“You’re Crowding Me.”

“There’s always that between us, isn’t there?” Mikhail asked.

“I don’t know what you mean.” He was standing too close, and whatever pulsed hot and alive between them burned Ellie’s skin. Her senses tingled. “If you weren’t so afraid—”

The world stilled around them. “Of what am I afraid?” he asked very slowly.

“You’re afraid to get involved. Anyone can see that.”

“Can they?” he asked darkly, studying her with that close, burning intensity that seemed to make the sand shiver beneath her shoes. The waves seemed to slow and stop, the fog stilling and intimate, and Ellie could only hear the sound of her quickening heartbeat.

Then, with a rough, reluctant sigh, he tugged her to him and took her mouth with enough heat to make her forget everything but taking as he was taking….

Everything that she had sensed hidden beneath Mikhail’s cold exterior was just beneath the surface, hot and real, and it was hers at last.

“So now it has begun,” he whispered.

Dear Reader,

Spring into the new season with six fresh passionate, powerful and provocative love stories from Silhouette Desire.

Experience first love with a young nurse and the arrogant surgeon who stole her innocence, in USA TODAY bestselling author Elizabeth Bevarly’s Taming the Beastly MD (#1501), the latest title in the riveting DYNASTIES: THE BARONES continuity series. Another USA TODAY bestselling author, Cait London, offers a second title in her HEARTBREAKERS miniseries—Instinctive Male (#1502) is the story of a vulnerable heiress who finds love in the arms of an autocratic tycoon.

And don’t miss RITA® Award winner Marie Ferrarella’s A Bachelor and a Baby (#1503), the second book of Silhouette’s crossline series THE MOM SQUAD, featuring single mothers who find true love. In Tycoon for Auction (#1504) by Katherine Garbera, a lady executive wins the services of a commitment-shy bachelor. A playboy falls in love with his secretary in Billionaire Boss (#1505) by Meagan McKinney, the latest MATCHED IN MONTANA title. And a Native American hero’s fling with a summer-school teacher produces unexpected complications in Warrior in Her Bed (#1506) by Cathleen Galitz.

This April, shower yourself with all six of these moving and sensual new love stories from Silhouette Desire.

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Instinctive Male
Cait London

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CAIT LONDON

is an avid reader and an artist who plays with computers and maintains her Web site, http://caitlondon.com. Her books reflect her many interests, including herbs, driving cross-country and photography. A national bestselling and award-winning author of category romance and romantic suspense, Cait has also written historical romances under another pseudonym. Three is her lucky number; she has three daughters, and her life events have been in threes. Cait says, “One of the best perks about this hard work is the thrilling reader response.”

To Joan. Thank you.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

One

M ikhail Stepanov was the one man Ellie Lathrop did not want to ask for anything.

At eight o’clock on a late February night, fog curled seductively around the Washington State coastal road; it was treacherous with curves and damp with the drizzling rain that had been falling all day. Ellie tightened her hands on the mini-station wagon’s steering wheel and glanced at the sleeping child in the back seat, nestled amid her favorite blanket and toys.

The drive from Albuquerque was draining, requiring stops at rest areas for Tanya to play. A few hours at night were spent sleeping in the well-lit parking lots of restaurants because motels would have taken the last of Ellie’s money. In the last six months, she had spent most of her reserves in traveling from place to place, always moving, keeping Tanya safe. Ellie drove skillfully, carefully, more so than if she had been traveling by herself—because nothing could happen to her legally adopted, precious child.

Her sister’s biological child…and now Hillary wanted Tanya back, to use as a pawn in her marriage game.

Ellie ran her hand through her hair and realized she was shaking, running on coffee, nerves and fear.

Just over four years ago, she had cruised down this same twisting road, determined to irritate stern man of steel Mikhail Stepanov. Ellie’s father owned the chain of Mignon International Resorts, to which Mikhail’s Amoteh Resort belonged; as the boss’s daughter, she often stayed at the various resorts free of charge. She had driven a sleek custom-ordered red sports car then, and fresh from a luxurious European spa, she had been up to battling Mikhail—one of her most enjoyable diversions, pricking at his meticulous businessman exterior, trying to find the man beneath. Back then, she didn’t care what he thought of her, and it was all a game.

One tilt of that arrogant head, one slash of those green eyes, and her instincts told her to cut the Ice Man down a notch. Maybe back then she’d had to make him pay for being so like her father, focused on business, untouchable in his emotions.

Her father’s files were complete—Mikhail Stepanov had been divorced five years ago, refusing his wife’s demand to leave plans for the Amoteh Resort. JoAnna had come to Mignon’s main offices and had told Paul Lathrop everything—including that she’d deliberately aborted Mikhail’s baby. And yet, Mikhail revealed nothing of the emotions that would disturb another man.

Ellie’s taunting games had stopped when she had became a mother to her sister’s biological child. Tanya, just four years old, had to be protected, and Mikhail was the only man who could help. At six-foot three inches, he towered over Ellie’s five-foot-seven frame, and when he was nearby, her instincts as a woman prickled. She refused to be intimidated by those narrowed green eyes, that forbidding scowl of dark brown brows.

Her windshield wipers click-clacked as Ellie thought of Mikhail Stepanov, the man she must face. With a Russian immigrant father and a Texas beauty as his mother, Mikhail was devoted to his family and to the Amoteh Resort. As manager, he moved through the luxurious corridors like a lord cruising his fortress, frighteningly efficient, quiet, dark and dangerous. Always perfectly groomed and dressed in a suit, his dark brown hair neatly clipped, Mikhail was about as approachable as an iceberg. Maybe that was why she had loved taunting him so much—just to see if he was human…to see what ran beneath that steely surface.

Mikhail had the unique ability to challenge her at a level that made her want to taunt him, to bring out the real man. Her senses told her that beneath Mikhail’s perfectly groomed, civilized suit lurked a primitive, sensual male—one she wanted to taste and captivate before moving on….

A woman whose mother had deserted her as an infant and who had been raised by a cold, hurtful father, Ellie wasn’t one to stay in relationships that could hurt.

Mikhail couldn’t be hurt. Not once in eleven years since she’d first met him in her father’s offices did he disprove her appraisal. He’d been married and divorced in that time and so had she, but whatever nettled her about Mikhail hadn’t changed.

Ellie doubted that Mikhail had any personal weaknesses—the man was all steel and business, the same ilk as her father.

Her lips pressed tightly as she watched the windshield wipers smear wet trails across the glass. It was dangerous for her to attempt to pit Mikhail against Paul Lathrop—she could lose. Correction: Tanya could lose.

On the hill overlooking the small town of Amoteh, Ellie slowed the small station wagon and stopped briefly. Located on the Pacific edge of southwest Washington State, the town had taken its name from the Chinook word for strawberry, amoteh. The lights of the tourist town, now wrapped in rain and fog, glowed eerily in the distance.

Mikhail had fought Paul, persuading him to finance a Mignon resort in the slow-moving, quiet town. The battles weren’t sweet, but Paul had known that Mikhail’s determination would find finances to create the Amoteh Resort—Mikhail’s beloved “baby.”

Those battles convinced Ellie that Mikhail could protect Tanya from her grandfather and irresponsible mother.

Ellie shivered, despite the warmth of the mini-station wagon. Her nails, no longer long, buffed and glossed, were now short and practical as they tightly gripped the steering wheel. She despised her helplessness, the desperation that had made her contact Mikhail Stepanov.

As her resources dwindled, she’d been wrangling with Mikhail, trying to nudge him into welcoming her and Tanya at the resort; Lathrops always had free accommodations. Then, six months ago, she’d been desperate. She’d ordered him to reserve a suite for her, with one room prepared for a child. After the first telephone volley between them, he hadn’t answered her telephone calls, e-mails or faxes. Because she had nowhere else to send Tanya’s toys, she had sent them to the Amoteh Resort.

