by Laura Wright
But when he walked into the room and glanced through the open bathroom door, he was saved from himself. Her hair back in a loose ponytail, Bella was fully clothed and giving Emily a bath. Inside the tub, the baby girl was lying in the soft cradle tub he'd gotten, her tiny hands splashing her mother with the inch or so of water.
He tried to stay quiet as he moved closer and stood in the doorway. But she must've felt him there because she glanced over her shoulder and smiled. "Pull up a towel and grab some shampoo. I was just about to wash her hair."
For Michael, giving a baby a bath was far from a routine task. Ask him to write a zillion lines of code for a complex program and he'd come through with flying colors. But he knew he couldn't say no to either one of the Spencer females.
He knelt beside Bella, rolled up his sleeves and grabbed the no-tears baby shampoo.
She tossed him a sidelong glance. "So, are you looking to add shampooing to your long list of baby tasks?"
He poured some of the yellow liquid into his hands and worked it into a lather. "Am I that transparent?"
"No, actually. You're rather difficult to figure out sometimes."
"Well, that's just force of habit," he said, gently rubbing the shampoo into Emily's pale wisps of hair.
"Interesting. And I thought that prickly-pear demeanor was by choice."
Michael turned to look at her sly grin and playful eyes. For a second he took stock of where he was and what he was doing. Sitting next to the woman that made him feel things he didn't want to feel, bathing another man's child. And yet, there was nowhere he'd rather be. He glanced down at Emily. She blinked up at him, her hand lifted up toward him.
Like a magnet to steel, he reached for her and she wrapped her tiny fingers around his thumb. Something shot up his arm—an electric shock of warmth, a tenderness, an astonishing emotion he'd never felt before and didn't understand. The intensity of it bowled him over and he slowly eased his hand away. "I'm going to let your mother finish up here, princess." He stood. "I need to get back to work."
"Really, Michael?" Isabella's blue eyes searched his now shuttered ones. "Couldn't you just put work aside for a half hour and … well, I don't know, live a little?"
His lips twisted. She saw too much and it annoyed the hell out of him. "I'm living just fine, Bella. Take a look around."
"You know I'm not talking about money or what it can buy."
"I'll see you later," he said as he turned to leave.
"From the safety of your chair by the fire?" she countered.
He stopped at the door, but didn't turn back around.
"I'm going to feed Emily and put her to bed," Isabella said, her tone patient but firm. "Sara made a roast and mashed potatoes, and I made a chocolate torte. I'll be in the kitchen in about a half hour. Have dinner with me."
Another battle broke out inside Michael from a war that had begun the minute he'd opened the door to a car covered in snow and saw its occupant. And that woman was asking him to do something more intimate than she could possibly imagine. She was asking too much. "Enjoy your dinner, Bella."
*
"Enya, Watermark," Isabella told the CD player as she lit the ten votive candles that decorated the kitchen table.
Although she hadn't intended it, the room looked magical, glistening in the candlelight. The table was set for two with beautiful Prussian-blue place mats, pristine china that had never been used, shining silver and winking crystal. She'd even placed a bowl of fragrant herbs from the hydroponic garden in the center. To anyone who wasn't aware of her true relationship with Michael, the scene appeared set for romance.
Connie's query, the one Isabella had left unanswered, flickered across her mind. Did Michael know that she was falling in love with him? Would he even care to know? She rolled her eyes. Of course he wouldn't. He could barely accept the emotional ramifications when Emily touched him. He seemed incapable of closeness. And Isabella was starting to wonder if that would ever change.
She trudged over to the stove. However uncertain the future, she was determined to have a nice dinner tonight, whether he chose to join her or not.
While she sliced the roast, Isabella listened to Emily's soft, rhythmic breathing on the baby monitor that she kept close to her at all times. Her daughter had gone to sleep with just two songs and a kiss tonight, leaving Isabella with an evening to herself.
A low growl sounded behind her. "You win this battle, Bella."
Or not.
"And the war, too?" Isabella smiled to herself. So he'd actually come. Even after their disagreement earlier, he'd come. She continued to slice the roast, not wanting him to see the look of satisfaction on her face.
"That remains to be seen."
"So where's my peace offering?"
She heard him pull out a chair, sit, then expel a weighty breath. "You wanted to know why I eat alone, right?"
Isabella turned around and faced him.
His voice held little emotion as he spoke. "Up until the age of fifteen, I had absolutely no control over anything. Who I lived with, how I lived or where. Being with a huge group of other pissed-off kids, you can barely breathe. There's no space, nothing to make your own. Then I started taking my food up to my room or out in the yard—no one bothered me. It became my time, the one thing I could claim."
Isabella was amazed. She couldn't believe he was telling her this. All she wanted to do was throw her arms around him and let him know how honored she felt, but she knew he would hate such a gesture. So with a platter of steaming beef in her hands, she walked over to the table and said casually, "And now?"
His gaze fairly burned a hole in her soul. "For some reason, I can breathe when I'm with you."
