Baby and The Beast

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.