nodded. “I’ll take care of her, Thomas.”
An unfamiliar tug of awareness spread through Isabella at that simple promise. She grabbed for the doctor’s hand. “I don’t want to put anyone out. I could go with you. The hotel is right on the—”
Doc Pinta stood up. “No, no. The snow has let up quite a bit, but it’s getting colder. I don’t want you picking up another chill. Not in your condition.”
“She’ll stay here,” Michael stated firmly. “I’ll move my things into the guest room.”
Isabella felt her cheeks warm as she once again looked around the room. This time she noted several personal items: the silver watch that her father had given Michael for his sixteenth birthday on the nightstand, a book about solar-powered homes on a bench, aboriginal paintings on the walls and framed photographs on the mantel, each depicting what she imagined were Michael’s “children”—the high-tech interiors of cars, boats and houses.
This was his room, his bed.
Her pulse stumbled and the room suddenly compressed into a sort of tunnel with Michael Wulf at the end. Lord, she must have caught more than a chill. Only a fever could make her childish crush seem in danger of turning into a full-fledged, grown-up one. She was in Fielding to start a new life, create a future for herself and her child, not return to teenage dreams from the past.
“I really can’t stay here,” Isabella said, hearing the ring of panic in her voice. How could she sleep in his bed, against his pillows, surrounded by the scent of him? “I need to be at my place. I have a cleaning crew coming from St. Cloud to help me get everything—”
“They won’t make it out in weather like this, Isabella.” Doc Pinta reached down and gave her hand a squeeze. “What you need to do is calm down. You’re in no shape tonight to brave the elements. It’s not good for the baby.” He turned to Michael. “If anything changes, please call me.”
Michael nodded. “Of course.”
“You and that baby get some rest, young lady.” Doc Pinta left the room, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll see you first thing in the morning.”
An unwelcome cloud of anxiety floated in the air just above Isabella’s heart as she watched the doctor go—leaving her alone with the subject of her teenage dreams.
Dressed in simple but expensive black, Michael crossed to the bed, his limp more pronounced than she remembered. But that minor limitation hardly diminished his striking appearance and the commanding manner that burned around him like a living, breathing thing.
Up close he was even more fiercely handsome than she remembered. Dark, hooded eyes, sensual mouth, olive skin—he nearly took her breath away. He’d grown, well over six feet now with the body of a gladiator. Obviously his impediment hadn’t stopped him from staying fit, she mused as a twinge of pain erupted in her lower back.
But though Michael had grown in stature and appearance, Isabella could feel the oppressive heat of the anger and the resentment he still carried. A weighty burden he looked unlikely to discard anytime soon.
“I want you to know that I really appreciate your putting me up,” she told him. “I won’t be a bother, I promise.”
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 he 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
