Nocturne (3 page)

Nicole stared at him, stunned. “Are you kidding? Is there any other way out? Do you have a snowmobile?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Could I walk out? I mean, two days from now, after the storm is over?”

“On an unplowed road? No.” He stood, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets. “Steamboat Springs is more than twenty miles away and blocked by the avalanche. My closest neighbor is twenty miles in the other direction, and it’s a good fifteen miles beyond that to Kremmling, the nearest town. Even with snowshoes, that’d be an impossible trek.”

“What am I going to do?” Nicole said, distraught. “I have to get home and back to my job. And my cat—”

“I’m sorry. You seem to be stuck here.” His tone and expression made it crystal clear that he wasn’t any happier about the prospect than she was.

“But four days! I can’t expect you to put me up all that time.”

“It seems that we have no alternative, Miss Whitcomb.”

Miss Whitcomb? Nicole couldn’t remember anyone ever calling her that in her entire life. Before she could comment, he went on:

“It’s awkward, I admit. You don’t know me and I don’t know you—and I’m not accustomed to having guests. But I’ll do my best to stay out of your way. And don’t worry,” he added, with a dark glimmer in his eyes and a surprisingly playful smile, “I promise I won’t bite.”

CHAPTER 4

A
SHIVER PASSED THROUGH NICOLE’S BODY. When he looked at her that way, she felt an inexplicable sense of apprehension again, despite her attraction to him. It was a very confusing, unsettling feeling, and she was glad he was halfway across the room.

“Do you have a phone?” Nicole asked. “I need to make a few calls, but I couldn’t get a signal with my cell phone earlier.”

“Cell phones don’t work in this area. They don’t run phone lines up here, so I use my satellite Internet connection to make calls. You’re welcome to use it, but in this kind of weather it will operate for only a few minutes at a time, if I keep brushing snow off the dish.”

“Oh—that sounds difficult. Is the dish on your roof?”

“I installed it on the deck. I didn’t want to have to go up on the roof every time it snowed. Just let me know when you’re ready to make your calls, and I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks.” Nicole’s head began to pound with renewed vigor. “Do you have any aspirin or Tylenol?”

“Sorry, no.”

“I have some in my suitcase, in the trunk of my car.”

“Your bags are here. I brought up all your things for you.”

“All my things? Thank you.”

He rose, gesturing toward a set of closed double doors on the far side of the living room, where she now saw her bags neatly stacked beside her purse. “Would you like to get settled in?” he asked with calm politeness. “I can show you to your room.”

“That’d be great.”

At the door, they both bent to pick up her backpack at the same moment and his hand inadvertently closed over hers. His fingers were strong and slightly cool, and the contact between them caused a tingle to rush up Nicole’s arm. His reaction was very different, however. To her confusion, he yanked his hand back as if her touch had burned him. Quickly he grabbed her other case, shoved the door open, and strode wordlessly into the room.

Nicole followed, bristling. Was he a wealthy hermit who despised people in general—or just her in particular? What was it about her that he found so offensive? She chided herself for her unwelcome feelings of attraction to him, vowing to wipe them entirely from her mind.

The bedroom was large and airy with the same open beam ceiling as the great room, picture windows with heavy curtains,

“This is beautiful,” Nicole said, suddenly uncertain, “but—isn’t this the master bedroom?”

“It’s the only bedroom.” He set her bags on top of the dresser.

“You don’t have a guest room?”

“No.”

Only one bedroom, in a house this size?
He wasn’t kidding when he said he wasn’t accustomed to having guests. “I can’t take your room.”

“I’d like you to take it. I’ll sleep on the sofa in my study.”

“No, really—” she began, but he cut her off.

“I insist. You’ll want your privacy. The bathroom’s through there,” he said, indicating an adjacent door. “I’ve already taken my things out so I won’t disturb you.”

