Emily's cradle and smiled down at the infant, Isabella wondered if she was given the opportunity, would she be able to help to heal the deep, hidden wounds and complicated past of this
man?
"Draw the whole town, huh?" Isabella said, turning around and returning to her task. "Wow, that's the power of a simple doughnut."
She heard him walk toward her, felt him behind her. "They look far from simple, Bella."
As he stood behind her, peering over her shoulder, she couldn't stop herself from breathing him in. Spicy, woodsy and pure male.
She dunked a hot doughnut in the chocolate sauce she'd made. "I'm trying them out as a new recipe for the bakery," she said, even though this was no new recipe at all. In fact, it was that special treat Michael had given her a hard time about not remembering the night they'd…
Well, anyway, she'd never forgotten. She'd made them so often she knew the recipe backward and forward. And every time she had, she'd thought of him.
"You know," she began, "I'd love an opinion on these."
"Looking for a taste tester?"
She shivered as his warm breath swept over her neck. "Something like that." She glanced over her shoulder. "If you can spare some time."
His gaze darkened. "I think I have a few minutes." Why did he have to look so sexy? And why couldn't she stop being affected by him?
"Why don't you go sit down at the table?" she said quickly.
He hesitated, his eyes softening. "You've been cooking for me for days. You must be tired. I really should be making breakfast for you."
She shook her head. "Never thought I'd say it, but I don't really like being waited on." Besides, she liked cooking for him, but she wasn't about to reveal that little truth. Doughnuts bubbled in the oil and she went back to work, calling over her shoulder, "Take a seat and I'll bring them to you."
"You made coffee, too." He sounded pleased. She waved a hand at him. "It was simple. I just said, 'Coffee.' I'm really getting the hang of everything around here." Just in time to leave, she thought as she put a few warm chocolate-dipped doughnuts on a plate and brought them to him.
He glanced up. "You're not having any?" She cocked her head to the side and grinned. "I don't like to eat with anyone."
Amusement lit his eyes. "That's my line."
"Nope. Your line is 'This is one good doughnut,'" she said, returning to the stove.
Out of respect, she kept her back to him as he ate. At last he sighed and said, "Nope. Not good."
She whirled around, her heart on the floor. "What do you mean? What's wrong with them?"
"They're not good, Bella." He leaned back in his chair. "They're great. Even better than I remember."
She tossed a dish towel at him. "You jerk."
He caught the towel and grinned. "Gotcha."
This gruff, teasing side of him was new and as potentially addictive as the chocolate that lingered on the side of his mouth. Impulsively she walked over to him and extended a hand toward his face. "You've got—"
"What?"
"A little chocolate…" She touched the side of his mouth just as his hand clamped over her fingers.
They stayed like that for a moment, their eyes locked, heat passing from his fingers to hers. She needed to let go, look anywhere but in those wolf eyes that pinned her where she stood.
She glanced up, then sucked in a breath. "The snow's stopped."
He released her and turned around. "What?"
"The snow. It's stopped."
For the next fifteen minutes, they remained in the kitchen, silent as two sentries, watching the gray bales of cotton in the sky part and allow the early November sun, insistent on being seen, to needle through.
Michael's words broke both the silence and the five-day illusion of domesticity. "By noon tomorrow, the roads will be clear."
Isabella nodded, her throat tight. "And Emily and I will be going home."
He didn't answer. He just watched as a beam of sunlight slowly crawled its way across the kitchen tiles.
*
"The Wulf" paced, only partly aware of the pain shooting down his thigh as he stalked across the hardwood floors of his den the following day.
The roads had been cleared and Bella had left closer to two in the afternoon, but Michael wasn't going to quibble about being off by a couple of hours. It was enough that she and Emily were gone.
Debt—paid in full.
He shoved a hand through his hair. He should've felt relieved to be rid of them. After all, they'd interrupted his life and his solitude. But relieved wasn't what he felt when, just an hour ago, Thomas Pinta had come to the house. The doctor had examined Bella and Emily thoroughly, deemed them healthy, then took them back into town with him to their new home.
No, not relieved. Concerned was more like it.
Michael tossed a sheet of paper onto his desk. He was up to his ears in the remote relay voice-command system that he'd already sold on his recent trip to L.A. That was where his mind should have been. On the groundbreaking software that was going to make him a lot of money. Or on the real reason he'd gotten into this racket in the first place: to help people live easier, safer lives.
