“Fifteen Years Ago You And Your Father Took Me In, Bella—Treated Me Like Family. It’s A Debt I’ve Never Forgotten. And One I Intend To Repay.”

He graced her with a slash of a smile. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.”

“That’s a very generous thing to say. But you don’t owe me anything. One night’s stay is all I’ll be—”

“We’ll see about that,” he interrupted. “We’ll see what the doctor says tomorrow.”

“All right, Michael,” she said, too tired to argue. “But I don’t want to take your room from you. I can move into a guest room or—”

“That’s not necessary.” His smoky gaze briefly scanned hers. “You look very comfortable right here in my bed.”

Her eyes widened. One night. Just one night.

He regarded her for a moment; then he turned to leave.

“It’s good to see you again,” she called after him.

He paused in the doorframe but didn’t look back. “It’s good to see you, too, Bella.”

Dear Reader,

’Tis the season to read six passionate, powerful and provocative love stories from Silhouette Desire!

Savor A Cowboy & a Gentleman (#1477), December’s MAN OF THE MONTH, by beloved author Ann Major. A lonesome cowboy rekindles an old flame in this final title of our MAN OF THE MONTH promotion. MAN OF THE MONTH has had a memorable fourteen-year run and now it’s time to make room for other exciting innovations, such as DYNASTIES: THE BARONES, a Boston-based Romeo-and-Juliet continuity with a happy ending, which launches next month, and—starting in June 2003—Desire’s three-book sequel to Silhouette’s out-of-series continuity THE LONE STAR COUNTRY CLUB. Desire’s popular TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB continuity also returns in 2003, beginning in November.

This month DYNASTIES: THE CONNELLYS concludes with Cherokee Marriage Dare (#1478) by Sheri WhiteFeather, a riveting tale featuring a former Green Beret who rescues the youngest Connelly daughter from kidnappers. Award-winning, bestselling romance novelist Rochelle Alers debuts in Desire with A Younger Man (#1479), the compelling story of a widow’s sensual renaissance. Barbara McCauley’s Royally Pregnant (#1480) offers a fabulous finale to Silhouette’s cross-line CROWN AND GLORY series, while a feisty rancher corrals the sexy cowboy-next-door in Her Texas Temptation (#1481) by Shirley Rogers. And a blizzard forces a lone wolf to deliver his hometown sweetheart’s infant in Baby & the Beast (#1482) by Laura Wright.

Here’s hoping you find all six of these supersensual Silhouette Desire titles in your Christmas stocking.

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Baby & the Beast
Laura Wright

MILLS & BOON

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LAURA WRIGHT

has spent most of her life immersed in the world of acting, singing and competitive ballroom dancing. But when she started writing romance, she knew she’d found the true desire of her heart! Although born and raised in Minneapolis, Laura has also lived in New York City, Milwaukee and Columbus, Ohio. Currently, she is happy to have set down her bags and made Los Angeles her home. And a blissful home it is—one that she shares with her theatrical production manager husband, Daniel, and three spoiled dogs. During those few hours of downtime from her beloved writing, Laura enjoys going to art galleries and movies, cooking for her hubby, walking in the woods, lazing around lakes, puttering in the kitchen and frolicking with her animals. Laura would love to hear from you. You can write to her at P.O. Box 5811 Sherman Oaks, CA 91413 or e-mail her at laurawright@laurawright.com.

To my wonderful editor, Stephanie Maurer—

here’s to our beloved “Beasts!”

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

One

Snow fell relentlessly from a gunmetal-gray sky, coating the naked trees with an icy frosting.

Isabella Spencer pulled her wool hat down over her ears, trying to ignore the wintry glaze forming on the scarf that covered her neck and mouth. Pushing back a mounting sense of worry, she closed the door on the remaining warmth inside her lifeless car and stepped out onto the deserted road. She was two hours outside Minneapolis—and thirty miles from the small town she wanted so desperately to return to.

But fate seemed to have other ideas.

It was barely November, yet the frigid morning wind whipped at her face like tiny knives, batting her from side to side as though she were nothing more than a crumpled ball of newspaper.

Flares. Go get the flares. Someone will be by soon.

