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 walk 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