As her father’s daughter, Ellie knew how to bully and maneuver. Begging would be new and humiliating. At thirty-six years old, she was forced to deal with a man just like her father, to make concessions, to be at the mercy of his decisions…. In Mikhail’s tersely expressed opinion, she was a playgirl, a jet-setter without responsibilities, legendary for her whims and parties, and she had botched a major project for the Mignon chain.

She’d botched nothing, merely taken the blame for Hillary, and she wasn’t that playgirl any longer; she was desperate to protect her child and nothing of her former wealth remained. Ellie tightened her hands on the steering wheel; she was done wrangling, threatening and contacting Mikhail. If she had to, she’d beg….

Rain slashed against the windshield, as cold and welcoming as Mikhail would be. Ellie brushed a tear from her cheek. She hated crying, and yet with her financial reserves and strength almost gone and danger threatening Tanya, she needed the only man who could help her keep her child…if he would.

She weighed arriving at the Amoteh Resort and facing Mikhail; Tanya shouldn’t be exposed to that first clash, because they always clashed, didn’t they? Mikhail in that quiet, dark, intense way as a response to her glittering, slashing offensive. She’d circled him, looking for a weakness, and had found none.

But this time, Ellie would not let herself respond to the instincts that Mikhail always set off. She would not….

Ellie turned the car from the Amoteh and toward the Stepanov home. She had met Mikhail’s parents, Fadey and Mary Jo Stepanov, earlier, at a social dinner at the opening of the Amoteh, and had liked them instantly.

With the instinct of a mother protecting her child, Ellie drove to the Stepanov home, a bold wooden structure overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

Two hours later, Mikhail Stepanov wanted to toss Ellie Lathrop out on her expensive derriere, the one clad in black designer jeans and seated on the walnut desk in his sprawling office. As manager of the expansive Amoteh Resort, he knew how to get rid of unwanted “pests.” Mikhail narrowed his eyes, considering the terms in which to best frame Ellie, and came up with “A Big Bloody Thorn in My Side, the Potential to Ruin Everything, the Woman I Wish Were Anywhere But Here.” Then he added mentally, “The woman who dumped a pitcher of ice water over my head at a business meeting when I agreed with Paul, the woman who lobbed pâté across an elegant dinner table at me, the woman who brought an entire party into my bedroom at her father’s house, the woman I want most to avoid.”

At nine o’clock at night, the rain outside Mikhail’s office window pattered softly. The Amoteh Resort, luxuriously huge and sprawling, was ominously quiet. The few off-season tourists, taking advantage of the lower rates, had settled in for the night, and the minimal staff had gone to their homes in the small, quaint oceanside town.

With a mix of rain, ice and snow expected, Mikhail would have ordinarily gone to his parents’ home to meet the guest staying there. But Ellie wasn’t just any guest, and he wanted their battle to be private.

Mikhail sent a pointed, narrow-eyed message to said curved bottom on his desk, and Ellie smiled blandly at him. She tilted her head just that bit that said she recognized his hint and wasn’t taking it. Cut in different layers, her shoulder-length hair was sun-streaked, the tips catching the light, shifting over the darker layers beneath. A smooth strand of silky hair slid across her cheek, gleaming and catching the soft lighting. Her tan was genuine, not from a bottle. But above that soft cheek, Ellie’s gray eyes were taunting and veiled by her sweeping eyelashes.

He liked order in his business and in his life, and Ellie knew exactly how to tear that order apart. He refused to let her nettle him.

Her mouth curved slightly and one fine dark eyebrow lifted, challenging him as she moved just enough to nudge a neat stack of papers. The top one slid aside and Mikhail checked himself from straightening them. She knew perfectly well that he preferred order.

All five-foot seven, sleek, selfish, spoiled inches of her, from that carefully tousled shoulder-length hair down to her neatly trimmed boots, had irritated him since the day he first met her—the boss’s daughter.

“I warned you that I was coming. You’ve had months to prepare. I told you to get a suite ready with a room for a child,” Ellie said softly in her cultured, I’ve Got You, Bub, Boss’s Daughter tones. “I sent boxes of toys. Where are they?”

If he could have tossed Ellie out into the night, he would have. From experience, he knew that where Ellie went, she brought trouble.

In this case, she had brought trouble to his parents’ home—in the form of a four-year-old girl. His parents’ delight had sounded over the telephone; they were happy to baby-sit while Ellie Lathrop came to see him. The child was already tucked in and sleeping deeply after his father’s bedtime stories.

Mikhail didn’t want to think about whose child she was. Ellie hadn’t been pregnant at the opening of the Amoteh over four years ago, and now she’d collected a four-year-old child. Paul had been silent about his daughters, but then he wasn’t a sentimental man. Guessing anything about Ellie was a disaster; she was unpredictable. “The toys are in the storeroom. You can take them with you. You’re not setting up camp in the Amoteh.”

“Oh, I’m not?”

There was just that crisp, taunting tone that could set him on edge. How typical of her, Mikhail thought, to arrive at night. Just for the night—because in the morning, she was leaving, Paul Lathrop’s daughter, or not.

“My parents called, warning me of your arrival. They said the little girl is asleep in their guestroom. That’s an indication you aren’t certain of your welcome at the Amoteh, and you went to my parents because you know of their softness for children. Let me clarify the situation for you—You will not use my family, Ellie, and you are not welcome here.”

“Your mother and father were thrilled to baby-sit. I’m going to be staying with them, too. I’m more than welcome there, if not here. I’ll be a regular part of your family. Won’t that be nice?” she asked too sweetly, in the taunting tone she’d used before.

Mikhail chewed on that galling truth—his mother, Mary Jo, had been thrilled, of course…almost as delighted as Fadey, his father. Their first grandchild, Jarek Stepanov and his wife Leigh’s baby, would be born in three weeks, and they had always loved children. Therefore, it made sense that Ellie chose the loving Stepanov family for her victims—a stealthy way to get to Mikhail and torture him as only she could do.

And for some unexplained reason, Mikhail’s parents delighted in hearing of his clashes with Ellie. Their interest in his battles with Ellie was only exceeded by his younger brother’s teasing. Jarek liked her, and before his marriage to Leigh, Jarek and Ellie had played a flirting game that they both knew would go no further. Mikhail had sensed that they did so to torment him.

His ex-wife’s games and torments had made him immune to flirtation from self-serving women like Ellie.

Outside, the black swells of the Pacific eased to caress the shoreline, fog curling around the piers, creeping up the steps to enfold the massive Amoteh Resort, caressing it like a lover.

An offshore buoy sounded softly, warningly, as Mikhail opened the window for a breath of the crisp, salt-scented air he had loved all his life. Soft lights shone in his parents’ home, a jutting wood and rock structure with sprawling porches that overlooked the ocean and, a distance away, his brother Jarek’s new home with Leigh.

Just north on the coastline was Strawberry Island. In another century a Hawaiian chieftain, captured and enslaved by whalers and shipwrecked on this island, had died. Bitterly alone and longing for his homeland, Kamakani had placed a curse on Strawberry Island: only a woman who knew her own heart could dance before his grave and remove that curse.

Mikhail decided that Ellie was his private curse. He’d known it from the moment he’d met her eleven years ago in Paul Lathrop’s Seattle office, expensively dressed for a tennis game, and—on the company payroll—laying out her day of saunas and beauty shops and a party that night. He’d known she was a curse when the Amoteh opened and Ellie held a private party in her suite. Mikhail had been called to break up the brawl between two rich playboys competing for her favors. Playing her games, she had sent a pack of equally spoiled women after Mikhail. Ellie had told them that just-divorced Mikhail was on the lookout for a new wife.

One wife of the same spoiled social set as Ellie was enough for Mikhail. At thirty-nine years old, he had one love—the Amoteh Resort.

He turned to Ellie and frowned slightly as she eased off the black leather jacket she had been wearing to reveal a buttoned-up white sweater that fitted her curves perfectly. She arched and stretched sensuously and looked drowsily at him.

Mikhail inhaled sharply, surprised at the impact of that look. He jammed his hands into his pockets; they had a sensation stirring in them—how would her breasts would feel cupped in his hands? “Try that on someone else,” he said briskly. “I’m immune.”

