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her host shared the same taste in film.
    At the back of the house was a mud room. Coats and parkas hung on pegs, alongside a pair of snowshoes. Knee-high leather boots, cowboy boots, thick-soled insulated rubber boots, sneakers, and sheepskin-lined slippers stood in a neat row beneath a bench next to a door leading outside. Another door led to a chilly, three-car garage that was lined with cabinets and housed a Range Rover. The remainder of the cavernous
    Leaving the garage and mud room, Nicole returned to the hall where she found another door. It was locked. She wondered if he always kept it locked, or only did it because she was here. What’s the room for? she mused. His private wine reserve? His weapons collection? His store of gold bullion?
    A row of old framed photos hung on the wall in the corridor. One of them—a sepia tone print of a bearded old man standing in front of a rustic cabin—looked like it dated back to the 1800s. Was this Michael’s ancestor? Nicole wondered. The one he said had homesteaded this property? If so—except for the heavy beard and mustache—he looked just like him. The other photos were mostly black-and-whites of various horses or people standing proudly with horses, and looked like they dated from the 1930s through the 1970s. It was an unusual and curious collection.
    Heading back upstairs, Nicole tried to decide what to do with herself. Thankfully, her headache was gone. She wasn’t tired and she didn’t feel like watching a movie. If her cell phone was working, she’d happily spend a couple of hours catching up on her email—but that option was out. She briefly wondered if Michael owned a computer—but he’d made it clear that his study was off-limits—and in any case, his Internet connection relied on a satellite dish that was covered with snow.
    It felt weird to be so out of touch with the rest of the world. But, Nicole realized, it was the perfect time to read. Reading had been one of Nicole’s most treasured pastimes ever since she was four years old. Her parents had made reading a
    The house was a bit chillier than she liked, so after Nicole retrieved her book she grabbed a couple of logs from the wood bin in the living room and added them to the fire. Sitting down in a comfortable chair facing the hearth, she wrapped herself up in a soft blanket, turned on a nearby lamp, and began to read.
    Her attention was so riveted to the novel that the next hour passed in the blink of an eye. The book—the story of a British doctor in Victorian England and the woman he loved—was so good that she didn’t want it to be over. The ending, although bittersweet, was real, heartfelt, and satisfying, and left her in tears. She lay back and closed her eyes, her head filled with vivid images from the novel, the warmth of the fire so relaxing that she drifted off.
    When Nicole next opened her eyes, to her surprise, it was after nine o’clock. She stood up, stretching, wondering where Michael was. The muted sound of classical music emanated from behind the door that she guessed to be Michael’s study. Book in hand, she started in that direction, then stopped. He’d been so aloof and unfriendly when they last spoke, she hesitated at the thought of disturbing him—but she’d welcome another book to read, and he had offered to lend her one.
    She rapped on the door. “Michael?”
    Half a minute passed. The door opened halfway and Michael looked out, his hand on the knob, his lean frame filling the gap. “Yes?”
    He was so very attractive, and standing so close, that Nicole’s thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind, and she almost forgot what she was going to say. “I’m sorry to bother you, but—”
    “How’s the headache?” he interrupted.
    “Better, thanks.”
    His glance fell on the novel in her hand and his eyes widened, but he didn’t comment. “I saw you napping and didn’t want to wake you. Did you find something to eat?”
    “Yes. Your cleaning lady’s an