Nocturne (8 page)

“N—no.”

Michael dropped the rag on the workbench, then brought his right hand up to caress her shoulder. “It has to sit for several hours.” His hand massaged up and down the length of her arm, finally dropping to her waist and moving sensuously forward to graze across her midriff. “Or better yet overnight.”

Even through the layers of her clothes, his touch on such an intimate part of her body made Nicole quiver in response, and the tips of her breasts began to tingle. She felt a heat rise within her and couldn’t prevent a small, low sigh from escaping her lips.

His free hand played with the tendrils of hair at the side of her head. “Then,” he went on softly, “we can cut it into strips to make a border.”

“That’s . . .” she began, but was incapable of further speech. His fingertip lightly traced the outline of her ear, across her cheekbone, to the curve of her chin. Then his broad hand lifted her long, wavy hair away from the side of her neck.

“Nicole,” he said in a slow voice. “You are so lovely.”

His lips were against her hair now. She felt their pressure, at first with the gentleness of a butterfly’s wings, then more strongly as they moved lower until they came to rest against the tender flesh behind her ear.

Nicole began to sway under the powerful feelings he stirred in her, her head falling back slightly, her eyes closing. Her heart thundered violently in her chest. Her breath came in little gasps as she felt him plant kisses along the sensitive skin at the side of her throat. Heat suffused her. Perspiration broke out on her brow. She was just about to spin around and fold herself into his embrace when suddenly, to her dismay, she heard him curse under his breath.

Just as suddenly, he was pushing her away.

Disappointment cut through her like a blade. Why had he stopped? Nicole felt hot, flustered, bereft, abandoned. Her eyes flew open. He was already clear across the room, leaning one palm

Nicole struggled to regain control over her own breathing, equally flushed and perspiring.

“Forgive me,” he said in a ragged voice.

“No, it’s . . .” she began. She couldn’t finish the thought. Why was he apologizing? His touch had made her dizzy with yearning and need. He’d felt the connection, too, she felt certain of it; she’d heard it in his voice, sensed it in his fingers. Maybe he was too much of a gentleman to continue—was afraid she’d think he was taking advantage of her, the helpless female guest with nowhere to run.

But she hadn’t wanted to run. She’d wanted to turn into his arms and feel his lips against hers.

At length Michael dropped his hand. As he glanced at her, the thwarted longing she’d heard in his voice was visible on his face. He said, “I promised myself I wouldn’t do that.”

Unable to think of an appropriate reply, Nicole took a few steps back, trying to collect herself. She was hot. So hot. She’d give anything for a cold drink. She looked around desperately, searching for some way to cool down, some words to alleviate the tension in the air.

Her glance fell on the nearby refrigerator. In a few quick steps she was there, grabbing the door handle, striving for a light tone as she said, “I hope you keep soda in here.”

Nicole yanked open the refrigerator door and froze in consternation.

The sight before her was the last thing she’d expected.

The refrigerator contained only one thing—or rather, nine things—and they were all identical in size and nature. They lay side by side in three neat rows on the shelves: the same clear plastic drip bags with IV catheter ports that she’d worked with at the hospital.

Nine bags, all filled with a deep, ruby red liquid.

They were all labeled HUMAN BLOOD.

CHAPTER 9

C
OLD SWEAT STREAMED IN silver pellets from Nicole’s pores. A chill ran up her spine. She couldn’t look at the bags of blood. She couldn’t look at them! Yet neither could she tear her gaze away. The memory of that horrible night three years ago came rushing back. Her stomach constricted and she backed off, light-headed and nauseous, one hand anxiously seeking the table behind her to steady herself as she pushed the terrible images away.

At the same time, her mind echoed with one bewildered thought:

What was Michael doing with all that blood?

Before Nicole could find a reassuring anchor, the refrigerator door was violently slammed shut and Michael was standing in front of her, fury in his eyes. “Stay the hell out of there!” he roared.

Trembling, head spinning, Nicole stammered, “I’m sorry, I was just looking for—” But he interjected angrily:

“Don’t look so terrified. It’s just blood. I have a clotting deficiency. I could bleed out in minutes if I were to be injured. Because I live so far from any clinic, I’m allowed to keep a few units of blood on hand in the event of an emergency. Okay?”

“Okay,” she replied, her throat too constricted to say more.

“We’re done here,” he added heatedly, whirling for the door. “Let’s go.”

In a daze Nicole followed Michael into the hall. He quickly locked the workshop door. As he turned away, his shoulder caught the edge of a picture on the wall, sending it crashing to the floor in a splintering of wood and glass. Heedless, he stormed off and up the stairs.