She yawned and stretched again, a feminine contrast to the heavy walnut Stepanov furniture in his office. “I’m not playing games with you, Mikhail. I’m too tired. But thanks for the invitation.”

Ellie knew just where to place the barbs. “I wasn’t inviting,” he said. “You are not welcome at the Amoteh.”

That his parents’ home was another matter grated.

She turned to him, her expression set, eyes narrowed and glittering like steel, just as it was when she was determined to have her way. Her word was a slashing order. “Reconsider.”

“Not a chance. Every time you’re in the vicinity, bad things happen. There was that botched deal at the last minute—it cost Paul a prime chunk of prospective Cannes real estate and hours of negotiation. Brawls, staff quitting, food tossing, midnight swimming contests, that sort of thing. You have no regard for the schedule your father’s staff must keep. This incident is an Ellie classic—You were angry with Paul once and distracted a business meeting at corporate headquarters in Seattle by bringing a dog fashion show right into the conference room. He had to donate money to the animal shelter on the spot, just to get rid of the menagerie causing havoc during an important meeting. It was simple blackmail.”

“That little Yorkie loved you and you know it.” Ellie bared her teeth in a smile. They gleamed, all perfect and sharp. “I promise to be good,” she singsonged softly.

Mikhail refused to respond; he had seen Ellie in action. Paul Lathrop’s daughter was a life-seasoned fighter, holding her own. She knew how to blend femininity with steel, how to cut and slash and bargain, and she always landed on her feet, taking care of herself. She might not know it, but in Paul’s hard heart, he respected her. Mikhail had seen Paul and Ellie, toe to toe, in an argument, yelling, verbally hitting at each other, and she was very good at getting what she wanted.

She was not getting what she wanted this time.

She frowned slightly, her voice low, all humor erased, just stating facts, summing them up in a neat package as though she had thought carefully about each one. “Everyone knows that you’ve got one thing on your agenda, and that is the perfection of the Amoteh. You’ve pushed Paul into putting one of his Mignon International Resorts into a bit of isolated beach with nothing to offer, off the main interstate. You’re determined to make the resort succeed, drawing in trade for the townspeople, and supply the rooms with Stepanov furniture, made by your family. My father is using your setup here as a model for his other resorts—you’re his star high-achiever. You’re a man he respects.”

Mikhail let that remark pass. Paul’s personal ethics did not agree with Mikhail’s, but the owner of the worldwide resort chain was a good businessman and he could be made to listen. An orphan who came from the harsh city streets, Paul Lathrop had built a worldwide chain of resorts. Mikhail understood the desperation for respect—as an immigrant, Fadey had been desperate to prove himself worthy of Mary Jo’s wealthy Texan family. “Whatever you want—no.”

“Listen, bud,” Ellie said slowly as she rose to her feet. “I’m dead tired and in no mood to present my problem in a sensitive, logical way. I need you to help me. You’re the only man who can. I’ve tried everything else, and you’re my last resort. Do you actually think I would humiliate myself in front of you if I had any other choice?”

She smiled weakly as if admitting defeat to herself, and for the first time, Mikhail noted the taut lines of her face, the fatigue shadowing her eyes. A little of the brittleness shifted into a softness he hadn’t expected. “See you in the morning, bud. And try to be a little more pleasant for my daughter, will you? Tanya is an innocent in this whole mess.”

Daughter. Whoever had given birth to the child, it wasn’t Ellie. Mikhail remembered her body in that sleek, black maillot suit and pressed close against him as she taunted him; it wasn’t maternal just over four years ago. While he was turning that thought, Ellie slowly, tiredly made her way out of his office. He followed her to the doorway and frowned when she braced a hand against the wall, slumping. She turned to the wall, placing both hands flat against it, as if she had nowhere else to go. She looked fragile and wounded and too tired to go on.

“I hate you. You’re so much like him,” she whispered as he came close and supported her with an arm around her waist. Without the feline arrogance she usually tossed at him, her body seemed terribly light and fragile.

And then he saw that she was crying—tough, willful, spoiled Ellie was crying. Not racking, hard sobs, but the soft sound that said she was trying to withhold her burden and couldn’t.

The hair on Mikhail’s nape lifted warningly. He might dislike Ellie, but he wasn’t immune to a woman crying. And Ellie Lathrop never cried—she pushed and shoved and threatened and sulked and maneuvered and haunted, but she never cried.

With a sinking feeling and mental warnings flashing in the softly lit corridor, Mikhail eased her gently into the Stepanov Furniture display room and closed the heavy door. Ellie seemed to sink to the massive bed created by Fadey. With shoulders slumped, she brushed her hands wearily against her face. In the next moment, as though she feared he would see too much, she was on her feet, standing taut as if held upright by strings. She smiled too brightly. “Got to go. Talk with you in the morning.”

He didn’t trust her. Was this a new act? Something she’d devised to mock him?

Mikhail could feel the tension ripping through her like electricity. From those shadows beneath her eyes, he surmised that whatever was bothering her had taken its toll. He placed a hand on her shoulder and eased her back down to sit on the bed. “Talk now.”

“I don’t want to talk now,” Ellie said bluntly, tiredly. “I’m not up to fighting with you. Give me a break, will you?”

“No. Talk…now.”

She scrubbed her hands over her face, and Mikhail noted the absence of her usual perfect but light cosmetics—no mascara, no glossy, sexy lips. His gaze ripped down her body, and found, for the first time, the missing button on the leather jacket, the slightly frayed collar of the sweater, the worn seams of her jeans and her scuffed boots.

Ellie noted his closer inspection and turned her face away. “I’m not at my best,” she admitted shakily and sank back down on the bed. “I’m just so tired.”

What could have made her swallow her pride and come to him? Whose child had she borne…or otherwise acquired? Had the man deserted them? Mikhail folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the sturdy walnut armoire he had helped to build. “Tell me.”

“No.”

“You will.” He reached to turn on an elegantly crafted brass lamp, lightbulbs hidden in the almost realistic bouquet of tulips. The lamp was a product of a local craftsman, just like the woven table runners on the dining room table. Mikhail smoothed the mauve-colored glass petals with his fingertip, admiring the skill of the artist. More than one family in Amoteh depended on the resort’s success and the display of their crafts. His goal was to provide work in a community he loved—and he wasn’t going to let Paul Lathrop’s willful daughter spoil the resources the Amoteh could provide for local artists.

In profile, Ellie’s head lifted, her gray eyes shadowed into black. Even exhausted, the defiance and the skill of holding her own with a powerful man like her father was there. “I’ll deal with you when I’m ready.”

Mikhail didn’t want the night watchman to interrupt. Ellie had brought a child to his parents and she had asked for his help. It must have cost her pride, and he had to have answers. What could have driven her away from her social set to the isolation of Amoteh? Why were her clothes worn, when Ellie had always dressed perfectly? Who had fathered her child?

He resented the need to know more, and his instincts told him that he should resist curiosity.

His instincts told him that she desperately needed him.

Mikhail reached to hang a Do Not Disturb sign to the outside of the showroom. Though his apartment was just down the hallway, he sometimes relaxed in this room filled with furniture his family had made. Occasionally his brother, Jarek, used the showroom to romance his wife away from their new home. The Do Not Disturb sign meant the Stepanovs were in the showroom and did not want to be disturbed. He clicked the lock on the showroom door closed. “I can wait.”

“You would.” Ellie was on her feet, stalking the room filled with the heavy walnut furniture. A restless woman, she stopped to smooth the wood admiringly, to open a drawer, closing it smoothly, to trace the intricate hardware of a dresser.

Mikhail dismissed the too-tense sensation prowling his body as he watched her move gracefully, a pampered woman whose only obsession had been her own indulgences.

She turned on him like a tigress, fists clenched, her hair and body softly outlined by the lights from the parking lot. “You’re amused. I see it in your expression. I don’t like being your entertainment du jour. Au revoir, bud.”

With that, she walked past him to the door and reached for the lock.

Mikhail studied her. Ellie Lathrop was too tense, too brittle…and she had cried. What game was she playing?

