The Unwilling Bride Read online

  Alone.

  Safe.

  Alone and safe had been paired in her mind for a decade, as natural as pairing peanut butter and jelly. Nothing she’d questioned…until tonight and a wild, wayward kiss that had come out of nowhere.

  Around that unpredictable Russian, Paige thought darkly, she had better watch her p’s and q’s.

  That settled, she pivoted on her heel and went up to bed.

  Three

  Paige was too busy working to think about Stefan.

  Her legs were wrapped around the spokes of the work stool, her hands around a cup of fragrant Darjeeling tea. At five in the morning—when she had just as determinedly not been thinking about Stefan—she ’d remembered the coral.

  The chances of her falling back to sleep wouldn’t make bookie’s odds, and the coral was an excellent excuse to bolt out of bed. So she’d charged downstairs in old black sweats and bare feet, and burrowed through all the boxes of raw materials until she found it.

  Sipping her tea—from the second pot, now—she studied the crooked, jagged wedge of coral shell with ruthless concentration. She still recalled the sly, sneaky grin on the clerk who sold her the piece—he’d been real sure he was pawning off a worthless piece on a rookie. Maybe the clerk was an ace pro at textbook geology, but he didn’t know cameos and he didn’t know coral.

  She did.

  In the middle of the night, when she’d been fighting to get that blasted Russian off her mind, she remembered the coral, remembered the break in the outer layer of the shell, the rich cherry red color the Italians called rosso scuro.

  Coral was almost always uniform in color. Finding a piece with two shades was crying rare—and a cameo carver’s dream. Further, the coral that mattered was gem material—true precious coral—not the stuff that came off from reefs in shallow seas, but the stuff that came from down deep. This piece came from down deep, off the coast of Sardinia. No holes, no flaws, no cracks. The shadings were rich and true It’d make a pendant, nothing bigger, but the potential for treasure was there—and hopefully a perfect treasure for her sister, Gwen.

  Paige gulped another sip of tea. Energy was biting at her harder than hunger. Her fingers itched to pick up a chisel and start working. But she had to know the piece of coral more intimately than her own heartbeat before touching it. Nothing was more fragile than coral. Nothing as easily broken.

  Like her sister, she thought.

  Her gaze strayed to the jade cameo on the top shelf. She’d really been stupid. It had always been a mistake, trying to make a present for Gwen in jade. Coral was so much more like her. Probably from its first discovery, coral had been symbolic in medicine and magic. A romantic talisman of beauty and the kind of beauty one put in everyday life, which was exactly like Gwen. Hopelessly romantic. Fragile. Easily hurt, easily scarred, but beautiful on the inside—if anyone could ever get her to believe it.

  Too restless to sit, Paige popped off the stool and started twisting the gooseneck stem of her work lamp so the light better illuminated every angle of the coral, her mind on Gwen—and Abby.

  Paige had been badly worried about both sisters since Christmas. Generations of Stanfords had lived in the old Vermont homestead until the clan scattered—Abby and Gwen had grown up, moved away, and then their parents had retired to Arizona. The whole crew had argued with Paige about living alone in the old-fashioned, heat-eating monster, but this was home, the roots of the whole family, and they all still gathered here for the holidays. They had this past Christmas, too, but with mom and dad there, both her older sisters had kept a protective lid on any serious conversations.

  Paige didn’t need the specifics to recognize that both Gwen and Abby were stressed out and unhappy. Growing up, they’d all fought like snakes and mongeese. Still did. Gwen had made one man her whole life; Abby was all ambition and drive; and Paige was the unconventional rebel. Bickering and teasing was probably inevitable when none of them ever had one single thing in common, much less came close to sharing each others’ goals or dreams.

  It didn’t matter. It never mattered. They didn’t have to understand each other to love. The bond between sisters had always been unshakable. Paige always knew when one of them was unhappy. The reverse was just as true. And she’d been frustrated and worried ever since Christmas, that her sisters were having some kind of trouble in their personal lives that she couldn’t do a damn thing about.

