Christmas In The Snow: Taming Natasha / Considering Kate
Christmas In The Snow: Taming Natasha / Considering Kate
Nora Roberts
NORA ROBERTS is the New York Times bestselling author of more than one hundred and ninety novels. A born storyteller, she creates a blend of warmth, humour and poignancy that speaks directly to her readers and has earned her almost every award for excellence in her field. The youngest of five children, Nora Roberts lives in western Maryland. She has two sons.
Visit her website at www.noraroberts.com (http://www.noraroberts.com)
Also available by Nora Roberts (#u64cc9cf6-f529-548f-8cd6-ae74e7915a54)
THE MACKADE BROTHERS
The Return of Rafe MacKade
The Pride of Jared MacKade
The Heart of Devin MacKade
The Fall of Shane MacKade
THE O’HURLEYS
The Last Honest Woman
Dance to the Piper
Skin Deep
Without a Trace
THE STANISLASKIS
Taming Natasha
Falling for Rachel
Luring a Lady
Convincing Alex
Waiting for Nick
Considering Kate
THE CALHOUN WOMEN
The Calhoun Sisters
For the Love of Lilah
Suzanna’s Surender
Megan’s Mate
CORDINA’S ROYAL FAMILY
Affaire Royale
Command Performance
The Playboy Prince
Cordina’s Crown Jewel
THE MacGREGORS
Playing the Odds
Tempting Fate
All the Possibilities
One Man’s Art
For Now, Forever
The MacGregor Grooms
The Perfect Neighbour
Rebellion
THE STARS OF MITHRA
Hidden Star
Captive Star
Secret Star
THE DONOVAN LEGACY
Captivated
Entranced
Charmed
NIGHT TALES
Night Shift
Night Shadow
Nightshade
Night Smoke
Night Shield
Reflections
Night Moves
Dance of Dreams
Boundary Lines
Dream Makers
Risky Business
The Welcoming
The Right Path
Partners
The Art of Deception
The Winning Hand
Irish Rebel
The Law is a Lady
Summer Pleasures
Under Summer Skies
California Summer
Hazy Summer Nights
Summer Dreams
Dual Image
Unfinished Business
Mind Over Matter
Best Laid Plans
Lessons Learned
Summer With You
Long Summer Days
Summer Desserts
Loving Jack
Summer in the Sun
Catching Snowflakes
Christmas Magic
Time Was
Times Change
This Christmas…
Table of Contents
Cover (#u57f764fd-4f05-536d-8bbb-d8de58be1951)
About the Author (#u27e89129-5e48-5234-b809-15d789d190b8)
Booklist (#u5a2c2ff6-164f-5a6b-8ecd-f2045533363a)
Title Page (#u0adefa9a-b8af-590e-96fa-537c93878141)
Taming Natasha (#uc39ffafe-e325-5b53-8364-57dc9f394e13)
Dedication (#uff0c95e6-72e0-5684-bf9f-e19dd7cc6326)
CHAPTER ONE (#u396c4757-4002-5bf7-b97f-7d5938895507)
CHAPTER TWO (#u2ed09c35-d965-5359-8f6e-9ba16944d402)
CHAPTER THREE (#u9ded1272-1375-50aa-b69e-d4da02fe436b)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u8bf4cb42-7b44-5538-a12b-76248e1cf2fe)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u4a59ffc3-32ec-5589-b559-9b9ad8232af4)
CHAPTER SIX (#uaab0174d-187a-5111-8733-5e89a3c6dc4c)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Considering Kate (#litres_trial_promo)
Dedication (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Taming Natasha (#u64cc9cf6-f529-548f-8cd6-ae74e7915a54)
For Gayle Link. Welcome to the fold
CHAPTER ONE (#u64cc9cf6-f529-548f-8cd6-ae74e7915a54)
“Why is it that all the really great-looking men are married?”
“Is that a trick question?” Natasha arranged a velvet-gowned doll in a child-sized bentwood rocker before she turned to her assistant. “Okay, Annie, what great-looking man are we talking about in particular?”