“Walk out that door and you’re not getting a second chance.” He watched her hesitate and her slender hand slid from the lock. What could be so important as to make Ellie sacrifice her pride?

Why did he want to tug her back to him, hold her safe and warm against him?

He tossed that thought aside. It was only natural for a Stepanov man to want to protect a woman in dire need.

The tingle at the back of his neck warned him that his own instincts could endanger him.

With her back to him, Ellie shook her head, and a spill of sun-lightened hair caught the soft light in sparks. “You’re so much like Paul—my dear old dad. No wonder my mother left him as soon as she was able, leaving me, too, of course. My half sister’s mother did the same. It seems that maternal instincts don’t run in our family. You know that I’m tired—dead tired—and you’re pushing. You pick others’ weak moments like a shark scenting blood… anything to get your way. I should have expected no less. You’re not going to make this easy.”

She turned slowly, leaning back on the door, her hands behind her. In the soft lighting, her face was pale, her eyes huge and shadowed. She spoke in an uneven whisper. “I have a child. She needs protection. And you are my last resort. I’ll do anything you say to keep her safe. Just help me—rather help her. If I have to beg, I will.”

The honest plea in her voice struck him…a tired, desperate mother seeking shelter. She seemed to sag then, against the dark heavy wood of the door, her head down. “I can’t run anymore, Mikhail. I need your help.”

“Details,” he demanded roughly to cover his unsteady emotions. He didn’t know if he should trust this submissive Ellie. “You were married. Less than three and a half years ago, wasn’t it? I received an invitation to the wedding.”

“And I received your gift. Crystal, wasn’t it? I forget. It brought a nice price when I sold it. I’ve sold a lot of things in the past few years.”

He’d chosen the crystal vase because it reminded him of the woman—glittering, perfect and hard. “He’s the child’s father?”

She scrubbed her hands together now, as if trying to dislodge a cold that came from her bones. “I wish he were. Mark would have been a wonderful father, but he couldn’t accept someone else’s child. We’re divorced. I took back the Lathrop name, just to torture Paul, to remind him that he does have a daughter…. Parental obligations and all that. Or let’s just say I’ve inherited Paul’s perversity. By the way, has my dear father called?”

Mikhail nodded, remembering Paul’s brisk, slightly angry tone. “Several times in the past six months. He wondered where you were.”

“That’s why I didn’t let you know that we were coming. I didn’t want him to know until I’d—until I’d talked with you.”

Ellie sat on the bed, shoulders slumped, and then with a sigh, settled against the back, legs outstretched. She sent him a glance that could only be labeled as resentful. “It’s not easy to talk with you, you know. You don’t inspire easy conversation. You give nothing away—do you have feelings, Mikhail? Do you? Or are you just made of wood, like the totem poles outside?”

A homage to the northwest Native Americans, the totem poles were huge and savagely painted masks created in wood, unsoftened by the tall pine branches enfolding them. The carved symbols represented the Hawaiian chieftain enslaved by whalers and dying far from his beloved homeland.

“I might be slightly more attractive,” he said quietly and watched her frown at his dry humor.

In one of those lithe, lightening quick movements, she was on her feet and standing near him, looking up. “I’m going to do something that may frighten you, Mikhail, but I really need this.”

With that, she slid against him, her arms circling his waist. She placed her face against his throat. “Could you just hold me? Just hold me, and let me feel safe and not alone for just one minute?”

Mikhail held very still, every nerve taut, warnings leaping inside him. Ellie was shivering, reminding him of a little wounded seagull he’d once found. He’d seen Ellie lean close to men before, casually, flirting with them, but this was different. This was desperation.

“What game are you playing?” he asked rawly as a soft strand of her hair brushed his lips.

Because he knew the dangers of playing with Ellie, the effects she’d had on other men, tantalizing them, he reached to move that silky, fragrant strand from his skin—the texture was too feminine, too intimate. Then, instinctively, his fingers lodged in her hair, his fist crushing that softness as he drew her face up to his.

With his other hand, he angled her face to the light. She was thinner, her cheekbones sharply defined beneath that gleaming, damp skin; her lashes had spiked, those dark haunted eyes bearing the sheen of tears. Her body still shook against his.

She dropped her arms beside her body, seeming to hang there, suspended as he studied her, his hands holding her because Ellie seemed as if she would drop when he released her. “When was the last time you slept?”

Her answer came on a ragged sigh that had to be genuine, and she closed her eyes. “Days, it seems. I napped on the way from Albuquerque.”

Ellie never admitted personal weakness. She was all gloss and well-tuned, moving like a sleek tigress; he’d seen her glittering, flashing temper with Paul and playing games amid her jet-setter crowd, but not like this. A warning trickle that she might really need him frizzoned up Mikhail’s nape. “You’re thinner. Are you sick? Do you want something to eat…drink?”

“I’m not hungry.” Her lashes fluttered, as if she were trying to open her lids, and her words were no more than a sigh. “I’m so tired, Mikhail. Can we discuss this in the morning?”

Okay, so he felt like a brute, demanding answers of an exhausted woman. That’s what JoAnna had called him, wasn’t it? A low-class, cold brute without a drop of anything to make a woman happy.

Mikhail released Ellie’s silky hair at once. His other hand, cradling her upturned face, contrasted with that fine light skin, and he frowned as he noticed his thumb caressing the texture. He jerked his hand away and Ellie seemed to sag, her shoulders drooping. She didn’t move, her eyes closed, as if too tired to think, to taunt.

“We’re expecting a mix of weather tonight. It’s already started to snow, and the road back to my parents’ house is probably iced by now. You can sleep here. My parents will take care of the child. We need to finish this discussion,” Mikhail said roughly, surprising himself as he swept back the lush purple comforter to the fresh black sheets and the featherbed beneath. He turned off the lamp, but the rain on the windows caught light, seducing soft flowing pools into the room.

Ellie didn’t move.

“Ellie?” he asked softly, turning her to him.

Her eyes were open now, but not seeing. He knew that look; she was already asleep on her feet. Mikhail took a deep breath and helped her out of her jacket, tossing it onto a heavily built chair. “Sit,” he said and when she didn’t move, he eased her onto the bed, then kneeled to untie her boots.

The worn shoelaces had been knotted instead of replaced, the toes of the boots were scuffed.

Then she was tilting, eyes closed, already sleeping deeply before her head touched the pillow. Mikhail slid her boots from her feet and noted the worn, mismatched socks before stripping them away. He eased her legs up onto the bed and covered her.

Ellie snuggled into the luxurious featherbed and comforter with a sigh. Suddenly, she sat up, her eyes pleading with him. “Mikhail? Mikhail, you’ll see that Tanya is okay, won’t you? She wakes up at night, and she needs to know that I’m with her.”

She threw back the coverlet as though fear drove her. “I’ve got to go. She’ll need me.”

What fear could drive her so desperately? Mikhail recognized an exhausted mother who would give her last for her child. The image did not suit what he knew of Ellie. “If she needs you, my mother will call. You’re staying here.”

“You promise that she’ll call?” She sounded like a sleepy, hopeful child and not like the willful Ellie he’d known.

“Of course,” he returned with an arrogance typical of the Stepanov males. “I have said so, have I not?”

“Of course. When you say that, I know….” With as light smile, Ellie allowed herself to be tucked in again. She was soundly sleeping within minutes, and Mikhail was left with an uneasy sense that he was susceptible to her. What could have driven her so hard, so desperately, to him?

Asleep, one hand by her face, her hair splayed across the black satin pillowcase, she looked like a vulnerable child, her lips slightly parted.

No, she looked like an inviting woman and trouble, and after experiencing his ex-wife, he’d already had his share of spoiled society women. Mikhail jammed his hands into his slacks pockets, resenting the sensual tug Ellie could always draw from him. The need to hold all that fire in his hands, to possess her in a storm that would wash him free of her.

Or would it?

Two

E llie awoke slowly, stretching and enjoying the smooth feel of the sheets along her bare skin. Was she really sleeping, cramped in her car and dreaming? Or was she awake and the big warm bed and the crackling warmth of a fire real?