  A cameo wasn’t going to solve Gwen’s problems. The need was in Paige, to create something for her sister, something that had meaning; something that expressed love. Impatiently she propped her hands on her hips, fiercely concentrating. All raw materials looked like nothing in the beginning. The coral, no different than other shells or stones she worked with, had a secret to tell. It was up to her to find the truth.

  The frown on her forehead suddenly eased. Blood started waltzing through her veins. She had it. Automatically her fingers fumbled blind, yanking open the drawer on the left, groping for the India ink pen and the leather-lined vise. Oh, man, it was there; she saw exactly what she wanted to do—

  From nowhere, a scraping sound interrupted her concentration. A grating scrape, followed by a mysteriously soft whoomph. Her head shot up. Both sounds came from the outside, but definitely close enough to the house to be unignorable. Someone was on her property. In her driveway.

  She heard the sharp, grating scrape again—what on earth was it?—followed by…damn…a wild baritone singing some kind of insane aria. A Russian aria.

  She thought, no.

  Perching up on tiptoe, she scowled out the window, but couldn’t see anything or anyone from that view. The scrape-whoomph sequence repeated itself again, though. She pushed up her sweatshirt sleeves and stomped down the hall to the next bedroom. From that window, if she craned her neck far enough, she could see a bucketful of snow flying in the air, the silver shine of a snow shovel and, yeah, a disheveled head of coal black hair.

  She thought, I’m gonna kill him. And headed for the back door to do just that. An occasional visit, fine. Stefan was alone in a new country and lonesome to talk with someone. Fine. He needed help with his language before he was safe to let loose in public—at least around women—and that was fine, too. She personally knew what it felt like to be a misfit, and she really didn’t mind helping him.

  Only the kiss last night had changed things.

  She’d spent a sleepless night with Mr. Michaelovich barging into her dreams. Those dreams had been embarrassingly, explicitly sexual, brought on—no doubt—by her celibate life-style. Only no guy had bugged her dreams before Stefan. And neither had any other guy’s kisses.

  No one could help what they dreamed, but by George, a woman could control who used her snow shovel.

  Bristling from every feminine nerve, she yanked open the back door—and almost earned herself a scoop of snow directly in the face. Thankfully the white powder frosted the overgrown yews next to the door—and by then Stefan had spotted her.

  He leaned an elbow on the shovel handle and grinned. It had snowed the night before, four fresh inches of sugar-white powder adding to the foot-deep ground cover. Pine branches sagged under the weight; the naked hardwoods looked as if they were coated with a layer of whipped cream. The whole world had turned white except for one slam of color—him.

  His cheeks were redder than apples; his eyes a dancing black. Backdropped against all that stark white, his shoulders looked huge and powerful—a wincing jolt of virile, vital masculine energy in a day that had been so serene, so calm, so peaceful.

  “Good morning, my cupcake! You take my breath, you are that sexy this fresh in the morning!”

  Paige wiped a hand over her face. Heaven knew what she looked like, but for positive it wasn’t sexy, and he was not going to do this to her again. She was not disarmed by the way his Russian accent wrapped around that antiquated sexist endearment; she was not charmed by the totally unpredictable uses of the language that came out of his mouth. She was aggravated with him for th
is intrusion. Justifiably aggravated. But the damn man was so exuberantly enthusiastic, so happy, that yelling at him was harder than kicking a puppy.

  “Good morning,” she said, echoing him, her tone as formal as she could make it, and then forged ahead, “Stefan, there was absolutely no need for you to come over and shovel my walk!”

  “Well, big confession to tell. Guilty confession.” Stefan cocked an elbow on the shovel handle. “I not do this for you. I do this for me.”

  “I—pardon me?”

  “I work on computer for hours. Very quiet, very silent work. Requires total focus. And this is my work, what I love, no question, but I get desperate for exercise. I have to break in—”

  “Break out.” She automatically corrected him.

