Baby and The Beast. Laura Wright

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