Nicole felt incredibly guilty kicking him out of his room, even if he couldn’t manage to hide his antipathy for her. At the same time, he was being such a gentleman about it, she didn’t see how she could refuse. “Well, okay . . . thank you, Michael . . . but I feel really bad about this.”

“It’s fine, really. I tend to work late and have caught forty winks in the study on many occasions.” He gestured toward a phone by the bed. “There’s a phone if you’d like to use it. Just give me a minute to clear off the dish.” He turned to go.

“What’s your number in case someone needs to reach me?”

He paused, frowning; then he found a pen and notepad in the nightstand, jotted down a number, and handed it to her.

He left the room. Nicole heaved a sigh. This was all so uncomfortable and strange. She reminded herself how lucky she was that this man had rescued her. If not for him, she surely would have died out on that road today—but he was a hard man to figure out. Maybe he was an English lord or duke who’d left his title behind to rough it in the Colorado mountains. Although this beautiful house could hardly be called roughing it.

Nicole retrieved her vanity bag from her suitcase and took it into the bathroom, which was large and luxurious, and outfitted with gold-plated fixtures and an oversize marble tub and shower. As she grabbed her travel vial of Tylenol she caught sight of her face in the mirror and nearly recoiled. In her preoccupation with her headache and her circumstances, she’d almost forgotten her injury. The left side of her face sported a small, purplish bruise, and a makeshift bandage cut from a strip of white fabric (one of his T-shirts?) was wrapped and tied around her throbbing forehead, holding a small compress in place.
I look hideous
, she mused.
No wonder he can’t stand the sight of me.

She glanced about for a glass so she could take the Tylenol, but couldn’t find one anywhere.
Weird
, she thought.
Doesn’t everyone keep a glass in their bathroom? He must have taken it when he removed his stuff.

Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She’d planned to stop for lunch on the way to the airport. It wasn’t a good idea to take Tylenol on an empty stomach. Better to wait, Nicole decided, until she finished her phone calls, and then ask Michael for something to eat.

Returning to the bedroom, Nicole mentally reviewed the people she needed to call: her boss, her neighbor, her mother, and the car rental company. She sat down on the edge of the bed and was about to make the first call, when she noticed a beautiful wooden box on the nightstand. It was about the size of a hardcover book but a couple of inches taller, and made from a polished hardwood. The lid was inlaid with an intricate design fashioned from different colors of wood. Nicole couldn’t resist picking it up and examining it more closely. The lid was hinged at the back and there was a small windup key on the bottom. When she lifted the lid, it began to play a snippet from Mozart’s
Eine Kleine Nachtmusik
, a song she was very familiar with.

Nicole smiled. A music box! It was truly lovely. The cylinder and all its workings were visible in a compartment beneath a glass window. It seemed like a whimsical thing for a man like Michael to own. And yet—was it? What did she know about him, really?

MICHAEL COULD HEAR EVERY WORD she was saying on the phone, even though she was halfway across the house behind a closed door. It was an ability he had always found more aggravating than useful. Not that he didn’t like the sound of her voice; it was quite pleasant, in fact. But he didn’t like invading other people’s privacy anymore than he liked them invading his.

It sounded like she was talking to her employer, and yet it could quite possibly be her boyfriend. A woman like that—attractive, charming, good sense of humor—was bound to have a boyfriend. He could envision the chap in his mind: a

Michael caught himself with a laugh and shook his head. What was he doing? Where were these thoughts coming from? She seemed like a nice enough young woman, but why did he care whether or not she was involved with anyone? Admittedly, he was physically attracted to her—
very
physically attracted to her—and he’d enjoyed their short conversation. But it had been so long since he’d been alone with a woman, he no doubt would have started salivating over any female who was alive and breathing and was dropped on his doorstep. The less he knew about her—and the less contact he had with her while she was here—the better.

