Instinctive Male

With a sinking feeling and mental warnings flashing in the softly lit corridor, Mikhail eased her gently into the Stepanov Furniture display room and closed the heavy door. Ellie seemed to sink to the massive bed created by Fadey. With shoulders slumped, she brushed her hands wearily against her face. In the next moment, as though she feared he would see too much, she was on her feet, standing taut as if held upright by strings. She smiled too brightly. “Got to go. Talk with you in the morning.”

He didn’t trust her. Was this a new act? Something she’d devised to mock him?

Mikhail could feel the tension ripping through her like electricity. From those shadows beneath her eyes, he surmised that whatever was bothering her had taken its toll. He placed a hand on her shoulder and eased her back down to sit on the bed. “Talk now.”

“I don’t want to talk now,” Ellie said bluntly, tiredly. “I’m not up to fighting with you. Give me a break, will you?”

“No. Talk…now.”

She scrubbed her hands over her face, and Mikhail noted the absence of her usual perfect but light cosmetics—no mascara, no glossy, sexy lips. His gaze ripped down her body, and found, for the first time, the missing button on the leather jacket, the slightly frayed collar of the sweater, the worn seams of her jeans and her scuffed boots.

Ellie noted his closer inspection and turned her face away. “I’m not at my best,” she admitted shakily and sank back down on the bed. “I’m just so tired.”

What could have made her swallow her pride and come to him? Whose child had she borne…or otherwise acquired? Had the man deserted them? Mikhail folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the sturdy walnut armoire he had helped to build. “Tell me.”

“No.”

“You will.” He reached to turn on an elegantly crafted brass lamp, lightbulbs hidden in the almost realistic bouquet of tulips. The lamp was a product of a local craftsman, just like the woven table runners on the dining room table. Mikhail smoothed the mauve-colored glass petals with his fingertip, admiring the skill of the artist. More than one family in Amoteh depended on the resort’s success and the display of their crafts. His goal was to provide work in a community he loved—and he wasn’t going to let Paul Lathrop’s willful daughter spoil the resources the Amoteh could provide for local artists.

In profile, Ellie’s head lifted, her gray eyes shadowed into black. Even exhausted, the defiance and the skill of holding her own with a powerful man like her father was there. “I’ll deal with you when I’m ready.”

Mikhail didn’t want the night watchman to interrupt. Ellie had brought a child to his parents and she had asked for his help. It must have cost her pride, and he had to have answers. What could have driven her away from her social set to the isolation of Amoteh? Why were her clothes worn, when Ellie had always dressed perfectly? Who had fathered her child?

He resented the need to know more, and his instincts told him that he should resist curiosity.

His instincts told him that she desperately needed him.

Mikhail reached to hang a Do Not Disturb sign to the outside of the showroom. Though his apartment was just down the hallway, he sometimes relaxed in this room filled with furniture his family had made. Occasionally his brother, Jarek, used the showroom to romance his wife away from their new home. The Do Not Disturb sign meant the Stepanovs were in the showroom and did not want to be disturbed. He clicked the lock on the showroom door closed. “I can wait.”

“You would.” Ellie was on her feet, stalking the room filled with the heavy walnut furniture. A restless woman, she stopped to smooth the wood admiringly, to open a drawer, closing it smoothly, to trace the intricate hardware of a dresser.

Mikhail dismissed the too-tense sensation prowling his body as he watched her move gracefully, a pampered woman whose only obsession had been her own indulgences.

She turned on him like a tigress, fists clenched, her hair and body softly outlined by the lights from the parking lot. “You’re amused. I see it in your expression. I don’t like being your entertainment du jour. Au revoir, bud.”

With that, she walked past him to the door and reached for the lock.

Mikhail studied her. Ellie Lathrop was too tense, too brittle…and she had cried. What game was she playing?

“Walk out that door and you’re not getting a second chance.” He watched her hesitate and her slender hand slid from the lock. What could be so important as to make Ellie sacrifice her pride?

Why did he want to tug her back to him, hold her safe and warm against him?

He tossed that thought aside. It was only natural for a Stepanov man to want to protect a woman in dire need.

The tingle at the back of his neck warned him that his own instincts could endanger him.

With her back to him, Ellie shook her head, and a spill of sun-lightened hair caught the soft light in sparks. “You’re so much like Paul—my dear old dad. No wonder my mother left him as soon as she was able, leaving me, too, of course. My half sister’s mother did the same. It seems that maternal instincts don’t run in our family. You know that I’m tired—dead tired—and you’re pushing. You pick others’ weak moments like a shark scenting blood… anything to get your way. I should have expected no less. You’re not going to make this easy.”

She turned slowly, leaning back on the door, her hands behind her. In the soft lighting, her face was pale, her eyes huge and shadowed. She spoke in an uneven whisper. “I have a child. She needs protection. And you are my last resort. I’ll do anything you say to keep her safe. Just help me—rather help her. If I have to beg, I will.”

