“You live by yourself in a home with two bedrooms and two baths?”
“This was my parents’ home. It was built for us, I mean my parents and me. They’re gone now. They left it to me. I’ve stayed in my old room. Theirs is pretty much the same as when they... left. That will be where you will sleep. This way.”
She headed for the hallway, but halted as Nicholas stayed to peruse the books that lined the shelves of one wall of her living room. He picked up one, turned the cover and read inside. It was one of her father’s books. Nicholas’s scrutiny was brief. He closed the book and returned it to the shelf.
Once again she started down the hall. Once again she stopped as Nicholas failed to follow. This time he’d detoured into the kitchen, flipped on the light and walked around, fingering the pine cabinets and the copper kettles hanging from their pegs. He picked up one of the hand-crocheted pot holders sitting on the counter. Then he looked through the glass of the maple hutch at her mother’s almost complete set of china. Next he opened a drawer and fingered the silverware inside.
Noel glanced at her watch with impatience. Well, he had a right to be curious, she supposed. Although it was past midnight, and she did have to get up and go to work tomorrow.
Finally, he closed the drawer and turned toward her.
“The house feels warm but there is no fire in the fireplace.”
“Forced air heating. I keep the thermostat at sixty-five. The fireplace insert is only for emergencies. I’ll show you to your bedroom now.”
She turned and led the way down the hall. He didn’t crowd her, but she could feel him behind her nonetheless. A solid wall of warmth that generated pure heat and pure male.
Damn, those irritating little thrills kept sneaking up her spine. She opened the bedroom door.
Ever since her parents’ deaths, their bedroom had felt rather big and empty to Noel. But as Nicholas entered it that night, she had the curious feeling that the room had shrunk in size. Even the king-size bed in its center seemed small next to the enormous man who eyed the earth tones of its handmade quilt.
She tried to see the room for the first time, as he might be seeing it now: the wide pine floorboards protected by her mother’s hand-looped rugs; the whimsical, hand-painted bluebell wallpaper; the set of mullioned windows strategically placed to allow her parents to watch the changing seasons on the surface of the pond outside; the “impractical skylight” that her father had insisted be built into the pitched roof so they could awaken to the light of Montana’s “big skies” every morning.
Nicholas stepped up to the maple bureau and removed a picture of a smiling couple carrying a small, red-haired girl of about six, whose own smile was missing a couple of front teeth. His index finger traced over each face before he turned to her.
“Your parents and you?”
“Yes.”
“When did they die?”
“Eight years ago. Next February.”
“How?”
“They went ice-skating up at the big pond on the other end of the valley. The temperature rose unexpectedly. The ice proved too thin. They fell through. No one was around to help. They...never got out.”
He let a moment of silence pass before he returned the picture to the dresser. After a cursory look inside the closet, he stepped completely out of sight, into the bathroom.
Noel stood waiting, with Mistletoe at her heels. She snatched another look at her watch.
Nicholas came into view again a moment later, shaking his head. “This is the ‘shack’ your grandfather spoke of burning for firewood this winter?”
“He didn’t really mean that. He, well, he was just trying to make a point. It’s a bit complicated. We can go into it another time. I’m sure you must be tired. If you need any help bringing in your things from the truck, I could—”
“I do not need any help. I am not tired. I would like to see the rest of your home.”
“Let’s do it by daylight. You’ll be able to see it better then.”
“So, we will talk, instead.”
“Talk?”
“Yes. Please to sit here. On the bed.”
Noel licked her lips nervously as she looked at the large man with the stone face standing in the middle of her parents’ bedroom—an alien dropped so suddenly into the middle of her life. He was watching her with those intense, dark eyes.
The enormity of the decisions she had made so quickly over the last two days hit her then, hard and fast. This man, this stranger, was her husband. And she was alone with him. On their wedding night. In his bedroom. They were miles from anywhere, anyone. What’s more, he was telling her to sit on his bed. To talk? And how often had she heard that line before. Dear heaven, if she were to call out for help, no one would hear her.
