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