Nicole leaned against the wall for support, staring at the empty space left in Michael’s wake.
What the hell is going on?
she wondered, stunned. This man blew so hot and cold, she couldn’t keep up. For the last hour or two as they’d worked together, Michael had held her and touched her with such tenderness and sensitivity, she’d felt as though she were under an erotic spell. Then suddenly, just because she’d seen blood in his refrigerator, he’d stalked off like a madman. Why was he so upset? Did her fearful reaction put him off? If so, she was sorry for it, but it had been an involuntary response.

His explanation confused her. Nicole had a certain amount of experience with blood. It was true that hemophiliacs required a specific blood factor after injury or prior to surgery, but as far as she knew, individuals were not allowed to obtain

Maybe rules were different in Colorado, Nicole thought, and this was one of the perks of the ultrarich. Maybe he’d gotten special permission to store blood, and was trained in the techniques of venous access and hanging an IV. But even so, blood had a useful life after donation of only six to eight weeks. She could conceive of a hemophiliac keeping a single bag on hand—but nine? Why did he need nine bags of blood?

Nicole wracked her brain but couldn’t come up with an answer. All she could figure was that Michael really
did
have a clotting deficiency—a very serious, life-threatening problem, as she knew only too well—and was more prone to injury and blood loss than most people.

Knowing that Michael could, God forbid, potentially bleed out and die from a wound—while they were snowbound here and far from help—did nothing to ease her tension. Any other medical problem Nicole could have faced without a second thought, but not that.

Something else occurred to her. Maybe Michael’s fury was due to embarrassment—the fear that the world would find out the celebrated author, Patrick Spencer, was only human. As if she would tell anyone!

With a sigh, Nicole crouched down to clean up the mess left by the broken picture frame. After she gathered up the shattered pieces of wood and glass, she studied the photo that had become detached from the frame. It was an old 8 by 10 black-and-white of two men standing proudly on either side of a

To William with many thanks,
Leonard Small, 1925

Who was “William”? Nicole wondered. Studying the picture more closely, she noticed that one of the men in the picture—a very handsome man wearing chaps and a cowboy hat—looked remarkably like Michael. His face wasn’t perfectly in focus, but even so the resemblance was uncanny. It must be Michael’s great grandfather, she decided, when the man was in his thirties—the same man who’d no doubt written the first journal she’d seen in Michael’s study.

Carefully balancing the photo atop the fragments of broken frame, Nicole moved on to another picture on the wall, the sepia tone print of Michael’s great-great-great grandfather, the bearded old man standing in front of a cabin. On closer examination, Nicole realized that the man wasn’t old after all; his heavy, dark beard and mustache just made him appear that way. Again, she could see the family resemblance in his eyes.

She had a fleeting thought: if this was the patriarch of the Tyler family, why were there no wife and children in the picture? Maybe, Nicole mused, the picture was taken before he got married and had a family.

Nicole returned to the main floor of the house, where she threw away the pieces of glass and set the broken frame and picture on the coffee table. The door to Michael’s study was closed, and she heard music blaring within. Remembering the way it had felt just now when he’d pressed his body to hers and

Nicole considered knocking on his door, to reassure him with a friendly word or two that she meant no threat to his carefully built private life—hopefully he’d sense that she welcomed his advances and yearned for more—but she thought better of it. Clearly he wanted to be alone at the moment.

It was late afternoon and she was hungry again. All she’d had to eat since she woke up was cereal and coffee. Nicole wondered if Michael had any plans for lunch. He’d risen much earlier than she had, and by now he must be starving. What if she made lunch for the two of them? Would that bring a smile to his face again? Although there wasn’t much food to work with, Nicole was determined to find something.

The enchilada casserole had been delicious; surely he’d enjoy that. Nicole was dying for a green salad, but there were just the ubiquitous bags of carrots and apples in the fridge. An idea came to her for a kind of salad of grated carrots and apples. You had to work with whatever was on hand when you were snowed in—and it would satisfy her desire for something fresh and light.

In the cupboard, Nicole found cans of black beans, corn, and chopped tomatoes. Combined, they’d make a nice side dish. She spent the next three-quarters of an hour happily peeling and grating carrots and apples, then she mixed them together and added a little juice from the canned tomatoes to prevent the apples from turning brown. When the other dish was ready she exited the kitchen and went to set the table, thinking they might sit together in the dining room.

She stopped in her tracks, glancing around in surprise, suddenly aware that Michael didn’t
have
a dining room. The space in the expansive great room that might have been devoted to a dining table was taken up by a grand piano. The only place in the house to eat was the small table and chairs in the kitchen alcove. That seemed strange at first; but then Nicole realized it made sense. Michael lived here by himself and never entertained visitors. Why would he bother with a formal dining room area that would never be used?