Her center of gravity newly broadened by several inches, she trudged carefully through a foot of snow to the trunk of her car, cursing the imbeciles at the weather station for their false predictions, cursing her cell phone with its short-lived battery. And as she rooted out several orange flares, lit them and laid them in the snow, she cursed the car that her husband had assured her was in fine working order.

Of course, that had been more than seven months ago. Before Rick had left her for the freedom divorce provided, before he’d gotten drunk, plowed into a telephone pole and died just a few hours later.

The shiver that ran through her had nothing to do with the cold this time. Her husband was gone. He hadn’t wanted her and he hadn’t wanted the child growing inside her, and the sooner she put that stinging piece of knowledge behind her the better. She was going home, back to Fielding, to start a new life with the new year. And she’d be damned if she was going to let a snowstorm and ghosts from the past stop her.

As the now familiar jabs of pain invaded her hips, then shot downward, Isabella slipped back inside her car, being careful of her protruding belly. The car’s interior was only slightly warmer than outside, but at least she was free of the raw wind. Whatever had caused her car to break down had nothing to do with the battery, thank God. She turned the key and switched the heat to high. The delicious warmth that shot from the vents could only last for a few minutes, she reminded herself. Then she’d have to turn it off, conserve as much as she could for as long as she could.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” Isabella cooed, laying a hand on her belly. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Her child gave a healthy kick, urging its mother to ignore the chill in her chest and legs and the scratch of what felt like icicles in her throat. She would fight for warmth. She would fight for her child.

Her gaze lifted. First to heaven, asking her late father for help, then lower to the windshield. Snow pelted the glass, shutting her off from the outside world one perfect snowflake at a time.

Michael Wulf glanced out the tinted rearside window of the town car whisking him home from the airport. Beyond the car’s warm borders, the wind roared, causing the car to pitch slightly.

Just yesterday he’d been in Los Angeles, chuckling at the paltry first offer he’d received from Micronics to purchase a prototype of his vocal-command software. The heads of corporations never fully understood whom they were dealing with when they first met with him. They’d heard rumors that he was a mystery, a hermit, a genius, but they were never certain how to play the game.

Michael taught them quickly enough.

He’d finally left the warm sunshine with a very profitable deal closed, returning home to freezing temperatures. But the early-season snowstorm that met his plane wasn’t an unwelcome sight. He appreciated Minnesota and its climate, valued the hibernation, the solitude, the solace. Although he did miss the long daylight hours now that the beginnings of winter were here.

It was only early afternoon and yet the gray sky and unrelenting snowfall had turned the surrounding landscape dim. It was hard to see fifty feet in front of the car. But even with the hazardous conditions and his position in the back seat, Michael’s gaze caught sight of a faint orange light glowing against the snow in the distance. And near it, on the side of the road, something resembling an igloo with side mirrors and an Illinois license plate sat in ice-coated silence.

“What the hell is that?” he muttered.

The driver slowed, glancing to his right. “Looks like an abandoned car, sir.”

Abandoned. That word fisted around Michael’s gut, warning him that things weren’t always as they seemed. It would take all of five seconds to see if the car truly was abandoned. Five seconds he was willing to risk even in such a blizzard. “Stop.”

The driver did as he was instructed, pulling over in front of the car. In a flash, Michael was out the door, his bad leg stiffening in the cold as he trekked the few feet to the car. But he hardly noticed the dull ache. He was alert as he swept several inches of snow from the window, intent to see for himself that no one remained inside.

Suddenly his breath came out in a rush of fog. A woman sat in the driver’s seat. She was bundled from head to foot in down and wool, asleep—or at least he hoped she was asleep.

“Miss? Miss? Can you hear me?” He yanked open the door and ripped off his glove, then bent down and dipped a hand inside her scarf. A strong, steady pulse beat against his fingers.

She stirred then, her eyes fluttering open. She stared up at him with large, deep-blue orbs that, though shrouded with uncertainty, spoke directly to his soul.

Deep-blue windows he’d seen somewhere before.

Her lips parted. “You found me.”

And that voice. It was scratchy and raw, but he knew that voice.

The snow swirled around him like an ominous cyclone. Michael quickly shoved aside the questions forming in his mind. He needed to get her out of the car and to safety. But where? The hospital was forty-five minutes away. Too far.

“The heater stopped working…maybe half hour ago,” she said softly, slowly. “I must’ve fallen asleep.”