Now what? Her eyes shot hopefully to Mistletoe, standing by her side. He was wagging his tail at this dark, foreboding stranger. Lickety-split. His little head tilting in curiosity.
Great. Some help he’d be.
“It is all right,” Nicholas’s bearlike growl assured with its contrasting, remote politeness. “I am a man of honor. I have given you my word.”
She looked up at him, almost embarrassed at what she had been thinking and at what must have shown on her face because of those thoughts. She let out a slow, relieved breath.
How could she have doubted this man? After all, he was the one willing to go back to Moscow and be a street cleaner rather than make false promises. If there ever was a man who would keep his word about maintaining this marriage on a platonic basis, it was Dr. Nicholas Baranov.
Still, her heart beat too strongly every second she remained in this room with him, under the scrutiny and power of his penetrating gaze.
She rubbed her hands together nervously. “Look, we’ll have to postpone this talk until tomorrow. I’m dead on my feet.”
His eyes swept to her shoes. “Dead...feet?”
“An expression. Just means I’m very tired. It’s way past my bedtime. And I have to leave early for work tomorrow, so if I don’t see you before I go—”
“You will see me. I, also, rise early. We must speak about many important things.”
Noel backed out of the room. “Right. Tomorrow. Rest well, Nicholas.”
“Spakoynap Nochi, Noel.”
The growly Russian words echoed through Noel’s ears, setting off strange licks of heat in her belly. Noel hurried down the hall and into her room and closed the door behind her and Mistletoe, all the time wondering why her heart was beating just a bit too fast and her breath was proving just a little too hard to catch.
She was already in bed, when she heard Nicholas return to the room on the other side of the wall. Mistletoe jumped onto the bed and lay beside her on top of her daisy-splashed comforter. She stroked his head as she listened to the sounds coming from the man in the next bedroom. The opening and closing of the dresser, the closet door. The water running in the bathroom sink.
She hugged her knees to her chest in thought. As she’d made up the bed that morning, she had begun to resent anew this husband her grandfather was foisting on her as she imagined him taking over her parents’ room, touching their furniture, their things.
But now she found a strange comfort in his sounds. Life had returned to their room that had sat silent for so long.
She liked the way he had picked up the picture of her parents and herself, too, and how he had run his thumb gently over their smiles. There was understanding in that touch—an understanding of loss and loneliness that could only have come from personal experience.
Personal experience?
She released her knees, lay back and rested her head against her pillow as Mistletoe snuggled up against her. Her eyes remained open in the pitch-dark room as she tried to imagine Dr. Nicholas Baranov having had such experiences, succumbing to such emotions.
No. Not him. He was so strong. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. A man in total mastery of himself. Foreboding. Awesome.
Yet there was that co
ntrasting, surprising subtle sense of humor, too. And that deep, resonant laugh that had erupted so spontaneously. She could still feel the vibrating echo of it humming in her blood.
She heard the small squeak of the springs as he lay on the bed where her parents had rested so many years in each other’s arms. Sudden, unbidden tears formed in her eyes, complicated tears of a loss accepted, yet still remembered and mourned. Her emotions seemed so close to the surface tonight. So bare.
It was the wedding, of course. Even their flippant vows had somehow sounded hallowed within that beautifully decorated hall her grandfather had gone to such care to make so right—for her.
He had given Nicholas her grandmother’s ring to put on her finger, too. She had been surprised and touched to see it, just as he, no doubt, knew she would be. That sly, sweet old schemer.
Yes, the wedding and reception had been far too special. Nicholas had looked far too handsome in that tuxedo, too. All of Midwater’s single women had ogled him in open appreciation.
Yet he seemed not to have noticed. He had watched her most of the evening. That had been special, too. Feeling his eyes.
She could still feel the heat of his hands as he led her in that waltz. Who would have thought that a nuclear physicist who had also been a Siberian fisherman and a Moscow street cleaner could waltz?
