Instinctive Male (2 page)

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.