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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. 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 and said, “How about we go into the kitchen? You can sit down and relax while I make you some dinner.”
“How about you make us some dinner?” she suggested as she walked toward him.
“We’ll see.”
“That expression is beginning to annoy me.” She stepped into the elevator and tried to ignore the woodsy scent of him.
He mumbled, “Second floor,” and they descended.
Shaking her head, she said, “I wouldn’t have started with anything that easy.”
He turned to look at her, his brow arched. “By the way, how did you manage to get up there?”
She smiled. “I stumbled on the password.”
“No more stumbling,” he warned.
“But—”
“No buts, either.”
She placed her hands on what used to be her hips. “You know, you’re not supposed to argue with a pregnant woman.”
“Who says?” The look he tossed her was somewhere between irritated and interested.
“It’s in the book of pregnancy rules.”
“And the author of that book is…”
“Gosh, can’t remember.”
The elevator stopped and the door opened. “That’s convenient.”
Laughing, she followed him through the jungle room, past a small dining room and then into a large, open-air kitchen with beamed ceilings.
Much like the other rooms in Michael’s house, the kitchen boasted floor-to-ceiling windows that left you nose to nose with the hillside and snowy landscape, separated only by glass. All the appliances were black and very modern. No buttons or dials. And she couldn’t help but wonder just how long it had taken his housekeeper to remember the vocal commands for everything.
But the most interesting thing in the room was happening on top of the center island. Under several glass domes and UV light, herbs grew hydroponically. The setup was incredibly progressive with a small computer attached to each dome. She could actually read the internal temperature and how many hours, minutes and seconds the herbs needed to mature.
It was little wonder that Michael was a millionaire, she thought as she sat down at a green glass table.
She was getting a little tired, and those pricking pains in her back were intensifying. But little twinges were expected in the last month of pregnancy. She just needed a good soak in the tub. Maybe after dinner.
“You know,” she began, arching her back a few times, “that book I mentioned also states quite clearly that all pregnant women should receive chocolate-chip ice cream once a day followed by an hour-long foot massage.”
He poured her a glass of milk and set it down in front of her. “And husbands actually buy this?”
Her heart tripped awkwardly. “The book or what’s in it?”
“Either.”
“If they love their wives enough, I guess,” she said softly, taking a swallow of the cold milk.
Michael began to assemble a sandwich. “Did your husband own a copy of that book?”
A profound sadness poured through Isabella. Michael probably thought that she and Rick had had a great relationship, typical loving husband and wife. And why wouldn’t he? She was pregnant, after all.
She glanced up at Michael. “I don’t imagine he did.”
“I wasn’t thinking, Bella,” he said, expelling a breath. “It’s none of my business. I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t be sorry.” She took another swallow of milk, trying to think what to say next. For so long, she’d had to pretend that her marriage was a loving union, that her husband was content and satisfied with his life and with her. But she just couldn’t lie anymore. “Rick didn’t really want to be a husband. I think I was a challenge to him. The last virgin in Minnesota or something. So once he had me, once that wedding night was over…” She shrugged, heat creeping up her neck and dispersing into her cheeks.
Michael’s fierce stare was unyielding as he finished her sentence. “He forgot just how lucky he was?”
She smiled. “Something like that. I kept trying, though. You know, I came from a family that stuck together through thick and not-so-thick.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Beneath his words, Isabella detected a hint of longing, but she wouldn’t press him. “Well, Rick wanted a reason to leave, and when I told him I was pregnant he had one.”
“You weren’t trying to have a baby?”