It was his biggest project to date. It was due in six weeks and it would be delivered in six weeks.
And he couldn't concentrate worth a damn.
He hadn't gotten that kiss out of his mind or the need to feel and taste her again from his soul. And tonight, when he went to that now empty room and sat in his chair by the fire, he knew he'd miss the closeness and the sweet sound of Bella breast-feeding Emily.
How could he expect to concentrate when he had no idea if Bella and her baby were safe? What if another storm came and she was still cleaning the place? What if the cleaning crew couldn't make it out of St. Cloud for a few more days? He'd never forgive himself if something happened and he wasn't there to help and protect them.
He stalked out of his office and into the elevator. Maybe he'd just run into town and check on them, bring Emily's crib and a set of his long-range communication devices. Then, if she needed him, she could reach him right away no matter what the weather.
That should ease his mind and allow him to get back to business, he thought as he grabbed his coat and headed to the garage.
*
At least they had heat, Isabella thought as she glanced around the dusty apartment. Getting this place together was going to take at least a week, and there was nowhere else for them to stay in the meantime—the hotel was full.
She hadn't thought her apartment would be this bad. Shoot, she hadn't thought about anything except getting away from the man who made her knees turn to jelly and her heart fill with longing. An impractical reason for bolting, but around Michael… So off she'd gone with Doc Pinta.
The kindly old man had taken her first to the cemetery to see her father, then to the general store to get diapers and other supplies for baby and home. With sympathy in his tone, the doctor had told her that he wished he could offer her and Emily a room at his home, but with no one to help her until the holidays, Mrs. Dalton was staying with him, recuperating from the fall on her hip.
Trying to appear confident, Isabella had thanked him for his thoughtfulness and let him know that she had calls in to a few of her old high-school friends.
But that was a lie. She hadn't called any of her friends. Not Connie the redhead Rickford or meddling Molly or pint-size Wendy. She just couldn't. Not yet. Not with the past so unexplained.
When she'd first moved to Chicago, her friends had tried to call her for months, but Rick had been adamant about cutting off all ties to the past. Back then, she hadn't cared that his behavior was controlling, she'd just wanted the marriage to work, so she'd told herself that he just wanted to start a new life with her. But that dream had quickly faded. After he'd died, Isabella had wanted to call, wanted to write, but she'd been afraid that her friends wouldn't forgive her. So she'd decided to wait until she'd returned to Fielding to explain things.
Speaking to each of them in person was the right thing to do. But after being estranged for so long, the first round of communication couldn't be asking for a place to stay.
She needed to solve this
mess on her own.
"This place looks likes a train wreck."
Isabella whirled around to see Michael standing in the doorway of her apartment, looking like a Wall Street executive in a long black wool coat, expensive leather boots peeking out from beneath the hem of black pants. The frown lines around his mouth deepened as he glanced around the place. Then Emily began to fuss, letting out little bleats of distress that caught his attention.
"Hello, princess," he said, walking into the room and automatically reaching for her.
Isabella's heart lurched. She hadn't expected to see him until the spring thaw—until she'd had time to stop missing him. But no matter what she felt, she couldn't halt the smile that broke out on her face. "So what're you doing down here in the flatlands?" It was strange, but with him around, the mountain of work didn't seem as much like Pike's Peak as it had a moment ago.
"Seeing if you needed any help," he said, expertly cradling a now serene Emily against one strong arm. "And it looks as though you do."
"We're doing just fine. We'll get this place together in no time."
He didn't dispute that, but merely said, "I hear the hotel is full because of the storm."
That piece of news sounded even worse the second time around. "That what you hear?"
He nodded.
Life and the weather had thrown her a curve ball. But over the past eight months she'd grown strong enough to catch it, and without a mitt if she had to.
"I have the newspaper. I'm expecting to find a room for rent by the end of the day." She could hope, couldn't she?
His mouth was drawn into a thin line, his brow furrowed. "Didn't anyone ever teach you not to expect anything?"
She chuckled. "Is that dreadful moral support the only kind of help you're offering?"
"No. This is." With his free hand, he took a set of keys out of his coat pocket and tossed them to her.
"What's this?"
"That room you were looking for."
She glanced at the keys, then back up at him. "You need a place to stay while you're getting this one together, right?" he asked as he looked down at Emily. The little girl's gaze was fixed on him.