A hard slash of sleet on the windows tore her from sleep. She sat up, already fearing for Tanya—who wasn’t anywhere near. Ellie could feel the bone-chilling fear seeping into her, despite the warmth of the featherbed. For six months, she’d been running to keep Tanya safe, and now—

Mikhail Stepanov was there. On top of the coverlet and sleeping beside her, Mikhail’s arm crossed her lower stomach. His big hand had curled possessively on her hip.

Ellie jerked the comforter up to her throat and shook her head slightly, trying to dislodge the nightmare. Still, Mikhail lay big and solid beside her in the high sturdy bed, his meticulous dress shirt opened halfway down his chest, his long legs sheathed in slacks, his feet bare. Stubble was beginning to darken his jaw, and he did not look civilized at all, not with the firelight flickering over that hair on his chest, those tousled dark waves.

She breathed quietly, trying to bridge the unsteady gap between deep sleep and Mikhail in a bed beside her. Her bare skin and the lacy white drift of cloth tossed on a sturdy bedside table told her that she was wearing only briefs. She summed up the situation: She was in bed with Mikhail, wearing very little. And she was very much awake.

One more heartbeat and Ellie closed her eyes in relief; Tanya was safe, sleeping at Fadey Stepanov’s house.

When she opened her eyes again, the bold sturdy furniture in the room reminded her that this was the Stepanov showroom. In the dim light, the bold, almost primitive style was unmistakable. Behind a huge brass fireguard, a fire blazed, warming and lighting the room, catching the textures of cloth and wood and dancing on the metal. Above the massive stone fireplace, a thick mantel of smoothly polished walnut wood bore pictures in gleaming assorted frames. Mikhail’s business jacket and tie were meticulously placed over the back of one of the matching big wood chairs near the fire. His highly polished shoes gleamed on the woven rug circling the chairs, and pottery marked with the Amoteh’s strawberry logo sat on a food tray.

Brochures gleamed on the long woven scarlet runner crossing a bold dining room table with matching chairs. The rich colors of cloth, purple and red, were almost savage, cutting across the dark wood. The thick slabs of blood-red cushions softened the bold, blocky style. The black throw pillows had been crushed, suggesting that Mikhail had sat there for a time.

The big hand on her hip caressed, and Ellie watched, frozen and fascinated, as Mikhail’s fingers opened and dug into the lush purple material—and pressed deep to lock onto her flesh.

In that moment, she knew that whatever Mikhail wanted, he would possess and keep.

He breathed heavily, just that once, and her skin prickled in warning. Mikhail sharp and untouchable in a business suit was one thing; this man was another.

This aroused man, she corrected as her eyes swept down his body and the coastal wind slashed the rain against the windows. The sound of wind and rain was almost as primitive as Mikhail looked now.

She’d felt this way before with Mikhail, but never so sharply. The stirring within her was that of a huntress finding exactly what she wanted and pitting herself against a man in the most elemental of ways, stripping away all else and battling until she had filled whatever need drove her. As a natural competitor, she wanted to throw herself at him, nothing withheld, she was overwhelmed by that very irritating physical need to dominate Mikhail’s arrogance.

And yet Ellie feared what would happen if ever they really clashed, because Mikhail was definitely up to any battles.

Her senses prickled, every nerve in her body went taut and she looked up quickly. Those drowsy green eyes were watching her, those of a predator, and his voice was deep and slow, like that of a sleepy lover. “It’s three o’clock. I called my parents. They know you’re not coming back tonight. Go back to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Mikhail’s image now didn’t suit her “Ice Man” label for him. That he was a man now and not encased in ice and steel terrified her. He looked as if she could turn to him and—

Ellie’s protective instincts leaped; she’d learned not to trust her softer instincts as a woman. “I’m not sleeping in this bed with you, and you had no right to undress me.”

He sighed heavily and slid his hand from her to place it with the other behind his head. His expression was that of drowsy interest and humor. “You’re not completely undressed. You’re wearing briefs. Beige, I think, cut high on the thigh. Cotton, not lace. One sizable hole on the left cheek. And I didn’t touch you.”

She tugged the coverlet to raise it over her bare shoulders, but Mikhail’s weight declined the favor. She refused to ask, choosing a demand to cover her uncertainty. “Move…off…this bed.”

Mikhail’s eyebrows rose slightly, mocking her. They both knew she was at the disadvantage, and not in any position to order him. He spoke too softly, his deep voice grating on her senses. “I want to get to the bottom of this, why you’re here. Now. Tonight. Do we talk here, or by the fire while you eat, or are you going back to sleep?”

“How did I get undressed then? Exactly how do you know what briefs I’m wearing?” she pressed furiously, humiliated that she had exposed her body to him. The purchase of new underwear wasn’t possible, and she didn’t like Mikhail seeing how destitute she had become. Despite what he thought of her, only her ex-husband had seen her undressed and even then, she’d been shy and self-protective—wary of exposure and criticism.

Was that pleasure in the slight curve of his hard mouth? “I was resting by the fire, minding my own business, with a little paperwork and some food, when you threw back the covers, stood and undressed. Your clothes are right where you dropped and threw them. I’m not your maid.”

She stared at him, and he reached to press a fingertip beneath her jaw, lifting slightly. “You can close your mouth now.”

That dark gaze was roaming over her mussed hair, her face unshielded by cosmetics, and lower to her mouth and still lower, over her bare shoulders. Mikhail was studying her like a man interested in her as a woman. She shivered and realized that color was slowly rising in her cheeks. Ellie turned away, not wanting him to see so deeply inside her, to know that intense male assessment could terrify her.

The bed jarred as Mikhail suddenly stood up. He impatiently tore off his shirt as if no longer interested in her, tossing it onto the bed. “Put this on. We’re not going anywhere tonight and Tanya is safe and sleeping. Since you are awake, now is the best time to talk without interruption. Come by the fire and eat.”

There was the slightest roughness to his voice, the inherited trace of Fadey’s Russian accent, as Mikhail turned his back to her. He walked to the fire, crouching to prod it into a blaze.

Ellie slid into his shirt, buttoning it firmly. When she began to roll up the sleeves, she caught his scent—underlying the soap and starch of the cloth, his personal scent warned and stormed around her. Wary of this new Mikhail, she watched the movements of his powerful shoulders, the firelight gleaming on them. He stood, hands on hips, watching the fire, a big powerful man who held his family…and his precious resort safe.

Ellie smoothed the large shirt around her. Maybe it was just her fantasy, her hope, her desperation, but just wearing Mikhail’s shirt made her feel safer.

He was just the man she needed, and clearly she would have to play this game his way. She cautioned herself to be patient, not her best quality.

Ellie slid from the high bed and reached for the only softness in the room, a dull gun-metal green fringed shawl placed over a dresser. The flight of the last six months ached in her bones; exhaustion dragged and sucked at her, the warmth of the bed calling her now. Once in it, she didn’t doubt that she could sleep for a week—if Tanya were safe. In the past, Ellie would have loved pitting herself against Mikhail. Now the battle to convince him seemed overwhelming, a grudging step-by-step uphill battle to get him to commit to Tanya’s safety.

She wrapped the shawl around her waist, knotting it.

She didn’t do well at her first attempt to ask Mikhail to help; he’d set her off too easily. Just seeing him, so confident and disdainful of her, she’d felt that instinctive need to prod those cold, aloof shields.

Ellie couldn’t afford to fail a second time. She couldn’t fail Tanya; she had to be alert for Mikhail’s agile mind. Inhaling deeply, she braced herself to convince Mikhail and walked to the fireplace.

His body seemed to tense, though he hadn’t moved, and that flick of his eyes took in her bare leg, exposed by the shawl’s fringes.

Ellie tried to ignore the leap of her senses, because now she couldn’t afford her habit of nettling Mikhail. She concentrated on the mantel’s pictures, gathering as much calm as she could. The hair on her nape lifted as it always did when Mikhail was nearby, and she could almost feel him breathe, waiting for her to talk.