Dr. Nicholas Baranov was proving very unexpected—in so many ways. And, if this humming he had set in her blood tonight was any indication, not nearly so harmless as she’d assured herself only moments before. No, not nearly so harmless.
Who was this mysterious, dark man?
Maybe, just maybe, a little voice warned her, she should stifle her rampant curiosity for once and not try to find out.
* * *
NICHOLAS DID NOT sleep well. He dozed for a few minutes only to awake again. He told himself it was because of the new surroundings, the soft, unfamiliar bed that felt like a pillow beneath his body. But new surroundings and a similarly soft bed had not kept him awake at Winsome’s ranch the night before.
He knew it was Noel who kept him awake tonight. He could not get the image of her out of his mind, the feel of her out of his hands, the very real sense of her lying asleep in the next bedroom out of his consciousness.
He told himself it was because he was a man and she was a woman—a beautiful woman. He told himself that these feelings were to be expected.
Still, he had not expected them. For there had been beautiful women after his heart had died. Many beautiful women. And he had been able to ignore them all.
Why not this woman?
He looked over at the illuminated hands of the clock on the nightstand. Five colon two zero. Twenty minutes of the sixth hour. Only in English it would translate to twenty minutes after the fifth. He still thought in Russian. Probably, he always would. He wrapped his hands under his head and gazed up at the quarter moon captured within the frame of the skylight.
What a wonderful room this was where her parents had slept. Protected from the elements, yet still seemingly a part of the openness of the valley surrounding it. The warm, intimate simplicity of its decor gave off a glow of love. He could almost feel how big the hearts had been that came to this bed each night to lie in each other’s arms. Maybe even as big as Russian hearts. He would have liked to have known these people.
But he would only know them through this house and through their daughter—the woman who was now his wife.
“Looks like our little Noel has latched onto a no-backing-down kind of man this time,” Kurt Haag’s voice said again in his head.
“Now, how does she manage to latch onto all the good-looking guys?” Berna Vane’s voice taunted.
It was no use. Nicholas could no longer even doze. He needed physical activity to tire his taut muscles, to drain his mind of those most unwelcome, welling thoughts.
He got out of bed slowly, quietly. Trying to keep that one squeaky mattress spring from disturbing her.
His bare feet padded noiselessly on the carpet, down the hall and through the living room. He opened the front door and stepped outside quickly, silently closing it behind him.
He inhaled deeply. Ah, the cold air in his lungs, against his skin; the snow wiggling through his toes. Yes, this biting, exhilarating cold was good. He would head toward the east where the sun would rise. He would race to greet it. He set off at a fast lope that increased with each stride as his muscles warmed in gratitude to the exercise.
* * *
NOEL YAWNED and stretched leisurely, but then got quite a start when she glanced over at the clock. She groaned.
“Oh, no. Six forty-five! Mistletoe, why didn’t you wake me?”
Mistletoe jumped off the bed and wagged his tail, letting out a happy bark. Noel swung her legs over the bed, still half-asleep.
“Considering the time, I guess I’d better let you out for your morning constitutional before I hop into the shower. Come on, cutie.”
Noel shoved her feet into her slippers, snatched up her white terry-cloth robe and wrapped it around her as she headed for her bedroom door. When she opened it and stepped into the hall with Mistletoe on her heels, she paused to listen for sounds behind her guest’s door. Nothing.
She eased past as quietly as she could and made her way to the front door. She let Mistletoe out and padded sleepily back to her room to begin her morning routine. Thirty minutes later, showered and dressed and nearly awake, she stepped into the hall. She paused once again outside Nicholas’s room. Still no sounds.
Well, if even the shower water rattling through the noisy pipes hadn’t awakened him, he must be tired, indeed. Which was certainly understandable, Noel thought as she yawned. He was from several time zones away. And it had been a late night. If she didn’t have to go to work, she’d probably still be sleeping, too.