Michael strode into the kitchen. When he built this house, he’d thought it a waste of money to put in a kitchen at all, but he had to appease the architect, the contractor, and the building commission; he didn’t want to do anything that would call attention to himself. He kept the shelves stocked these days for the same reason—to keep up appearances for Jhania, his cleaning lady—buying a little bit of this or that whenever he went into town, even going so far as to leave empty cans in the trash and dirty dishes in the sink. Up to now, he’d always found the charade to be a nuisance. Now he was grateful for it. It meant there was enough food to keep his guest alive.

And that was the whole trick, wasn’t it? To keep her alive?

Michael quickly surveyed the contents of the refrigerator and cabinets. Thank God he’d had time, before she’d regained consciousness, to supplement the meager offerings with a few

The sound of her voice continued to infiltrate his brain. She was talking to someone about an animal now. That’s right; she’d mentioned something about a cat.

Returning to the great room, Michael sat down at the grand piano and began to play. Hopefully, Rachmaninoff would tune her out.

As he poured his frustration into the instrument, he reminded himself that his reaction to her was just an innate physical response to her humanness and femininity; there was no more to it than that. He just had to put up with her for a few days and then she’d be gone and life would be back to normal.

NICOLE’S SPIRITS LIFTED at the first sound of the bold, thrilling piano music coming from the other room. Smiling, she finished making her calls, the last one ending just as the connection dropped out.

Not wishing to disrupt Michael’s playing, Nicole quietly entered the great room and stopped by a chair a few yards away to watch and listen. A highly accomplished pianist, he was playing the piece by heart, concentrating with a rapt expression as his fingers flew over the keys. The room resounded with the vibrant melody.

Nicole had loved the piano ever since she was six years old, when she’d attended a friend’s recital and had begged her mother to let her take lessons. Her mom had immediately bought an old upright piano. When she was a few years older, Nicole had helped pay for lessons and sheet music by mowing lawns and doing odd jobs for neighbors. She’d practiced every

She’d only heard a grand piano in concerts and recordings. She’d only played one once, years ago, at a recital held inside a gymnasium, and the music had become lost in the immense space. Here and now—listening to Michael play this magnificent piece on this huge instrument within the confines of his living room—Nicole felt swept away. Holding on to the back of the easy chair before her, she closed her eyes, letting the music feed her soul. Her fears and anxieties receded. Anyone who could play this well, she decided, was a man to admire, not to fear.

Michael finished the song with a flourish, the final chords reverberating through the room. Nicole applauded.

“You’re amazing,” Nicole said, joining him at the piano. “Rachmaninoff, isn’t it? Moment Musical in E Minor?”

He seemed both surprised and pleased that she recognized the song. “You know Rachmaninoff?”

“I do. Half the music on my iPod is classical. I love listening to it while I walk or exercise, and when I work in my garden plot.”

“Your what?”

“My garden plot. It’s just a ten foot square in my community garden—but I live in an apartment so it’s the only patch of dirt I’ve got.”

Michael looked at her, intrigued. “What do you grow in this patch of dirt?”

“Herbs and vegetables and a whole bunch of flowers. I love spending a couple of hours there every Saturday. I find it therapeutic to dig in the earth.”

His eyebrows lifted and a hint of a smile tugged at his lips, but he didn’t comment. Changing the subject, he asked, “Were you able to get through on the phone?”

“Yes. Thank you. The car rental company said to call them when the roads are clear, and they’ll send out a tow truck.”

“Good.” Gazing out the window, where the snow was now drifting down gently against a background of white mist, he said, “Speaking of which, it looks like the wind’s died down for a moment, and it’ll be dark soon. I’d best finish clearing my road while I have the chance.”

“You’re going out in this weather? It’s so foggy, I can hardly see.”

“I know every curve of that road. I could probably plow it with my eyes closed.”

“But why clear it now if, as you say, the storm’s going to last a few days?”

“If I wait, there could be so much buildup I wouldn’t get out until the end of spring. And I have to keep the back road open to the barn.” He stood up. “It occurred to me that while I’m gone, you might be hungry.”