E llie awoke slowly, stretching and enjoying the smooth feel of the sheets along her bare skin. Was she really sleeping, cramped in her car and dreaming? Or was she awake and the big warm bed and the crackling warmth of a fire real?
A hard slash of sleet on the windows tore her from sleep. She sat up, already fearing for Tanya—who wasn’t anywhere near. Ellie could feel the bone-chilling fear seeping into her, despite the warmth of the featherbed. For six months, she’d been running to keep Tanya safe, and now—
Mikhail Stepanov was there. On top of the coverlet and sleeping beside her, Mikhail’s arm crossed her lower stomach. His big hand had curled possessively on her hip.
Ellie jerked the comforter up to her throat and shook her head slightly, trying to dislodge the nightmare. Still, Mikhail lay big and solid beside her in the high sturdy bed, his meticulous dress shirt opened halfway down his chest, his long legs sheathed in slacks, his feet bare. Stubble was beginning to darken his jaw, and he did not look civilized at all, not with the firelight flickering over that hair on his chest, those tousled dark waves.
She breathed quietly, trying to bridge the unsteady gap between deep sleep and Mikhail in a bed beside her. Her bare skin and the lacy white drift of cloth tossed on a sturdy bedside table told her that she was wearing only briefs. She summed up the situation: She was in bed with Mikhail, wearing very little. And she was very much awake.
One more heartbeat and Ellie closed her eyes in relief; Tanya was safe, sleeping at Fadey Stepanov’s house.
When she opened her eyes again, the bold sturdy furniture in the room reminded her that this was the Stepanov showroom. In the dim light, the bold, almost primitive style was unmistakable. Behind a huge brass fireguard, a fire blazed, warming and lighting the room, catching the textures of cloth and wood and dancing on the metal. Above the massive stone fireplace, a thick mantel of smoothly polished walnut wood bore pictures in gleaming assorted frames. Mikhail’s business jacket and tie were meticulously placed over the back of one of the matching big wood chairs near the fire. His highly polished shoes gleamed on the woven rug circling the chairs, and pottery marked with the Amoteh’s strawberry logo sat on a food tray.
Brochures gleamed on the long woven scarlet runner crossing a bold dining room table with matching chairs. The rich colors of cloth, purple and red, were almost savage, cutting across the dark wood. The thick slabs of blood-red cushions softened the bold, blocky style. The black throw pillows had been crushed, suggesting that Mikhail had sat there for a time.
The big hand on her hip caressed, and Ellie watched, frozen and fascinated, as Mikhail’s fingers opened and dug into the lush purple material—and pressed deep to lock onto her flesh.
In that moment, she knew that whatever Mikhail wanted, he would possess and keep.
He breathed heavily, just that once, and her skin prickled in warning. Mikhail sharp and untouchable in a business suit was one thing; this man was another.
This aroused man, she corrected as her eyes swept down his body and the coastal wind slashed the rain against the windows. The sound of wind and rain was almost as primitive as Mikhail looked now.
She’d felt this way before with Mikhail, but never so sharply. The stirring within her was that of a huntress finding exactly what she wanted and pitting herself against a man in the most elemental of ways, stripping away all else and battling until she had filled whatever need drove her. As a natural competitor, she wanted to throw herself at him, nothing withheld, she was overwhelmed by that very irritating physical need to dominate Mikhail’s arrogance.
And yet Ellie feared what would happen if ever they really clashed, because Mikhail was definitely up to any battles.
Her senses prickled, every nerve in her body went taut and she looked up quickly. Those drowsy green eyes were watching her, those of a predator, and his voice was deep and slow, like that of a sleepy lover. “It’s three o’clock. I called my parents. They know you’re not coming back tonight. Go back to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”
Mikhail’s image now didn’t suit her “Ice Man” label for him. That he was a man now and not encased in ice and steel terrified her. He looked as if she could turn to him and—
Ellie’s protective instincts leaped; she’d learned not to trust her softer instincts as a woman. “I’m not sleeping in this bed with you, and you had no right to undress me.”
He sighed heavily and slid his hand from her to place it with the other behind his head. His expression was that of drowsy interest and humor. “You’re not completely undressed. You’re wearing briefs. Beige, I think, cut high on the thigh. Cotton, not lace. One sizable hole on the left cheek. And I didn’t touch you.”
She tugged the coverlet to raise it over her bare shoulders, but Mikhail’s weight declined the favor. She refused to ask, choosing a demand to cover her uncertainty. “Move…off…this bed.”
Mikhail’s eyebrows rose slightly, mocking her. They both knew she was at the disadvantage, and not in any position to order him. He spoke too softly, his deep voice grating on her senses. “I want to get to the bottom of this, why you’re here. Now. Tonight. Do we talk here, or by the fire while you eat, or are you going back to sleep?”
“How did I get undressed then? Exactly how do you know what briefs I’m wearing?” she pressed furiously, humiliated that she had exposed her body to him. The purchase of new underwear wasn’t possible, and she didn’t like Mikhail seeing how destitute she had become. Despite what he thought of her, only her ex-husband had seen her undressed and even then, she’d been shy and self-protective—wary of exposure and criticism.
Was that pleasure in the slight curve of his hard mouth? “I was resting by the fire, minding my own business, with a little paperwork and some food, when you threw back the covers, stood and undressed. Your clothes are right where you dropped and threw them. I’m not your maid.”
She stared at him, and he reached to press a fingertip beneath her jaw, lifting slightly. “You can close your mouth now.”
That dark gaze was roaming over her mussed hair, her face unshielded by cosmetics, and lower to her mouth and still lower, over her bare shoulders. Mikhail was studying her like a man interested in her as a woman. She shivered and realized that color was slowly rising in her cheeks. Ellie turned away, not wanting him to see so deeply inside her, to know that intense male assessment could terrify her.
The bed jarred as Mikhail suddenly stood up. He impatiently tore off his shirt as if no longer interested in her, tossing it onto the bed. “Put this on. We’re not going anywhere tonight and Tanya is safe and sleeping. Since you are awake, now is the best time to talk without interruption. Come by the fire and eat.”
There was the slightest roughness to his voice, the inherited trace of Fadey’s Russian accent, as Mikhail turned his back to her. He walked to the fire, crouching to prod it into a blaze.
Ellie slid into his shirt, buttoning it firmly. When she began to roll up the sleeves, she caught his scent—underlying the soap and starch of the cloth, his personal scent warned and stormed around her. Wary of this new Mikhail, she watched the movements of his powerful shoulders, the firelight gleaming on them. He stood, hands on hips, watching the fire, a big powerful man who held his family…and his precious resort safe.
Ellie smoothed the large shirt around her. Maybe it was just her fantasy, her hope, her desperation, but just wearing Mikhail’s shirt made her feel safer.
He