Not just yet. She had to be very careful this time.

From their gold frame, the immigrant Stepanov brothers, dressed in peacoats and knitted caps, stared back at her—tough, unflinching, determined, with the same wide and uncompromising jaw and slashing cheekbones as Mikhail. In another frame, softly ornate, a young Fadey beamed as he held a blissfully happy Mary Jo in her wedding dress. Then the young brothers, Mikhail and Jarek, looking wild and free as the ocean wind tossed their hair, huge fishing poles in one hand and holding aloft strings of fish in their other hands. In the photograph, the ocean waves crested behind them.

“Eat,” Mikhail said simply when she came to stand beside him, though he didn’t turn. The firelight played on his face, lighting the jutting angles and escaping the hard planes. He had set the terms already, the schedule by which she must perform, make her plea.

She’d learned terms and prices at an early age, from her father. Everything was a trade-off, wasn’t it? she thought wearily.

Ellie eased into a chair near the food and wished that her stomach hadn’t just growled. Obviously, Mikhail was not playing waiter. She opened the thermos bottle and inhaled the delicious scent of chowder, easing it into the large pottery soup bowl. She carefully unwrapped the thick slabs of dark bread, heavily slathered with butter. In another moment, she was diving into the food, forgetting about Mikhail. She was halfway through the soup before Mikhail reached to open the other thermos bottle, pouring milk into her glass.

“Thanks.” For now it was delicious food, no matter who was serving it. She crushed crackers into the soup, mixed rapidly and hurried to eat the savory creamy mix of clams and potatoes.

The impact of the hot food and the warmth of the fire had made her drowsy again. With little effort, she could lean back against the chair’s cushion and sleep—but she couldn’t; she couldn’t fail Tanya.

Mikhail sat, leaning back on the chair, his legs in front of the fire as he studied the flames. In profile, his rugged features looked too primitive, the light flickering over his chest and arms. In a suit, he looked powerful and sleek and untouched by emotion. But now, he seemed even stronger, more potent—more elemental, from his broad shoulders to the slight matting of hair on his chest that veed downward.

Ellie tensed as she remembered awakening to him, the soft beckoning of her senses to smooth his skin, to touch and hold all that male power within her hand…. He’d been aroused. A little quiver shot deep within her; it was difficult to think of Mikhail as a man with ordinary needs.

“Finished?” he asked softly.

“Yes, it was delicious. Did I thank you?” She struggled against sleep; she needed to be alert to ask Mikhail’s help.

“Of course.” There was the old-world arrogance, as if he had momentarily relaxed his shields with her. “Now tell me why you have been sleeping with the child, singing to her and holding her tight against you?”

Ellie’s drowsy senses snapped to alert. “How do you know that?”

Mikhail turned to her and said slowly, “Because it was me you held in your arms, Ellie. Me you rocked and petted and reassured in your sleep. The experience was unique, to say the least.”

While Ellie stared at him, wide-eyed, her lips parted, Mikhail dealt with his unsteady emotions. The big, chunky chair only served to make her more feminine, more vulnerable. He resented the woman in front of him, all curves and soft lips, the shawl tied around her waist opening to reveal long smooth legs. His hand flexed, remembering the jut of her hip, the curve of her waist beneath the thick comforter.

Ellie Lathrop was a disaster, his personal Kamakani curse. His instinctive need to have her wear his shirt, to claim her as his, nettled.

He was not an emotional man, yet what man would not be affected by a woman’s bare breasts pressed against his arm, those little affectionate hugs, and those soft lips kissing his shoulder and whispering in the night, “Go to sleep, baby. I’m right here and I’ll never leave you.”

“Rock-A-Bye Baby” had never been so erotic, the husky, sleepy sound of Ellie’s voice making him hard—and weak. Despite himself, he could not move when she curled so close to him, her hands stroking his skin, cuddling him, her body scent reaching inside his senses, tormenting him. Yet, as much as he knew the danger of staying, he could not leave her. Instead, he resented the fine sheen of perspiration on his skin, the sensual tension humming through him.

Mikhail scoffed at himself and was surprised at the hard, derisive snort that could only have come from himself. Him. Hard. Aching to take her. Aroused by Ellie, the spoiled, willful heiress.

What could have happened to a child that she would need such reassurance in the night?

“You will tell me now about the child and why you have come.” That his accent had slipped beyond his control also nettled. The fact that the shawl had shifted slightly, revealing an enticing thigh, golden and gleaning in the firelight, hit him like a physical blow.

He wanted to press his lips to that soft flesh. He wanted to toss her on that bed and fight out the storm brewing between them for years.

What would that solve? his logical, nonaroused side demanded. They would still be the same people, each disliking the other.

He’d battled another woman, and that experience with his ex-wife had been enough to turn his sexual needs cold.

There was no reason for Ellie to excite him, none at all, and yet she did.

He watched Ellie pull into herself, the sleepy vulnerability gone. She ran her fingers through her hair and sipped the milk, a ploy he knew that gave herself time to organize what she would say to him.

“I’m having a bit of a rough patch, Mikhail,” she said almost briskly in a get-it-over with tone. She reached gracefully to claim a black mussel shell from those in the earth-colored pottery bowl. “I think you can help me—and Tanya. Most of all, Tanya.”

“The girl you hold in the night? Your daughter?”

“My daughter,” Ellie repeated softly. She looked into the flames and then down to the empty mussel shell; her fingers traced the smooth pearl and pink-colored interior as if feeling for answers that escaped her. “She has nightmares. Are you certain your parents know where to find me?”

“Of course. I am a thorough man and she will be well treated. My parents dote on children.”

“Yes, I know.” This time she spoke more thoughtfully, running her finger over the edge of the shell, testing its sharpness. “You’re going to want everything, aren’t you? Every detail.”

There was no reason to soften his words with Ellie; she’d seen him in tough business deals, cutting right to the bottom line. “Of course.”

Still watching the fire, Ellie drew her legs up on the chair, circling them with her arms. “Tanya isn’t my natural child, but I love her as if she were. Hillary is her biological mother.”

Now everything made sense—Paul’s reluctance to talk about his daughters, the telephone calls inquiring about Ellie, and Tanya’s birth date, which ruled out Ellie as her biological mother.

Mikhail waited, sensing that Ellie was moving very carefully through her thoughts and words, as if she had replayed them many times before. Her voice sounded as if it came from an exhausted woman dragged through hell.

“Tanya is the family secret, Mikhail. Paul didn’t want the scandal of Hillary’s illegitimate child, or the possibility of social workers taking Tanya away from lack of care. You see, my half sister, whom I practically raised, lacks maternal instincts. Tanya was so adorable—she still is. Sweet, you know? I never could—” Ellie’s voice hitched as though holding back a sob. Then she swallowed, brushed her hand roughly across her eyes, and Mikhail waited for her to go on.

The flames crackled, firelight flickering on her face, catching her hair. “When Hillary couldn’t be bothered with an infant, Paul hired a nurse to take care of Tanya…. My sister was off and running with her crowd as soon as she recovered her figure. And I was there, checking on this beautiful little unwanted baby left with a hired nurse who didn’t care. Tanya was born just after the Amoteh’s opening. I was there, too. There is something special about seeing a baby born—”

She smiled softly and now her eyes were dove gray. “She gurgled, you know. Happy little baby sounds…”

A slight sad frown slid over her expression. Ellie brush back her hair as though trying to focus on what she must do. “I fought with Hillary over her behavior, if you can call it that. Paul didn’t bother to check what Hillary told him—and he didn’t want to hear realities from me. He was fine with the situation as long as there was no bad publicity. Hillary’s pregnancy was kept secret. She wasn’t married and didn’t know exactly who Tanya’s father was. Paul still had plans to marry her off for business reasons. That’s what his daughters are to him, you know—business assets.”