Her hand paused in the middle of scooping up some potatoes. What did he mean? Was he talking about feeling comfortable with her? Could he breathe around her because of their friendship? Or something altogether different?
With a shaky hand, she filled his plate with potatoes and roast and green beans, then his wineglass with the same sparkling cider that twinkled from her glass.
"Need anything else?" she asked.
He looked up, his gaze moving to her mouth. "What are you offering, Bella?"
The urge to lower herself into his lap, kiss him silly and say, "I'm offering this—take it or leave it," was incredibly tempting. But the fear that he might choose to leave it overpowered the impulse. So she turned away from that searing gaze and sat down across the table from him.
"I'm offering good conversation," she said finally, her breathing uneven. "And a wonderful meal."
His gaze remained on her, and she wondered if he was going to pursue the discussion. But he didn't. He picked at his potatoes and went off on a different direction. "How's the shop coming along?"
She felt thankful for the lighter mood. They both needed it right now. Especially Michael. This being his first meal à la companion and all.
"The shop's not really coming along," she said. "I'm still working on the apartment."
"Taking too many breaks?"
A half smile came to her lips. "Hey, I have to check up on you and Emily. See if you guys are having too much fun without me."
"If we were, you'd never catch us."
"What?"
He adopted a serious visage. "It's like this—while you're away, I have the entire Ringling Brothers circus up here, then after they leave, Emily and I groove to some serious rock and roll." He raised a brow. "Rolling Stones."
She held her grin in check. "And when I come home?"
He shrugged nonchalantly, then took a tentative bite of roast. "We close up shop, and Emily goes straight to sleep."
Feigning emotional injury, she sucked in a breath. "No circus for me? No dancing to the Stones?"
"I'm sorry." His dark gaze moved over her, seeping into her pores like melting chocolate. "You just can't get no satisfaction, sweetheart."
Her short stint at lightheartedness suddenly dropped away. Heat rushed through her body and her mouth w
ent dry as cotton. How could he disarm her in two seconds flat? It wasn't fair, especially when he was just playing and her heart didn't understand the rules of the game.
And in that instant, his decision about not eating with her seemed like a good one, a safe one, a smart one. Perhaps he could breathe well around her, but the air in her lungs always seemed to get caught when she looked at him.
One thing looked glaringly obvious: if she wanted to leave this house with her heart intact, she was going to have to pick up the pace on getting her apartment ready.
But the problem was she didn't want to leave this house. Or him.
"I heard you defended me today," he said, dragging her back to the candlelit, Enya-playing present.
She cleared her throat. "I haven't the vaguest idea what you're talking about."
"Oh, you don't, huh?"
Darn that eavesdropping Sara and her Southern charm.
"So there was no discussion about how much I've changed? Or how little?"
Isabella took a sip of her sparkling cider to stall for time.
"How I've gotten stranger and weirder over the years?"
She fairly choked on her cider. "No one said weird. They…"
"What did they say?"
Putting down her knife and fork, she exhaled. "You know what it is, Michael? They don't know you, that's all."
"They don't need to know me." The amusement left his eyes. And just like that, she'd lost him again.
"Maybe they do. And maybe you need to get to know them."
He frowned. "Why the hell would I want to do that?"
"To put the past where it belongs," she argued. "Or start to, anyway." She leaned forward. "They were stupid, ignorant kids."
"And what are they now?"
"Just townsfolk. Flawed like any others, but not out to get you."
He chuckled bitterly.
"Doesn't it get lonely up here?" Isabella asked.
"Not with you and Emily around."
"We're not going to be around forever." The words were out of her mouth fast, and their meaning settled over the table.
Anguished cries came over the baby monitor, saving them from further discussion. Isabella was on her feet and halfway to the door when she said, "I'm going to check on Emily."
"And I'll clean up in here," he muttered.
As she headed for her bedroom—his bedroom—Isabella pushed away the fierce determination that rose up and claimed her every time he was near. The determination that made her want to heal the man she was falling in love with before he dug himself into an even deeper hole.
But Michael Wulf didn't want to be saved, she thought as she entered the bedroom. Even with the tiny step he'd taken tonight, he was stubborn on every other subject relating to change. And she knew that the more she tried, the harder it would be for her heart to heal when she left.
Emily just needed a clean diaper and a meal. So after changing her, Isabella slipped into her nightgown, lay down on the bed and held her sweet little girl in her arms. Her daughter was happily suckling when Michael knocked on the door.
"Come in," she called softly.
He took one look at her and Emily and turned away. "I'll come back later."
"No." She swallowed hard. Heartache be damned, she wanted him close. She always wanted him close. For as long as it was possible. "Why don't you build a fire and stay?"
Michael stood there for a moment, his jaw tight as he decided what to do and what he wanted. After a few seconds he walked into the room, crossed to the fireplace and set some logs in the grate. It took only a moment for the tinder to catch and a fire to blaze. Then he sat down and stretched out his leg.
"You're early tonight," she said gently. "You usually don't spill in until after midnight."
"I know" was all he said.
The fire crackled, Emily nursed, and after several bouts of Should I or shouldn't I? Isabella decided to take a chance and ask for something she'd wanted since the night she'd given birth to Emily.