“You’re damn lucky,” he said, easing her out of the car then helping her to stand. “Another half hour and…” And that car would’ve become an arctic tomb. He didn’t say it.

The wind burned his face and neck as he stripped off his coat and covered her. “You’re going to be fine. Hang on.”

“All right,” she whispered.

He picked her up and started toward the town car just as the driver rushed up beside him to help.

“Sir, would you like me to carry—”

Michael ignored the offer. “Turn the heat on high and get us home as quickly as you can.”

The man nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Once tucked safely inside the car, Michael stripped off the woman’s boots and rubbed her cold toes.

“Feels good,” she said. “Itchy, but good.”

After her feet were warm, he slid off her gloves and rubbed her small hands between his large ones. Then he gathered her in his arms and held her close.

“How long were you out there?” he asked.

The woman let her head fall against his shoulder as she answered with a sigh, “Since ten. This morning.”

Five hours.

He cursed softly. “Just try to relax. You’re safe now.” Although a trace disoriented, she was going to be okay, he knew it somehow. But still, deep worry pricked at him. Her padded down coat couldn’t hide what he could feel against his side.

“When’s your baby due?” he asked.

She looked at him. “About a month.”

His jaw tightened. What idiot would let his wife travel alone through a snowstorm at this stage of her pregnancy? Well, he was sure going to find out.

With gentle precision, he drew off her scarf. He’d been so intent on getting her to shelter, he hadn’t been able to take a good look at her until now—except for her incredible and very familiar eyes. And what he could see made his chest tighten. Long waves of pale blond hair, heart-shaped face and a soft mouth. Again familiarity rapped at his mind. How the devil did he know her? He rarely went to social events, never went into town.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, letting her head fall back onto his shoulder again. “Thank you for coming to get me, Michael.”

At that, he froze like the icicles hanging off the stand of trees they passed. His mind worked, sharp and quiet, feeding information piece by piece until an answer formed.

And what an answer it was.

Falling asleep beside him sat the girl—no, the woman. A very pregnant woman. And the one person on earth to whom he owed a debt. One he’d vowed to pay back a long time ago.

He grabbed his cell phone, pushed a button and uttered, “Dr. Pinta,” into the receiver.

The old doctor who had treated three generations of Fielding residents and was as close to a friend as Michael allowed himself to have picked up on the second ring.

“I need you, Thomas.”

Visions of hot chocolate and electric blankets danced in Isabella’s fuzzy head. Along with a grainy movie of her childhood crush dressed in shining armor, rescuing her from a white dragon who breathed hail, instead of fire. It was lovely, but the closer she got to the chocolate and blankets and handsome knight, the more her toes itched and her throat hurt.

“Isabella?”

The voice came from far away, through a snow-covered haze.

“Isabella, I need you to wake up.”

The tone was parental and she forced her eyes to open and focus. She could feel that she was fully dressed, see that she was covered by several blankets and in a room that was not her own.

As she glanced around, her heart thumped madly in her chest. The room was large and furnished in dark wood. Drawn curtains made up the wall in front of her, a fire roared and crackled to her left, and a man sat beside her. A man she recognized instantly. His balding head, scholarly gray beard and hook nose gave him away.

Dr. Pinta’s kind eyes settled on her. “Well, we’re very glad to see you, my dear. How are you feeling?”

Her mind whirled with thoughts and questions, but none more important than one. “My baby?”

“Your baby’s just fine. And so are you.” He smiled. “You were very smart to set out those flares.”

Her hands went to her belly, felt the warmth, the life there, and she sighed with relief.

“It was a close call, but thank the good Lord someone came along in time,” the doctor added.

The doctor glanced over his shoulder and Isabella followed his gaze. Sitting in a thronelike chair upholstered in emerald-green velvet, facing the fire, was a man. Something inside her, perhaps inside her heart, knew instantly that the knight in her dream had been no vision, after all.

As images flashed through her mind—snow glazing her car, the door opening to reveal her rescuer, lying against the solid wall of his chest—her knight met her gaze, firelight illuminating his steel-gray eyes, rumpled black hair and granitelike features.

“Hello, Bella.”

Only two men had ever called her that. One was her father, Emmett, who had passed away almost fifteen years ago. And the other was the sixteen-year-old runaway from a boys’ home in Minneapolis her father had taken in.