Ellie smiled slightly. “Tanya was amazing, beautiful and I wanted her more than anything I’d wanted in my life. I wanted to adopt her. I chose to marry Mark, because I had this plan that two parents were better than one. He came from a good family. He wanted me—or rather he wanted a Lathrop heiress bred for the life he wanted—and I wanted Tanya. I was used to business deals, teethed on them, and marriage to Mark seemed sensible. I liked him. We were very compatible. We—we filled each other’s needs. I wanted marriage, a home and the idea of a real family. I’m used to making trade-offs, Mikhail. I’ve made them all my life. I knew that I was exactly what Mark wanted, more of a business partner to make him look good. That was the master plan, to give Tanya a good home and a good father.”

She looked so weary and pale, and Mikhail’s instincts were to tell her to rest. But he recognized that she had fought hard and now defeated, baring herself and her pride to him, that she needed to take these last steps by herself.

Ellie was quiet and then another blast of rain against the windows seemed to rouse her from her thoughts. “Tanya was just six months old when I married Mark. We had talked about adoption prior to the wedding. He had agreed…and then he changed his mind. Someone had mentioned genetic defects to him, and he was afraid she’d—I spent the next six months trying to convince him that we needed to adopt Tanya. One of his ridiculous reasons not to adopt was that with Hillary’s frequent changes in lovers, Tanya could have inherited any disease, he said. Basically, he wouldn’t even bring up the subject to Paul. I did…I had to. My father can be…horrible. He believed that someday Hillary would marry and settle down and make a fine mother. So, I divorced Mark and adopted Tanya when she was two years old. Correction—I bought her from Hillary with everything I owned, and then I adopted Tanya legally. Tanya is my child—legally,” Ellie repeated, clenching her fists until the knuckles glowed white beneath the skin.

To Mikhail, the thought that a woman could reject her own child was unthinkable—but then so was the fact that his ex-wife had an abortion rather than have their child. His child. The past bitterness went tearing through him again, unexpected and dark and hurting. He remembered his ex-wife’s words. “You chose the Amoteh and this godforsaken piece of sand. On those terms, I chose not to be a mother, not to be stuck in this wasteland. When we moved here, I thought it was only for a short time, that you needed to make your mark in the industry and then we would move to civilization. I simply changed my mind about having a baby, and that’s that,” JoAnna had said.

Mikhail pulled himself back from that stormy, primitive edge, that anger and sense of defeat—because his marriage was a failure and divorce the conclusion. To be truthful, perhaps he was as cold and boring as JoAnna had claimed. Perhaps he hadn’t given her what a woman needed. Perhaps that was why his lovemaking had left her cold, why he felt empty and frustrated later.

He sorted through the years since he’d sent that crystal vase to Ellie as a wedding gift. With no word of Ellie’s escapades, he’d thought that marriage had settled her. Paul had stopped speaking of his daughters. Meanwhile, she’d been divorced and had adopted her niece. “And the problem? Why do you think you need me?”

When she looked at Mikhail, Ellie’s eyes were filled with tears. Her hand trembled as she lifted it to dash them away. “To Hillary, Tanya is just a…a thing to use. At first, Hillary hated her because childbirth had left stretch marks, and she’d lost her shape. I found Tanya, in her crib, alone at five months—though the nurse carefully locked the door before she went out with her friends. I vowed that would not happen again. Hillary was off somewhere, playing with another man, and she wasn’t concerned at all. After that, I was around even more. I basically took Tanya to live with me, and Hillary didn’t miss her at all.”

Mikhail remembered Hillary—wealthy, spoiled and willful, like Ellie. But there was a basic difference. Hillary acted and looked cheap. Paul actually paid her to stay away from business and social functions, but he wanted Ellie at his side to smooth any waves he created with his aggressive manners.

Except for the disaster of the botched real estate deal, Ellie was his little fix-it person—when she wanted. But if Paul and Ellie crossed swords, she was his personal disaster.

Mikhail did not want to share Paul’s fate; he had already been cursed by one sharp-tongued, willful woman.

The woman curled in the huge chair was soft and vulnerable, and a mother fighting to protect her child. She turned to Mikhail, her eyes huge and sad. “A year ago, Hillary said she wanted Tanya back to impress her new boyfriend. He thinks Hillary just had that one affair and excuses her for being too young to handle a Romeo type. He’s wealthy and family-minded and Paul is delighted. He wants this marriage. He’s obsessed by the idea of getting a Wall Street power broker into the family. This man’s first wife wasn’t fertile and he wants children—the complete family-man picture, you know…proving his manhood and healthy sperm count, and the family image for business, yada, yada, yada. He’s ready to claim that Tanya is really his love child. Hillary and Paul will support him.”

Ellie shuddered and spoke quietly. “I’ve used and sold everything I can to fight them legally—jewelry, stocks, wedding gifts, clothes—and six months ago, I started running. My father is a powerful man. He can make things…difficult. He sent men with Hillary to collect Tanya at the day care center—that’s why she has nightmares of ‘the big scary men’ trying to take her away. Hillary came with them. She looks enough like me, and like Tanya, to pass as her ‘aunt,’ and that was when I knew we weren’t safe at all. I was working at an insurance office, and I left as soon as the day care center called me to double-check releasing Tanya without written permissions—and we moved that night. Tanya still remembers that awful scene—when Hillary is angry, she can be violent…abusive.”

Ellie stood slowly as though she had come too far and could go no farther. She stood in front of him with the air of making a formal, desperate plea. “Mikhail, you are the only man who can help us. Will you?”

Because he knew the players, Mikhail understood the dynamics perfectly. Ellie was a fighter for causes she felt deserved help, and he knew Hillary’s selfishness and Paul’s determination to get his way, no matter who suffered. Now a child was endangered—if Mikhail could trust Ellie to portray the situation correctly. From his experience, she knew how to wrangle her way. “How do you see my part in this? Why am I the only person who can help you?”

She smiled briefly, sadly, and stood like a warrior with all her defenses shed. “Because you are the one man who can match my father’s power, and he respects you. In short, I need an ally—someone to hold him off until I can get back on my feet. I’ve picked you.”

Mikhail tried not to notice the dark peaks of her nipples, pressed against the white of his shirt. He stood abruptly, and went to the window, considering the sleet and snow with his hands thrust into his pockets. “You’re asking me to protect you and the child. Correct?”

Her voice was too soft over the crackling of the flames, the howling of the wind, and the rain against the glass. And yet, he heard her perfectly. “Only my daughter, Mikhail. Do it for her.”

“You realize what you’re asking? Your father is not an easy man.”

“Neither are you. That is why you work so well together. You’re not his usual ‘yes’ man. He respects you for it. He needs Tanya to portray the happy grandfather image to Hillary’s new man, to look like she’s a perfect mother. She may play the part for a while, but when she’s done, Tanya will be tossed aside. Don’t let that happen, Mikhail.”

Mikhail remembered his last battle with Paul. The man was ruthless and in some cases unethical, and yet he was a shrewd businessman and carried no grudges when Mikhail proved him wrong. But a fight with Paul was always tough.

Ellie came to stand behind Mikhail. She gripped the back waistband of his slacks as though she was afraid he would escape her. “I know exactly what I am asking. This resort means so much to you. You want to provide employment for the people you love in this town. They depend on the Amoteh’s success. And to battle my father could endanger everything you’ve worked for.”

Mikhail nodded; Ellie’s assessment was exact. “I will want to meet the child…but I would rather not enter your family’s fighting arena.”

“I know. I told her about you…that you were kind to children…that you knew wonderful stories and loved little girls. I told her that because I’ve seen you with children at the resort and campaign functions. Don’t let my father and Hillary make Tanya into another emotional wreck, Mikhail.”

He could feel her body’s warmth, the scent of it, clouding his decision to stay free of what she had asked. “You’re still tired. Go back to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Her hand left his slacks to grip his arm, her fingers slender and pale against his tanned skin. “You’ll think about helping Tanya?”

“One step at a time.”

“Yes, of course. I expected that much from you. You’re very thorough in weighing your decisions.”

“Of course. We’re done for now, Ellie. Make the most of this time and rest.”

With a long, tired sigh, she moved away from him and he missed her warmth. The rustle of the coverlet said she had slid into bed. But in the shadows, he felt her watching him, pleading with him to help.

