Nocturne (4 page)

“Actually, I am.”

“Let me show you to the kitchen, then.” He led the way across the room.

“By the way, is it okay if I do some laundry? I only brought enough clothes for a few days, and I’m down to my last pair of clean socks.”

“Certainly. The laundry room is on the lower level. Feel free to make use of it.”

“Thanks.”

They passed a curio cabinet Nicole hadn’t noticed before. She paused, glancing in at the contents. A dozen or more small wooden boxes were arranged on the glass shelves, all slightly different in size and shape, and all crafted with the same veneered marquetry technique as the box she’d seen in the bedroom, with a uniquely designed lid of inlaid wood. Some looked relatively new, while others appeared to be antiques.

“What a wonderful collection. Are they all music boxes?”

“Yes.”

“They’re beautiful and all so different. I think that one’s my favorite.” She pointed to an antique-looking box of burl wood with an inlaid design depicting a stunning red rose lying on a parchment scroll of music, surrounded by an intricate border. “Where is it from? Switzerland? Italy?”

He hesitated, an odd expression crossing his face. “I . . . don’t know. I’ve had it a long time. It was . . . my father’s.”

He turned and walked off. Nicole followed him into the kitchen, which was surprisingly small but modern and immaculate, featuring gleaming oak cabinets, stainless steel appliances, and black granite countertops. An oak table and four matching chairs with elaborately carved legs stood in an alcove by a back window.

“You’re welcome to fix yourself something to eat any time you like,” he said in the aloof, polite manner that seemed to be his forte. He opened a few cabinets, revealing a very scanty stock of canned and dry foods. “I’m sorry I don’t have many provisions on hand. It’s been awhile since I went to the store.

“Thank you. I’ll have a snack now if you don’t mind, but I’d just as soon wait until you get back for dinner.”

“
No
,” he said emphatically. “Don’t wait for me. I’ll be gone awhile, and in any case, I prefer to dine
alone
.”

Nicole was so taken aback by this statement and his unfriendly tone that she could formulate no reply.

He turned for the door, pausing halfway there to fling back at her, “Watch a film if you like, or you can borrow a book when I get back. Let me know if your headache gets worse or if you feel unwell for any other reason. And stay out of my study.”

With that, he was out the door.

CHAPTER 5

N
ICOLE STOOD FROZEN FOR A MOMENT, staring after him in dismay.
I prefer to dine alone. Stay out of my study.
How rude could you get? What did he think she was going to do, steal a book and run off with it into the snow? She understood that he needed to clear his road. But would it kill him, when he got back, to sit down and eat a meal with her?

The man was a confusing set of contradictions. On the one hand, he was curt and ill-mannered, made no disguise of his reluctance to have her here, and flinched at her very touch. On the other hand, she’d glimpsed signs of genuine charm and wit beneath that cool exterior. He’d saved her life, doctored her, had graciously given up his bedroom for her, and had given her the run of his kitchen. He seemed to be genuinely concerned for her welfare, even if he didn’t have much of a bedside manner.

Nicole sighed. It wasn’t as though she was an invited guest. She’d been dumped on him out of the blue, against his will. Why should he trust her, a total stranger? He was doing his best in his own way to accommodate her. She had to give him credit for that. And anyone who played the piano with such passion couldn’t be completely dead inside.

Maybe
, she mused, her heart softening,
that’s what happens when you’re rich and live all by yourself in a megachalet out in the sticks. You lose touch with people and the way they ought to be treated.

Nicole eyed the contents of the refrigerator, her stomach rumbling. Wow. He really
hadn’t
been to the store in a long time. The fridge was practically empty. There was a six-pack of soda and the casserole he had mentioned. The vegetable drawer was stuffed with carrots and the fruit drawer was full to the brim with apples. That was it. Not a leaf of lettuce, an egg, a loaf of bread, or any other fresh food.

Is this all there is to live on for the next four days?
she wondered, alarmed.
What a weird guy. He must really like carrots and apples.
Well, it looked like she was eating the casserole—whatever it was. Nicole took out the container, set it on the counter, and lifted the lid. It was enchiladas, topped with red sauce, cheese, and sliced olives—and it looked really good. Finding a plate and a serving spoon, Nicole dished herself up a nice-size portion, then put the plate in the microwave.