Even at the age of thirteen, Isabella had known that she loved that boy, with his quick mind and brusque nature—even with the limp that had roused teasing and taunting from other kids in town.

But she’d lost him after her father’s death. The boy had left Fielding after her great-aunt had taken her in, but couldn’t take him, too.

Michael Wulf.

The picked-on outcast who’d turned into the misunderstood genius. A celebrity. She’d kept track of his progress and had even thought of getting in touch with him when she’d read that he’d moved back to Fielding three years ago. But she’d been married by then and living in Chicago. She’d had to put every ounce of energy into saving her marriage, into trying to find out why her husband had changed from charming to disinterested the moment they’d said, “I do.”

A curious smile found its way to her mouth. “Michael. Thank you.”

He gave her a quick nod. “It was nothing.”

“You saved my life. And my baby’s. That’s something.”

“I’m just glad I was there.”

He never had taken a compliment well. “So am I. I thought I was dreaming when I woke up and saw you. It’s been such a long time.”

His shadowed gaze moved over her, pausing at her belly. “A long time.”

His voice was low and deep, but tender, and she was instantly taken back in time. The gruff kid who had never been gruff with her.

A smile curled through her. Michael Wulf had been the boy she’d wanted to give her first kiss to, her heart to. Lord, how time flew. Certainly enough for her to see—and sense—the difference in him. He’d grown handsomer in fifteen years, but those gray eyes that had once been angry and troubled were as hard as steel now.

She knew some of his past hurts, but whatever had happened after he’d disappeared from Fielding had left him far more scarred. And she wondered about it.

Dr. Pinta put a hand over hers. “Is there someone I can call for you, my dear?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Your husband?” Michael offered, the hard lines of his mouth deepening.

Isabella looked away, suddenly feeling very tired. “He died seven months ago.”

“Oh, I am sorry,” Doc said softly. “What about someone in Fielding? Anyone expecting you?”

When she’d married Rick four years ago, he’d urged her to cut the lines of communication with anyone in Fielding. It had practically broken her heart, but in an effort to save her marriage, she’d done as he’d asked. She had no idea what to expect when she returned home, no idea if her old friends would embrace her.

“I’m going to stay at the hotel for a week or so until I can get my father’s store back in working order,” she said. “I’ve decided to turn it into a pastry shop.” She looked at Dr. Pinta, sensing she had to explain further. “I’m planning on living in the apartment above it. It’ll be a perfect home for me and the baby—once it’s cleaned up of course.”

“We’ll all be glad to have you back, my dear. And a pastry shop,” Doc said with a slow grin. “Good, good. Are you going to be selling those cinnamon rolls of yours?”

She nodded, returning his friendly smile. “When do you think I can go—”

“I think you should stay right where you are,” Michael said firmly.

Doc nodded. “I agree. You and the baby should rest.” From his coat pocket came a loud beeping sound. He reached in, took out his beeper and stared at the message. “Good Lord, it’s certainly a day for emergencies. Mrs. Dalton has had an accident, something about her hip.”

“I hope she’ll be all right,” Isabella offered, her mind scattered with the events of the day.

Doc looked up. “Sorry, my dear, I need to go. I have to stop in town and get some supplies. The Dalton place is at least twenty miles out. I don’t think I’ll be able to come back until morning.”

Michael nodded. “I’ll take care of her, Thomas.”

An unfamiliar tug of awareness spread through Isabella at that simple promise. She grabbed for the doctor’s hand. “I don’t want to put anyone out. I could go with you. The hotel is right on the—”

Doc Pinta stood up. “No, no. The snow has let up quite a bit, but it’s getting colder. I don’t want you picking up another chill. Not in your condition.”

“She’ll stay here,” Michael stated firmly. “I’ll move my things into the guest room.”

Isabella felt her cheeks warm as she once again looked around the room. This time she noted several personal items: the silver watch that her father had given Michael for his sixteenth birthday on the nightstand, a book about solar-powered homes on a bench, aboriginal paintings on the walls and framed photographs on the mantel, each depicting what she imagined were Michael’s “children”—the high-tech interiors of cars, boats and houses.

This was his room, his bed.