The honest plea in her voice struck him…a tired, desperate mother seeking shelter. She seemed to sag then, against the dark heavy wood of the door, her head down. “I can’t run anymore, Mikhail. I need your help.”

“Details,” he demanded roughly to cover his unsteady emotions. He didn’t know if he should trust this submissive Ellie. “You were married. Less than three and a half years ago, wasn’t it? I received an invitation to the wedding.”

“And I received your gift. Crystal, wasn’t it? I forget. It brought a nice price when I sold it. I’ve sold a lot of things in the past few years.”

He’d chosen the crystal vase because it reminded him of the woman—glittering, perfect and hard. “He’s the child’s father?”

She scrubbed her hands together now, as if trying to dislodge a cold that came from her bones. “I wish he were. Mark would have been a wonderful father, but he couldn’t accept someone else’s child. We’re divorced. I took back the Lathrop name, just to torture Paul, to remind him that he does have a daughter…. Parental obligations and all that. Or let’s just say I’ve inherited Paul’s perversity. By the way, has my dear father called?”

Mikhail nodded, remembering Paul’s brisk, slightly angry tone. “Several times in the past six months. He wondered where you were.”

“That’s why I didn’t let you know that we were coming. I didn’t want him to know until I’d—until I’d talked with you.”

Ellie sat on the bed, shoulders slumped, and then with a sigh, settled against the back, legs outstretched. She sent him a glance that could only be labeled as resentful. “It’s not easy to talk with you, you know. You don’t inspire easy conversation. You give nothing away—do you have feelings, Mikhail? Do you? Or are you just made of wood, like the totem poles outside?”

A homage to the northwest Native Americans, the totem poles were huge and savagely painted masks created in wood, unsoftened by the tall pine branches enfolding them. The carved symbols represented the Hawaiian chieftain enslaved by whalers and dying far from his beloved homeland.

“I might be slightly more attractive,” he said quietly and watched her frown at his dry humor.

In one of those lithe, lightening quick movements, she was on her feet and standing near him, looking up. “I’m going to do something that may frighten you, Mikhail, but I really need this.”

With that, she slid against him, her arms circling his waist. She placed her face against his throat. “Could you just hold me? Just hold me, and let me feel safe and not alone for just one minute?”

Mikhail held very still, every nerve taut, warnings leaping inside him. Ellie was shivering, reminding him of a little wounded seagull he’d once found. He’d seen Ellie lean close to men before, casually, flirting with them, but this was different. This was desperation.

“What game are you playing?” he asked rawly as a soft strand of her hair brushed his lips.

Because he knew the dangers of playing with Ellie, the effects she’d had on other men, tantalizing them, he reached to move that silky, fragrant strand from his skin—the texture was too feminine, too intimate. Then, instinctively, his fingers lodged in her hair, his fist crushing that softness as he drew her face up to his.

With his other hand, he angled her face to the light. She was thinner, her cheekbones sharply defined beneath that gleaming, damp skin; her lashes had spiked, those dark haunted eyes bearing the sheen of tears. Her body still shook against his.

She dropped her arms beside her body, seeming to hang there, suspended as he studied her, his hands holding her because Ellie seemed as if she would drop when he released her. “When was the last time you slept?”

Her answer came on a ragged sigh that had to be genuine, and she closed her eyes. “Days, it seems. I napped on the way from Albuquerque.”

Ellie never admitted personal weakness. She was all gloss and well-tuned, moving like a sleek tigress; he’d seen her glittering, flashing temper with Paul and playing games amid her jet-setter crowd, but not like this. A warning trickle that she might really need him frizzoned up Mikhail’s nape. “You’re thinner. Are you sick? Do you want something to eat…drink?”

“I’m not hungry.” Her lashes fluttered, as if she were trying to open her lids, and her words were no more than a sigh. “I’m so tired, Mikhail. Can we discuss this in the morning?”

Okay, so he felt like a brute, demanding answers of an exhausted woman. That’s what JoAnna had called him, wasn’t it? A low-class, cold brute without a drop of anything to make a woman happy.

Mikhail released Ellie’s silky hair at once. His other hand, cradling her upturned face, contrasted with that fine light skin, and he frowned as he noticed his thumb caressing the texture. He jerked his hand away and Ellie seemed to sag, her shoulders drooping. She didn’t move, her eyes closed, as if too tired to think, to taunt.

“We’re expecting a mix of weather tonight. It’s already started to snow, and the road back to my parents’ house is probably iced by now. You can sleep here. My parents will take care of the child. We need to finish this discussion,” Mikhail said roughly, surprising himself as he swept back the lush purple comforter to the fresh black sheets and the featherbed beneath. He turned off the lamp, but the rain on the windows caught light, seducing soft flowing pools into the room.

Ellie didn’t move.