As the food heated, it filled the air with an appetizing aroma. To familiarize herself with the kitchen, Nicole glanced through all the drawers and cabinets. She found only the barest minimum of pots, dishes, and cooking and eating utensils, which all looked shiny and new, as if they’d never been used. There were wine glasses but no bottles of wine. The whole

Typical bachelor
, Nicole thought.
He never cooks for himself and probably lives on frozen dinners.
When she checked the freezer, however, it was completely bare—not a frozen dinner in sight. She was still puzzling over that as she checked out the stove and dishwasher. They were in pristine condition—the dishwasher was empty—and she couldn’t find a dish rack anywhere.
What does he do?
she wondered. Wash his dishes by hand, dry them immediately, and put them away after every meal? How anal retentive could you get?

That one casserole wasn’t going to last very long between two people, Nicole realized. She was going to have to get creative over the next few days to figure out something to eat.

When the microwave dinged, she brought her plate and a glass of water to the kitchen table and sat down. She took a forkful. It was delicious. For the next few minutes, Nicole ignored the oddness of her situation and surroundings and devoured the enchiladas, enjoying every bite. For dessert, she ate an apple. When she’d finished, she took two Tylenol, then found a sponge and dishwashing liquid under the sink and washed her dishes by hand. Feeling obligated to follow his strict routine, she dried everything and put it back where it belonged, carefully replacing the dish towel on the oven door handle so that the kitchen looked as pristine as it had when she entered.

Nicole checked her watch and glanced out the kitchen window. It was 5:30 PM and pitch-dark outside. The wind

She decided to take a few minutes to get the lay of the land and to do her laundry. On the opposite side of the main living area from the master bedroom was a closed door. She didn’t explore it, presuming it to be his study. Following the polished oak staircase downstairs, she found the laundry room, where her stained scarf was soaking in a tub of blood-tinged, soapy water. Her parka lay on the counter beside it. There were spots of blood on it that appeared to have been treated with a spray-on stain remover.

That was nice of him
, she thought.

While her clothes were in the washing machine, Nicole hand-washed her scarf and a few other items. A diligent scrubbing of her jacket removed almost all traces of blood. After hanging it up to dry and putting her clothes in the dryer, she moved on to investigate the next two rooms—a bathroom and a gym filled with top of the line exercise equipment. Framed movie posters decorated the walls, and she couldn’t help but smile. Two of the posters were from movies adapted from novels by Patrick Spencer, one of her favorite authors. It looked as though she and her host shared the same taste in film.

At the back of the house was a mud room. Coats and parkas hung on pegs, alongside a pair of snowshoes. Knee-high leather boots, cowboy boots, thick-soled insulated rubber boots, sneakers, and sheepskin-lined slippers stood in a neat row beneath a bench next to a door leading outside. Another door led to a chilly, three-car garage that was lined with cabinets and housed a Range Rover. The remainder of the cavernous

Leaving the garage and mud room, Nicole returned to the hall where she found another door. It was locked. She wondered if he always kept it locked, or only did it because she was here.
What’s the room for?
she mused.
His private wine reserve? His weapons collection? His store of gold bullion?

A row of old framed photos hung on the wall in the corridor. One of them—a sepia tone print of a bearded old man standing in front of a rustic cabin—looked like it dated back to the 1800s. Was this Michael’s ancestor? Nicole wondered. The one he said had homesteaded this property? If so—except for the heavy beard and mustache—he looked just like him. The other photos were mostly black-and-whites of various horses or people standing proudly with horses, and looked like they dated from the 1930s through the 1970s. It was an unusual and curious collection.

Heading back upstairs, Nicole tried to decide what to do with herself. Thankfully, her headache was gone. She wasn’t tired and she didn’t feel like watching a movie. If her cell phone was working, she’d happily spend a couple of hours catching up on her email—but that option was out. She briefly wondered if Michael owned a computer—but he’d made it clear that his study was off-limits—and in any case, his Internet connection relied on a satellite dish that was covered with snow.

It felt weird to be so out of touch with the rest of the world. But, Nicole realized, it was the perfect time to read. Reading had been one of Nicole’s most treasured pastimes ever since she was four years old. Her parents had made reading a

The house was a bit chillier than she liked, so after Nicole retrieved her book she grabbed a couple of logs from the wood bin in the living room and added them to the fire. Sitting down in a comfortable chair facing the hearth, she wrapped herself up in a soft blanket, turned on a nearby lamp, and began to read.