Her pulse stumbled and the room suddenly compressed into a sort of tunnel with Michael Wulf at the end. Lord, she must have caught more than a chill. Only a fever could make her childish crush seem in danger of turning into a full-fledged, grown-up one. She was in Fielding to start a new life, create a future for herself and her child, not return to teenage dreams from the past.

“I really can’t stay here,” Isabella said, hearing the ring of panic in her voice. How could she sleep in his bed, against his pillows, surrounded by the scent of him? “I need to be at my place. I have a cleaning crew coming from St. Cloud to help me get everything—”

“They won’t make it out in weather like this, Isabella.” Doc Pinta reached down and gave her hand a squeeze. “What you need to do is calm down. You’re in no shape tonight to brave the elements. It’s not good for the baby.” He turned to Michael. “If anything changes, please call me.”

Michael nodded. “Of course.”

“You and that baby get some rest, young lady.” Doc Pinta left the room, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll see you first thing in the morning.”

An unwelcome cloud of anxiety floated in the air just above Isabella’s heart as she watched the doctor go—leaving her alone with the subject of her teenage dreams.

Dressed in simple but expensive black, Michael crossed to the bed, his limp more pronounced than she remembered. But that minor limitation hardly diminished his striking appearance and the commanding manner that burned around him like a living, breathing thing.

Up close he was even more fiercely handsome than she remembered. Dark, hooded eyes, sensual mouth, olive skin—he nearly took her breath away. He’d grown, well over six feet now with the body of a gladiator. Obviously his impediment hadn’t stopped him from staying fit, she mused as a twinge of pain erupted in her lower back.

But though Michael had grown in stature and appearance, Isabella could feel the oppressive heat of the anger and the resentment he still carried. A weighty burden he looked unlikely to discard anytime soon.

“I want you to know that I really appreciate your putting me up,” she told him. “I won’t be a bother, I promise.”

Michael’s features tightened. “Fifteen years ago you and your father took me in, Bella, treated me like family. It’s a debt I’ve never forgotten. And one I intend to repay.” He graced her with a slash of a smile—something she imagined he didn’t do very often. “I’m glad you’re here, and you’re welcome to stay as long as you want.”

Her heart began to soften like clay in a warm palm, but she fought it. His voice was thoughtful, but the meaning was clear. He was offering her his home and his protection because he felt he owed her and her father.

“Thanks,” she said with a calm she didn’t feel. “That’s a very generous thing to say. But you don’t owe me anything. One night’s stay is all I’ll be—”

“We’ll see about that,” he interrupted, plowing a hand through his hair. “We’ll see what the doctor says tomorrow.”

Just then, an arrow of pain shot into her lower back, making her wince. These little jolts were coming all too frequently the past few weeks. Her little one obviously wanted to see the world. And Mommy can’t wait to see you, my sweetie. Just give me a little longer.

“All right, Michael,” she said, too tired to argue something that sounded so reasonable no matter what his motivations were. “But I don’t want to take your room from you. I can easily move into a guest room or—”

“That’s not necessary.” His smoky gaze briefly scanned hers. “You look very comfortable right here in my bed.”

Her eyes widened and her breasts tightened. One night. Just one night.

“I won’t have you moving,” he said. “I’m going downstairs to make sure that Thomas is on his way. I’ll bring you up some dinner. Soup sound all right?”

She nodded, grateful that he was going to leave for a while so she could breathe normally again. “Sounds perfect.”

“My housekeeper only comes during the week, so we’ll both have to suffer my cooking until tomorrow. Anything else you need?”

“A little sunshine would be great,” she joked lamely.

He turned then and uttered the word “drapes,” and the wall of chestnut fabric in front of her parted to reveal floor-to-ceiling windows.

Isabella gasped, both at what seemed to be his magic and at the view. The dim bluish light of a late afternoon in early winter seeped into the room. Outside, she could see gnarled, leafless trees, a pond frozen over and acres and acres of white under a gray sky. To any true Midwesterner, it was a beautiful scene.

And Michael’s amazing technology had brought it to her in one simple command. She’d certainly read about his inventions, just never seen one.

“Very impressive, Michael.”

He shrugged. “It’s actually a pretty simple process.”

“Not to the technologically impaired. My VCR has been blinking 12:00 for a good decade.”

“Well, I can’t make a cinnamon roll. To me, that’s impressive.” He regarded her for moment, the cogs of his mind working behind his eyes, then he turned to leave.