“Ellie?” he asked softly, turning her to him.

Her eyes were open now, but not seeing. He knew that look; she was already asleep on her feet. Mikhail took a deep breath and helped her out of her jacket, tossing it onto a heavily built chair. “Sit,” he said and when she didn’t move, he eased her onto the bed, then kneeled to untie her boots.

The worn shoelaces had been knotted instead of replaced, the toes of the boots were scuffed.

Then she was tilting, eyes closed, already sleeping deeply before her head touched the pillow. Mikhail slid her boots from her feet and noted the worn, mismatched socks before stripping them away. He eased her legs up onto the bed and covered her.

Ellie snuggled into the luxurious featherbed and comforter with a sigh. Suddenly, she sat up, her eyes pleading with him. “Mikhail? Mikhail, you’ll see that Tanya is okay, won’t you? She wakes up at night, and she needs to know that I’m with her.”

She threw back the coverlet as though fear drove her. “I’ve got to go. She’ll need me.”

What fear could drive her so desperately? Mikhail recognized an exhausted mother who would give her last for her child. The image did not suit what he knew of Ellie. “If she needs you, my mother will call. You’re staying here.”

“You promise that she’ll call?” She sounded like a sleepy, hopeful child and not like the willful Ellie he’d known.

“Of course,” he returned with an arrogance typical of the Stepanov males. “I have said so, have I not?”

“Of course. When you say that, I know….” With as light smile, Ellie allowed herself to be tucked in again. She was soundly sleeping within minutes, and Mikhail was left with an uneasy sense that he was susceptible to her. What could have driven her so hard, so desperately, to him?

Asleep, one hand by her face, her hair splayed across the black satin pillowcase, she looked like a vulnerable child, her lips slightly parted.

No, she looked like an inviting woman and trouble, and after experiencing his ex-wife, he’d already had his share of spoiled society women. Mikhail jammed his hands into his slacks pockets, resenting the sensual tug Ellie could always draw from him. The need to hold all that fire in his hands, to possess her in a storm that would wash him free of her.

Or would it?

Two

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 was just the man she needed, and clearly she would have to play this game his way. She cautioned herself to be patient, not her best quality.

Ellie slid from the high bed and reached for the only softness in the room, a dull gun-metal green fringed shawl placed over a dresser. The flight of the last six months ached in her bones; exhaustion dragged and sucked at her, the warmth of the bed calling her now. Once in it, she didn’t doubt that she could sleep for a week—if Tanya were safe. In the past, Ellie would have loved pitting herself against Mikhail. Now the battle to convince him seemed overwhelming, a grudging step-by-step uphill battle to get him to commit to Tanya’s safety.

She wrapped the shawl around her waist, knotting it.

She didn’t do well at her first attempt to ask Mikhail to help; he’d set her off too easily. Just seeing him, so confident and disdainful of her, she’d felt that instinctive need to prod those cold, aloof shields.

Ellie couldn’t afford to fail a second time. She couldn’t fail Tanya; she had to be alert for Mikhail’s agile mind. Inhaling deeply, she braced herself to convince Mikhail and walked to the fireplace.

His body seemed to tense, though he hadn’t moved, and that flick of his eyes took in her bare leg, exposed by the shawl’s fringes.

Ellie tried to ignore the leap of her senses, because now she couldn’t afford her habit of nettling Mikhail. She concentrated on the mantel’s pictures, gathering as much calm as she could. The hair on her nape lifted as it always did when Mikhail was nearby, and she could almost feel him breathe, waiting for her to talk.

Not just yet. She had to be very careful this time.

From their gold frame, the immigrant Stepanov brothers, dressed in peacoats and knitted caps, stared back at her—tough, unflinching, determined, with the same wide and uncompromising jaw and slashing cheekbones as Mikhail. In another frame, softly ornate, a young Fadey beamed as he held a blissfully happy Mary Jo in her wedding dress. Then the young brothers, Mikhail and Jarek, looking wild and free as the ocean wind tossed their hair, huge fishing poles in one hand and holding aloft strings of fish in their other hands. In the photograph, the ocean waves crested behind them.

“Eat,” Mikhail said simply when she came to stand beside him, though he didn’t turn. The firelight played on his face, lighting the jutting angles and escaping the hard planes. He had set the terms already, the schedule by which she must perform, make her plea.

She’d learned terms and prices at an early age, from her father. Everything was a trade-off, wasn’t it? she thought wearily.

Ellie eased into a chair near the food and wished that her stomach hadn’t just growled. Obviously, Mikhail was not playing waiter. She opened the thermos bottle and inhaled the delicious scent of chowder, easing it into the large pottery soup bowl. She carefully unwrapped the thick slabs of dark bread, heavily slathered with butter. In another moment, she was diving into the food, forgetting about Mikhail. She was halfway through the soup before Mikhail reached to open the other thermos bottle, pouring milk into her glass.