Nicole set the kitchen table, making it look as nice as possible. For napkins she folded paper towels in half. She popped the ceramic container of enchiladas into the microwave and turned it on, then arranged the side dishes she’d made on the table. There were only two choices of beverage: tap water and a six-pack of soda in the fridge. Not knowing what he’d prefer, Nicole put both soda cans and filled water glasses at each place setting.

The appetizing aroma of the heating casserole filled the kitchen. She wondered if Michael would smell it and come out of the study on his own.

As Nicole listened to the hum of the microwave, she stood at the kitchen’s rear-facing window looking out at the tree-shrouded, white landscape. Incredibly, it was still snowing with no sign of stopping. There was a kind of beauty to the wild, wintry tempest, but Nicole was grateful to be inside, warm, and dry. It had only been twenty-four hours since she’d awakened to find herself in this house under Michael’s care, yet it seemed like weeks—and even longer since she’d seen a blue sky and sun, sent an email, or watched TV. It felt odd to be so cut

The microwave dinged and the room fell silent again. The only times Nicole could remember being surrounded by such deep quiet were the hours she’d spent on ski slopes. It was a wonderful, calming environment, and for the first time since she arrived, she felt herself truly begin to relax.

Using kitchen towels as hot pads, Nicole retrieved the piping hot casserole and set it on the table, then surveyed the display. It looked both colorful and inviting. With a smile, she strode to Michael’s study door and rapped lightly. There was no answer. She tried again, louder, calling out, “Michael?”

His quiet footsteps approached and then the door was thrown open. Michael’s mouth was set in a deep scowl and his blue eyes flashed dangerously.

“What do you want?”

“I—” Nicole faltered. “I thought you might be hungry. It’s way past lunchtime, so I made us something to eat.”

“I’m working,” he said irritably. “And I told you: I prefer to dine alone.”

“I know, but I thought . . . surely you can take a break. Come see what I made. It’s on the table. It’s—”

“I’m not hungry,” he snapped, “so don’t bother me about food or anything else. Just stay in your corner of the house, and I’ll stay in mine.” He slammed the door in her face.

For the second time that day, Nicole stood frozen in dumbfounded silence. This time, anger rose within her.
What a
, she thought.
What a rude, insensitive asshole
. After all the trouble she’d gone to, he couldn’t even be bothered to take a look or a bite? Or at the very least, to thank her for thinking of him?

Nicole marched back into the kitchen, fuming, the knots in her stomach tangling with her ravenous appetite. Heatedly, she spooned heaping portions of the three dishes onto her plate. Who did he think he was? Being rich and successful didn’t give him the right to treat her like some insignificant, nagging nuisance. She was only trying to be nice!

Nicole stood at the counter and shoveled the food into her mouth, hardly tasting it. What was his problem? Was he bipolar and off his meds? Or was there something he wasn’t telling her? A reason he couldn’t or wouldn’t be intimate? The way he barked at her reminded her of an ex-boyfriend from college. Anytime he felt his masculinity or personal space being threatened, he went nuts and treated her like garbage. Was that what was going on, an introvert’s neuroses entwined with male bravado? Had she completely misinterpreted his feelings in the workshop? But how could she have?

Well, whatever. He’d made it clear, once again, that he didn’t want her here. Thank God it would only be for a couple more days.

Nicole couldn’t find any plastic wrap or storage containers for the leftovers, which only added to her cantankerous mood. She slammed the salads into the refrigerator uncovered. She dumped her dirty dish and silverware in the sink unwashed. Then, to spite him, she grabbed the dish towels from the oven door handle and dropped them in a heap on the floor.

Still seething, she returned to the great room, where she found the fire in the hearth had burned down to nothing but
Nice
, she thought sarcastically.
He can’t even be bothered to keep the fire going for me.
With wood and kindling from the bin she built a new fire, watching as the flames slowly spread, until they leaped like a golden crown around the logs and gave off a comforting heat. Rubbing her hands together before the fire, Nicole glanced about, her entire body tight with tension and frustration.

So, Michael wanted her to keep to herself, did he?
You stay in your corner of the house, and I’ll stay in mine.
Fine. It was a big house. She could find things to do on her own. He could stay in his study all day and night and starve to death for all she cared.

Her gaze fell on the grand piano at the front of the room, by the picture windows overlooking the forest beyond. Nicole couldn’t resist crossing to it and running a hand along its polished black surface. It was a beautiful instrument. She’d sold her own piano when she left Seattle three years ago, and had only played a handful of times since.