“It’s good to see you again,” she called after him.

He paused at the door, but didn’t look back. “It’s good to see you, too, Bella.”

Then he was gone, and the room felt cooler. Which was odd because his attitude and manner were not particularly warm.

She turned toward the fire. Why in the world did she feel so safe here, in his lair, his hideout from the world, as the media called it?

“The millionaire recluse who lives in an enormous house of glass on thirty acres of woodland high above a sleepy town,” she’d read. “Driven to levels of success that most mortals wouldn’t dare strive for.”

He was an enigma, they said. At thirty-one, Michael Wulf made the world wonder—about his personal history, as well as his extraordinarily profitable high-tech developments.

Though he seemed to have no past, he was truly a man of the future. He created houses with brains and cars that responded to vocal commands. But unlike others in his field, he had no taste for celebrity.

They also wrote that he had no wife, no family, few friends and a giant chip on his shoulder. They said that he walked with a limp. And they speculated that perhaps the lone wolf had once been caught in a trap.

But Isabella knew a truth that all those journalists who wrote about him would never know. How he’d been tossed away by his parents for a handicap he couldn’t control and shoved into a boys’ home. How he’d been treated by his peers for being different. How determined he’d been to rise above them all.

And it seemed that he’d succeeded. He did indeed live high above a sleepy little town, a town that had once 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. 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?”

She shook her head. “It just happened.” She smiled as she rubbed her stomach. “After he left, I felt so unbelievably angry. I held on to that anger for a while, then I realized that it wasn’t healthy for me or the baby, so little by little I let it go. As easy as it would’ve been, I don’t hate him for his weakness of character.”

“Well, you’re a better person than me.” Michael brought her the turkey sandwich he’d made, but he didn’t sit down. just stood against the counter. “I hate him and I never even met him. He left you, Bella.”

“Yes. But look at what he left me with.” Grinning, she touched her stomach.

He nodded, then looked away.

Isabella took a bite of the sandwich and switched gears. “Where did you go after you left Fielding? I always wanted to know.”

He paused, and she wondered if he was going to open up to her the way she just had with him. After all, it was a safe subject. But he didn’t reply. “Michael, if you don’t—”

“Minneapolis,” he said, opening a drawer on the outside of the fridge and grabbing a beer. “I went to Minneapolis.”

“And what did you do there? I mean, you were only sixteen.”

“I was old enough to take care of myself.” He popped the top of the beer and took a swallow. “I used the skills your father taught me. You know, even though he worked on video games, the things he showed me opened my mind to what was possible. And opened doors for me in ways I couldn’t have imagined.” He paused to take another swallow of beer. “That’s why I owe him.”

She had to ask. “And why do you owe me?”

“Let’s just say that you were my guardian angel, Bella.”

Lord, she didn’t want to be his angel. “Look, Michael, you don’t owe either one of us anything. We both did what we did because we cared about you. Not because we were looking for a payoff later on.”

“Everyone wants a payoff.”

She shook her head. “You don’t believe that.”

“Yes, I do.” He opened the fridge and started rifling through it. “Whether the payoff is emotional, physical or monetary, everybody expects one.”

“Maybe that’s true of some people, but…” Her words trailed off as the dull pain in her back suddenly shot down her hips. She sucked in a breath of air and let it out slowly as the pain eased. What she really needed to do was finish her sandwich and go take that bath.

“Well, you’ve done enough for me,” she said finally. “And as soon as this storm clears, we’ll call it even, all right?”

“We’ll see.”

She rolled her eyes as she scooped up her sandwich. “Michael, I swear if you say that one more time…”

Something was happening. It wasn’t just eight-month pangs or Braxton Hicks contractions. Firecrackers were erupting in her abdomen, shooting what felt like shards of broken cut glass to every corner of her body. Her sandwich fell to the floor as she leaned over, gripping her belly as another spear of pain drove down her spine, through her hips and circled her belly.

Michael was at her side in seconds. “What’s wrong? What is it?”

“I need to go—” She gasped.

“Where do you need to go? Back to bed?”

She shook her head. “No. To the hospital. I need to go to the hospital.” She glanced up at him, her breath catching in her throat as she felt the pain rising again like a gigantic wave set to crash. “The baby’s coming.”

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