  “Yeah, you understand. Need to break out. I get energy buildup like to burst. I see you have no man, that it snowed last night, very easy for me to shovel your walk for you. Big favor to me, because I am so desperate to vent all this physical energy. I thank you for providing this chore.”

  She opened her mouth. Closed it. She scalped a hand through her hair, feeling confused. So far she had yet to anticipate anything the confounded man was going to say. Ignoring the comment about “no man” was easy, but how was she going to argue with a guy who regarded snow shoveling as a personal favor to him?

  And those dancing dark eyes mirrored utter sincerity. “I found shovel by your back door. Easy to find. No reason to ask you, I know, because we are neighbors, and like you told me, it is natural for neighbors to help each other in America.”

  “Well, I know I said that….” Geezle beezle, talk about getting trapped by her own words. “But this is a little different, Stefan. It scared me, when I heard an unfamiliar sound outside. I didn’t know it was you—”

  “Da, I can imagine. You live alone, any stranger could bother you. Not good, this danger, but I will watch over you now, Paige, no need to worry. And I tell you next time I’m here, so you know it’s just me.”

  Alarm shot through her. It was funny, really, even sweet that he thought she needed protecting—considering that no man, from the day she was born, had ever doubted that Paige could take care of herself. Her dad used to fret that she took self-reliance to a fault and tease that she was stubborn enough to take on a battalion of marines—but she’d never lacked the courage to stand up for herself. Maybe Stefan had grown up with some outmoded chivalrous values about women, though. And she didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but somehow she was failing to communicate the concept of privacy.

  “Stefan, it’s okay—I’m okay—and I really don’t need watching over. I can shovel my own walk, fix my own leaky faucets. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time, and I’ve known everyone who lives in Walnut Woods all my life. The same families have been here for generations, and I…”

  Her voice trailed off. Stefan was shaking his head before she halfway finished explaining. Something was on his mind, because he obviously wasn’t listening to her.

  “We talk another time, lambchop, because I can see you shaking. Too cold, standing there with no coat. You go back in. I not interrupt your work. You just pretend I’m not here, okeydoke?”

  She ended up returning that “okeydoke,” because it seemed to be the only word she was positive he understood. Pretending he wasn’t there also struck her as a fine idea…until she tried putting it into commission.

  The piece of coral was waiting for her. She couldn’t be more excited about working on it. If she didn’t exactly want Stefan around, at least she knew where he was. Outside. Lustily singing Russian opera in an offkey baritone. Clearly happy, and nowhere near her workroom.

  When the singing stopped, she tensed for a second, then relaxed. He was done. Now he would surely go home. Naturally it had been difficult to relax, knowing he was so close, but now she could seriously concentrate.

  And the silence and peace were wonderful, until she caught the whiff of spices in the air. Basil and ginger. Pepper. And something hot and sweet and fruity—orange marmalade?

  If forced at knife point, Paige could cook from scratch. Baking bread in the old wood stove was even a challenge she enjoyed, but day by day she leaned more toward throwing Lean Cuisine in the microwave. Frozen meals did the job better, and cooking for one was beyond boring. More to the immediate point, there could not conceivably be mouth-watering exotic smells emanating from the kitchen, because she hadn’t been in the kitchen.

  She found him standing over her wok, holding her fork, and her kitchen towel hanging from the belt loop on his jeans. Steam rose from the wok. Fragrant steam that smelled like something to die for. She crossed her arms, tapped her foot and delivered a cough from the doorway.

  His head pivoted around, shaggy eyebrows arched in surprise. “You should be working.”

  “I was trying to,” she said dryly.

  “Well, this is a little lunch. A thank-you for letting me shovel your walk. I figure you are busy, too busy to maybe cook, so busy maybe you forget to eat. And I have all this—”

  “You have all this energy. Yes, you told me. Energy enough to burst.”

  “I leave. Instantly. Soon as finished here.” He waved a hand to illustrate his luncheon menu, which rivaled something she’d be lucky to put together for her family for Christmas. “I wanted to make you borscht, blinchikis, maybe vatrushkas. Give you samples of some Russian food. But couldn’t find ingredients. Best I could do was Oriental. You probably hate Oriental, huh?”

