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.
Two
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 ironwill, eating away at his resolve, and he 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.