Winter. It could be so starkly beautiful, but the short dark days took their toll. An ancient memory as old as the earth always urged her to eat more, sleep more, slow down, hibernate. It was always during winter that she began drinking coffee again for the buzz with which to combat the energy being sapped by the cold, slow, sleepy season.
Thank heavens for Christmas. For its wake-up call of lights and sparkle. For the warmth of its joy and jubilation.
Noel made her way into the kitchen and quickly and efficiently went about her daily coffee-making routine.
Mistletoe barked. She walked over to the front door still yawning and opened it to let him in, bracing herself against the cold blast of freezing air.
But Mistletoe wasn’t there. Strange. Noel’s eyes darted around. Finally, she spied the little dog standing at the edge of her snowbound yard barking at something on the distant horizon, something silhouetted in the faint strands of early-morning light.
Noel strained to see what it was. The vision was a mere streak at first, flying across the snow-covered ridge. Noel blinked, certain she must be seeing things. Then blinked again. To no avail—Nicholas Baranov did not disappear.
Rather, with every stride, he grew larger and more real. He ran with the strength and ease of the wild things from the woods, his head thrown back, his black hair flying, his feet kicking up snow, his enormous chest and arms and legs pumping and gleaming with perspiration, his entire body absolutely, totally, magnificently...nude.
Noel’s mouth fell open. And she stared. At all of him—from the incredible expanse of those thick shoulders, to the mat of black curls on his chest, to their V-line over a rock-hard stomach, right down to the forest of black hair and the steel-solid naked flesh of his thighs...and everything so well-endowed between them. In pure feminine appreciation and awe she stared at the imposing symphony of magnificent male muscle and flesh being played at full measure right before her eyes.
Wow.
It took her at least twenty seconds to latch onto even one coherent thought. Her jaw clamped shut with the impact of that thought.
Damn, he’s coming right toward me!
Not even the icy morning air could cool h
er red-hot cheeks. She slammed the door. Ran into the kitchen. Splashed some freezing well water on her face. Then gripped the tile counter and kept her back resolutely turned toward the front door as she tried to hush the blood beating in her ears.
She heard the front door open and close. Every muscle in her body tensed. She didn’t know what she expected, but when something nudged the back of her leg, she jumped at least a foot off the stone floor of her country kitchen and whipped around, her heart fluttering within her breast like a trapped wild bird.
But Nicholas was nowhere in sight. It was Mistletoe who had bumped her and who now cocked his head questioningly at her as his tail waved in eager sweeps for his breakfast.
The sounds of running water from Nicholas’s shower reached her ears. Noel sank back against the kitchen counter, her spine a mass of jelly, her knees buckling beneath her. She rested her hand on her chest, still feeling the rapid beat against her rib cage. Well, one thing was certain. She wasn’t going to need any coffee to wake her up this morning.
“Not even married twenty-four hours to this guy and I think he’s already given me a heart attack. Can you believe it? Running naked in the snow. In ten-degree weather. He’s mad, Mistletoe. Absolutely mad. Maybe you and I should head for the hills. Who knows what this crazy Russian will do next?”
* * *
“YOU WANT to do what?”
Nicholas faced his grandfather-in-law across the older man’s impressive desk. Winsome had looked surprised, suspicious and somewhat distressed to see his grandson-in-law so early on the morning after his wedding. His discomfort seemed to grow now that he had found out why Nicholas had come.
“I do not understand why my words evoke such a negative response.”
Winsome shook his head. “Nicholas, my boy, our West isn’t quite so wild that you can ride a horse to an interview at the national engineering lab in Idaho.”
“You have arranged for my social security number. You have kindly set up the interview with their personnel office for me tomorrow. It is up to me to find transportation to get there.”
“Transportation is not a problem. I have a Cadillac, a Porsche and a new Chevrolet Suburban, all sitting out in the garage. Just say the word and any one of them is yours.”
The Gift-Wrapped Groom Page 8