"Michael?"
"Hmm?"
Her pulse jumped around like a rubber ball. "Why don't you take that rebellion of sharing dinner with me one step further?"
He glanced over at her, so incredibly, rustically handsome in the firelight. "How would I do that?"
She would be gone soon, and so would these strange and very wonderful moments of time. "Sleep with me."
His eyes went black as coal.
She scurried to clarify. "In the bed. We can share it. You insist on being in the room and … and I insist that you let that leg rest." She bit her lip.
He turned back toward the fire, and she wanted to die of embarrassment. What was she thinking? Why didn't she just get in the car, drive into town and moon the crowd over at Teddie's Pub and Pool? It would've been less humiliating.
After clicking off the bedside lamp, she exhaled and settled back further into the pillows. "Good night, Michael."
No answer came, not any verbal one, that is, but after a moment or two, he stood up and walked over to the bed. She held her breath, her heart pummeling her ribs as he lay down beside her, outside the covers and fully dressed. But she felt his warmth through the barriers.
"Night, Bella," he whispered as he put his arm around her.
As Emily continued to nurse, Michael moved closer, shutting off the small gap between them, and Isabella let her head fall against his shoulder with the understanding that this small glimpse of ecstasy would never be enough.
* * *
Chapter 7
« ^ »
The afternoon sun submerged the room in clean yellow light. Michael stared at the computer screen, his fingers poised above the keyboard.
Nothing.
This was unheard of. His mind was normally spilling over with project ideas. But this one in particular had him stumped.
He heard Emily's cry erupt from the baby monitor beside his mouse pad. Because he watched her during the day, he kept it close to him. The little girl now sounded very distressed, he thought, staring at the device. After a moment, Bella's soft soothing voice came over the monitor.
Michael pushed back his chair, wanting to go to them. Then he stopped and shoved himself toward the desk. Dammit, he couldn't react this way every time Emily cried and Bella went to her. Two weeks of sleeping in the same bed, eating dinner together, they were starting to fall into a routine. A very unwise routine.
No matter how right it felt each night stealing into bed with her, no matter how strong the urge to taste her again, pull her closer, feel the softness of her against him, he wasn't a part of their family. Sweet little Emily lay between them as she nursed reminding him, warning him to remember who they were to him. Two individuals he'd sworn to protect.
And that meant protecting them from himself, too. Bella had told him that her apartment and the bakery were almost ready. Soon they'd be gone. That thought pierced his chest. But even with the frequency in which he had to remind himself of their departure, the blade of pain to come thankfully hadn't reached his heart.
The soft whirr of the elevator rising tore his thoughts away. Bella was always coming upstairs without an invitation. In spite of himself, he looked forward to her impromptu visits, although he could never tell her that.
But when the metal doors parted, it was no curvy blonde with liquid-blue eyes that emerged.
"Hello, Michael."
"What the devil are you doing up here, Thomas?"
"This your office?" Doc Pinta's gaze worked the room like a mother-in-law looking for dust.
"Yes, it is," Michael answered dryly. "How did you get up here?"
"Isabella."
Michael snorted. "Of course. As if I really needed to ask. That woman has invaded my life." And damn if he didn't enjoy it. No one needed to know that sad fact, however.
Thomas fell into a leather chair, crossed one booted foot over his knee and grinned. "You could always tell her to go."
"Their apartment isn't ready yet."
"And ar
e you going to be ready to let them go when it is?"
"Of course I am," he said a little too forcefully. "This, the two of them staying here, well, it's been just a…" He paused.
Thomas's brow shot up. "A what? A good deed?"
"Something like that."
The older man nodded, amusement flashing in his eyes. "So what are you doing for Thanksgiving?"
"The same thing I do every year."
"Hole up in your house?"
"Work."
Thomas chuckled. "Ah, yes, of course."
"Normally I'd stay at the computer from dawn to midnight, but—"
"This year you might stop at dusk?"
"I was going to say that I'll probably stop for an hour or two. Maybe have something with Bella and—"
"Isabella and Emily are coming to my house."
Michael paused. "Are they?" He let that bit of information wash over him like ice water. He felt like three kinds of fool for assuming Bella was staying here with him tomorrow. But what could he do? As his latest mantra warned, they were guests—and soon-to-be-departing guests. Her life and where she chose to spend it and whom she chose to spend it with had nothing to do him.
"And I'm going to put it out there again this year," Thomas was saying. "If you can tear yourself away from the office for an evening, we'd love to have you, too. It won't be anything fancy. Just family."
Even though he and Thomas had always been on friendly terms, Michael had never crossed that line with him. No matter how many times the doctor and his wife invited Michael to their home, he wasn't about to get involved in some warm and fuzzy family thing.
Michael shook his head. "I don't think so. But thanks for the invitation."
"Well, if you change your mind…"
"I won't."
Thomas nodded, then turned and walked into the elevator. "I sure do love Thanksgiving. Reminds a person of all there is to be thankful for in this life, don't you think?"