She reminded him of a doe he’d once seen—soft, fearful, drained. He’d been camping, resting in the mountains, clearing his mind of business. Illegal hunters had used dogs to run down the animal, and exhausted, she’d settled into her deathly fate when Mikhail arrived to save her.

Saving Ellie was another matter. It endangered everything he’d worked for, the people who depended on him.

Only when he recognized her last sigh before sleep did he turn toward the woman on the bed.

He was a fool for even listening to her. Ellie Lathrop was a natural disaster to men, especially when she wanted her way—a true Kamakani curse. Perhaps Paul would listen to logic—but more than likely not, if Ellie had portrayed the situation realistically. Paul had always considered his daughters as bargaining chips in marriages that would bring him even more power and wealth. He wouldn’t hesitate to use a child as a pawn.

Still, a child needed protection. Mikhail rubbed his hand across his jaw, and the sound of flesh against stubble matched his irritation. Above all, he wanted Ellie as a woman, and she would be a disaster.

Three

E llie awoke the second time to a click of the big solid door. She lay quietly trying to pull herself from sleep into the harsh reality of Mikhail Stepanov…and the rejection he was certain to give her. Rest had brought the truth to her: Mikhail was not likely to jeopardize the Amoteh.

She caught his scent, felt him near, his presence almost pulsating around her, and her skin felt that prickle—like the hair of a cat sensing danger—just as it had last night. She didn’t want to face him this morning, not when he had seen her stripped of pride, had seen her cry, and knew that she was practically penniless, with a child she couldn’t support. Ellie had humbled herself to him, practically begged him. Tanya needed his protection, but on a more intimate level, Ellie resented being so helpless and dependent upon his decision.

And in her sleep, she had actually undressed in front of him, cuddled him as she would Tanya. Mikhail wasn’t a man to cuddle; he was all taker, a man who moved methodically to get his way.

All pride fell beside the question. “I know you’re there, Mikhail. Will you help us?”

“We are here,” he said quietly, warning her against any further discussion about the child. “Tanya came to see where you slept last night. She was worried about you.”

Ellie opened her eyes to see Tanya, in her favorite blue sweatsuit, seated on Mikhail’s shoulders. He was dressed in a black sweatshirt and worn jeans, still bearing the night’s stubble on his jaw.

In a business suit, he looked too intense, danger streamlined into quiet, groomed power. But dressed casually, the sweatshirt stretching across his broad shoulders, he was raw male.

Ellie trusted the man in the suit—the predictable, cold, methodical man—not this relaxed one. His hair was rumpled by the child’s hands that circled his forehead. But too quiet, too watchful, Mikhail’s sea-green eyes held Ellie’s as if warning her not to speak of the problem in front of the child. Then that long slow prowl of his gaze down her body, beneath the comforter, tugged at her senses, taking away her breath.

She was still wearing his shirt, but she had just felt as though those big hands had moved over her bare skin. His eyes had glittered just that once, possessively, and the hair on her nape rose. Whatever primitive and intimate thing it was that sizzled in the air between them frightened and warmed her.

A passing glance at a walnut-encased clock told her it was eleven o’clock, and the late morning hour redefined Mikhail’s expression—he had always considered her spoiled. “I was tired, okay?” she snapped at him.

“Evidently. Was the bed all right?” Mikhail’s deep, sensual voice curled around her, reminding her that they had shared the bed…that she had aroused him, that he had seen her undress….

This time it was her turn to blush, her senses prickling as their eyes met and the quiet air sizzled between them.

And then she knew for certain that Mikhail wanted her now; not a sweet, loving need, but a raw passionate one to be filled and forgotten.

Ellie braced herself for another trade-off; she’d made a deal with one man that had failed, and if she had to—

Deep inside a warning voice told her that Mikhail wouldn’t be easy to forget.

She breathed quietly, unsteadily, aware that her body had already reacted to him, her breasts tightening, that poignant clench in her lower stomach.

“Mama?” Tanya’s uneven whisper said she needed reassurance, and Ellie instantly lifted up her arms.

Mikhail lowered Tanya to the bed and watched her slide into Ellie’s waiting hug. As she always did, Ellie gave Tanya her full attention, soothing her fears. The girl cuddled close. “Good morning, pumpkin. Did you like that great big bed?” Ellie asked.

“I wasn’t scared,” Tanya whispered as her little hand smoothed Ellie’s hair. “The man said you were very tired and needed to rest last night. You look all sort of rosy, Mommy. He was afraid if you came out in the rain, back to sleep with me, you would catch cold. And Fadey woke me up this morning. I think he likes me, just like a grandpa would. He showed me these pretty wooden eggs, all painted with people, and when you open one, guess what? There’s another one inside.”

“Of course,” Mikhail said quietly, still watching Ellie, the tension of last night alive between them. Would he help them?

Ellie smoothed Tanya’s blond silky hair and prayed that he would. “Have you made up your mind?” she asked quietly as, fascinated with the showroom, Tanya slid from the bed to wander around the room.

The answer cut through the shadowy air. “No. I have not.”

“When?” Already, she was thinking of how she could manage to drive away from Amoteh. Because if Mikhail decided against helping her, he would probably tell Paul their whereabouts.

“When I have decided.”

That arrogance grated; she had stripped away her pride, coming to him, asking for his help, and now he held her on tenterhooks, just as Paul would do. The men were too much alike, hard, impenetrable and looking for what a bargain could do for them.

And looking up at Mikhail from her vulnerable position in bed did little to soothe the nerves he had always scraped. Ellie clamped her lips against the words she wanted to let fly at him, and Mikhail’s narrowed eyes said he had read her silent message.

He reached to push a button on the wall intercom. “Georgia? Would you come here, please? There is a little girl who wants to meet you. Perhaps she would like to see your kitchen and eat those croissants you’ve just made. And please put together a breakfast tray for two, please—a carafe of coffee? I’ll be having breakfast in here with the girl’s…mother.”

“You could leave and give me a moment of privacy,” Ellie whispered in a furious tone she didn’t bother to disguise.

“No. You’re the one asking, not me. I would advise you to be civilized and to wait until the child is out of hearing distance before you yell.”

“Me? Civilized? Don’t you dare—”

Mikhail’s smile was brief and contained genuine humor, a notice that he had once more scored a hit. Then ignoring Ellie’s frown, he walked to crouch beside Tanya, explaining the collection of shells in the pottery bowl.

Georgia, a plump woman wearing a white apron and a hairnet that crossed her forehead, arrived with the tray. Mikhail replaced the previous tray with the fresh one, and the scent of aromatic coffee and fresh croissants cruised the room.

In a heartbeat, Georgia had won Tanya’s confidence, and they left the showroom, leaving Ellie alone with Mikhail. He poured two cups of coffee from the carafe and leaned against a tall dresser, watching her.

Watching her like a big predator, assessing, waiting. She could feel him trying to put her together, like a puzzle. Then there was something else in him, brooding and male and resentful.

That look pushed all her buttons, her anger leaping. He’d seen her without her pride, inferred her poverty by the hole in her briefs. Ellie sprung from the bed, tossing back the covers. “Tanya is not used to very many people, and I don’t like you taking control of her. She gets frightened when she’s away from me too long.”

“And you resent that she isn’t in your control, dependent upon you. She isn’t a baby. She’s a young child with a natural need to have playmates other than you.”

That Tanya could be swayed so easily did bother Ellie. She walked to the tray and took the coffee cup he offered, splashed with the Amoteh’s strawberry logo. “I know she needs playmates. But we haven’t had time to settle in before they found us and we had to move again.”

“You’re angry with me. Why?”

Because he looked too rugged, as if he could withstand any fight, and because—“Do you think I actually like asking you for help? You’re determined to make me squirm, before you turn me down. Oh, I know the routine. Paul likes to play that game.”

She was shaking with anger, the scenes with her father too familiar. He would ask all the questions, make her answer, and then, when he was tired, he refused her needs. The whole process had served to humiliate her, even as a child. Emotional baggage? Yes, but she couldn’t allow that treatment again.

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