  “Oh, no, I’m crazy about Oriental food, but Stefan-”

  “Great.” He made an effusive gesture, shooing her out. “You go back to workroom. I’ll bring in. Quiet as rat. Not bother you.”

  “Quiet as a mouse.” She automatically corrected him.

  “That’s me,” he agreed.

  For a man who made ardent, extravagant and passionate protests about not bothering her, Stefan had managed to embed himself into her life as tenaciously as a tick on a hound.

  Four days later, he showed up at her workroom door, carrying a tray. Paige took one look at the lunch of shiitake mushrooms and shrimp, and thought this had gone too far. Way too far. She had no idea where he’d found the oyster sauce or fresh cilantro leaves—certainly not in her kitchen. Completely without permission, Stefan had stacked her wood and stocked her kitchen and done all kinds of nefarious other chores over the past few days.

  Someone was going to arrest him for B and E and Trespass unless he gained a grasp of American laws about privacy—and soon. Since polite tact hadn’t gotten through to him worth spit, Paige figured that it was past time that she tried getting serious and tough with him. And she would.

  But not until this lunch was over.

  “Too much garlic?” Arms loosely crossing his chest, Stefan watched her bring the fork to her mouth and swallow the first morsel.

  “The proportion of garlic is beyond perfect.”

  “Too many of the scallions?”

  She refused to answer until she’d savored another bite. Maybe she was suspicious of him. Maybe she hadn’t figured him out yet; maybe she was wary of what he wanted from her. But that man had a technique with a wok that could sweep any woman away.

  Personally Paige had never indulged in any wasteof-time seduction fantasies about being swept away. The entire subject of sex was better buttonholed in a mental attic. But sex was sex, and food…oh, man, real food was her downfall. Decadence had never been this tempting. The delicate flavor of the mushrooms blended perfectly with the oyster sauce and soy and black pepper, giving the taste buds on her tongue a lust attack, and as for the sassy bite of cilantro…she swallowed. Unwillingly. “This is heaven. This is nectar. This is beyond to die for,” she told Stefan. “Darned if I know why you’re wasting your life as a physicist. You could make a fortune as a chef.”

  “To die for—this is good term?”

  “The highest praise I know.” She waved a fork at him—after taking another bite. “But you mustn’t do this again. I mean it, Stefan.�
�� She gobbled another mouthful. “You’ve been helpful and wonderful, but you’re taking the American concept of neighborliness too far. I can’t take favors from you like this. It isn’t right. It’s making me uncomfortable. I really want you to stop, okay?”

  Stefan watched another greedy forkful disappear into her mouth faster than a jet takeoff. “That’s a straight high-five okeydoke no-sweat gotcha, lambchop.”

  Paige would have rolled her eyes—if she dared take her gaze off him. His command of the language was growing by leaps and bounds, thanks to the amount of time they’d spent together. He did relish every ounce of slang he picked up, but sexist slips like “lambchop” were happening less and less.

  The problem in spending time with him, though, was her growing suspicion that Mr. Stefan Michaelovich was not really having all that much trouble with the language. It was mighty amazing that he grasped complex concepts faster than a finger snap, yet managed to misunderstand only when it mightily conveniently suited him.

  The man had a teensy tendency to ignore—if not bulldoze—any obstacles in his path. Paige was becoming increasingly wary of his irresistibly innocent boyish shrugs and the “So sorry, I didn’t understand.” Stefan was innocent as she was genetic kin to a duck. But he hadn’t tried kissing her again. Hadn’t done one thing, in fact, beyond show up with frightening regularity—and usually after having done something nice for her out of the blue.

  No one had ever spoiled Paige, and she’d never met anyone who indulged in random acts of kindness. It wasn’t normal. It wasn’t natural.

  He had to want something from her, and Paige felt increasingly aggravated—and worried—that she couldn’t figure out what it was.