Her attention was so riveted to the novel that the next hour passed in the blink of an eye. The book—the story of a British doctor in Victorian England and the woman he loved—was so good that she didn’t want it to be over. The ending, although bittersweet, was real, heartfelt, and satisfying, and left her in tears. She lay back and closed her eyes, her head filled with vivid images from the novel, the warmth of the fire so relaxing that she drifted off.

When Nicole next opened her eyes, to her surprise, it was after nine o’clock. She stood up, stretching, wondering where Michael was. The muted sound of classical music emanated from behind the door that she guessed to be Michael’s study. Book in hand, she started in that direction, then stopped. He’d been so aloof and unfriendly when they last spoke, she hesitated at the thought of disturbing him—but she’d welcome another book to read, and he
had
offered to lend her one.

She rapped on the door. “Michael?”

Half a minute passed. The door opened halfway and Michael looked out, his hand on the knob, his lean frame filling the gap. “Yes?”

He was so very attractive, and standing so close, that Nicole’s thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind, and she almost forgot what she was going to say. “I’m sorry to bother you, but—”

“How’s the headache?” he interrupted.

“Better, thanks.”

His glance fell on the novel in her hand and his eyes widened, but he didn’t comment. “I saw you napping and didn’t want to wake you. Did you find something to eat?”

“Yes. Your cleaning lady’s an excellent cook.”

“So she tells me.” He spoke quickly, impassively. Whatever he was thinking, he was a master at hiding it.

“So she tells you?” Nicole repeated. “Haven’t you ever tried any of the food she brings over?”

“Of course. I just meant . . . that she’s proud of her culinary skills, and constantly reminds me of them.”

“Oh.” She waited for him to invite her into the room, but he clearly had no such aim in mind. “I thought I might read,” she continued, mustering her resolve, “and you said I could borrow a book. So . . .”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” He hesitated as if this somehow presented a problem. “What kind of books do you like? I’ll bring one out for you.”

“Can I just see what you’ve got?”

He didn’t reply, obviously reluctant.

“Oh for God’s sake,” Nicole said, losing patience. “I won’t take up too much of your precious time. I’ll just pick a book and be out of here.” Without further ado, she gave the door a shove, pushed past Michael, and swept into the room.

Three steps inside the door she stopped, captivated. He had called it a study. Nicole had expected a cozy retreat with a

It was an expansive gentleman’s retreat and a library. A fire blazed in another grand stone fireplace, and three walls were filled with floor-to-ceiling bookcases crammed with books. A comfortable-looking black leather couch and easy chair faced each other on one side of the room, opposite a mahogany coffee table and end tables that held small, elegant collectibles. On the other side stood a huge, L-shaped mahogany desk, on top of which rested stacks of papers and a state-of-the-art computer system.

“Oh. Wow. This is really . . . nice.”

“Thank you,” he said simply. He lowered the volume on the stereo with a remote.

Nicole saw what looked like a document open on his computer. Noting the direction of her gaze, Michael quickly crossed to his desk and put the computer to sleep. The screen went blank.

Nicole silently reminded herself not to be offended. He was a privacy freak; she already knew that. He dined alone, he worked alone, he didn’t want her to see what he was working on. Whatever.

“I’ll just grab a book.” Nicole moved straight for one of the bookcases and studied the titles on the shelves. All the classics of British and American literature seemed to be represented: Daniel Defoe, Jane Austen, Charlotte and Emily Brontë, Edgar Allan Poe, Lewis Carroll, Charles Dickens, Mark Twain, Louisa May Alcott, Bram Stoker, Arthur Conan Doyle. Many of the books looked very old and were beautifully bound in leather.

“You have all my favorites,” she said with delight. Taking out and examining a stately edition of
The Complete Adventures
, Nicole quoted in her best Holmes impression, “‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’” Smiling, Nicole replaced it on the shelf. “Some of these look like collector’s items. Can I really borrow one?”

“Whatever you like, Miss Whitcomb.”

She heard something different in his voice—a quieter, mellower tone than he’d yet exhibited—and she turned to look at him. He was leaning up against his desk, his arms crossed over his chest, his long legs stretched out before him. His guard was down, and he was studying her with an expression that resembled something like tentative delight. It was the first time he’d looked at her that way—as if she might prove to be an interesting human being after all and not just an inconvenience. It wasn’t the most flattering look in the world, and yet the newfound warmth in his blue eyes made her heart skitter.