“The tall, blond and gorgeous one who’s standing outside the shop window with his nifty-looking wife and beautiful little girl.” Annie tucked a wad of gum into her cheek and heaved a gusty sigh. “They look like an ad for Perfect Family Digest.”
“Then perhaps they’ll come in and buy the perfect toy.”
Natasha stepped back from her grouping of Victorian dolls and accessories with a nod of approval. It looked exactly as she wanted—appealing, elegant and old-fashioned. She checked everything down to the tasseled fan in a tiny, china hand.
The toy store wasn’t just her business, it was her greatest pleasure. Everything from the smallest rattle to the biggest stuffed bear was chosen by her with the same eye for detail and quality. She insisted on the best for her shop and her customers, whether it was a five-hundred-dollar doll with its own fur wrap or a two-dollar, palm-sized race car. When the match was right, she was pleased to ring up either sale.
In the three years since she had opened her jingling front door, Natasha had made The Fun House one of the most thriving concerns in the small college town on the West Virginia border. It had taken drive and persistence, but her success was more a direct result of her innate understanding of children. She didn’t want her clients to walk out with a toy. She wanted them to walk out with the right toy.
Deciding to make a few adjustments, Natasha moved over to a display of miniature cars.
“I think they’re going to come in,” Annie was saying as she smoothed down her short crop of auburn hair. “The little girl’s practically bouncing out of her Mary Janes. Want me to open up?”
Always precise, Natasha glanced at the grinning clown clock overhead. “We have five minutes yet.”
“What’s five minutes? Tash, I’m telling you this guy is incredible.” Wanting a closer look, Annie edged down an aisle to restack board games. “Oh, yes. Six foot two, a hundred and sixty pounds. The best shoulders I’ve ever seen fill out a suit jacket. Oh Lord, it’s tweed. I didn’t know a guy in tweed could make me salivate.”
“A man in cardboard can make you salivate.”
“Most of the guys I know are cardboard.” A dimple winked at the corner of Annie’s mouth. She peeked around the counter of wooden toys to see if he was still at the window. “He must have spent some time at the beach this summer. His hair’s sun-streaked and he’s got a fabulous tan. Oh, God, he smiled at the little girl. I think I’m in love.”
Choreographing a scaled-down traffic jam, Natasha smiled. “You always think you’re in love.”
“I know.” Annie sighed. “I wish I could see the color of his eyes. He’s got one of those wonderfully lean and bony faces. I’m sure he’s incredibly intelligent and has suffered horribly.”
Natasha shot a quick, amused look over her shoulder. Annie, with her tall, skinny build had a heart as soft as marshmallow cream. “I’m sure his wife would be fascinated with your fantasy.”
“It’s a woman’s privilege—no, her obligation—to weave fantasies over men like that.”
Though she couldn’t have disagreed more, Natasha let Annie have her way. “All right then. Go ahead and open up.”
“One doll,” Spence said, giving his daughter’s ear a tug. “I might have thought twice about moving into that house, if I’d realized there was a toy store a half mile away.”
“You’d buy her the bloody toy store if you had your way.”
He spared one glance for the woman beside him. “Don’t start, Nina.”
The slender blonde shrugged her shoulders, rippling the trim, rose linen jacket of her suit, then looked at the little girl. “I just meant your daddy tends to spoil you because he loves you so much. Besides, you deserve a present for being so good about the move.”
Little Frederica Kimball’s bottom lip pouted. “I like my new house.” She slipped her hand into her father’s, automatically aligning herself with him and against the world. “I have a yard and a swing set all of my own.”
Nina looked them over, the tall, rangy man and the fairy-sized young girl. They had identical stubborn chins. As far as she could remember, she’d never won an argument with either one.
“I suppose I’m the only one who doesn’t see that as an advantage over living in New York.” Nina’s tone warmed slightly as she stroked the girl’s hair. “I can’t help worrying about you a little bit. I really only want you to be happy, darling. You and your daddy.”
“We are.” To break the tension, Spence swung Freddie into his arms. “Aren’t we, funny face?”
“She’s about to be that much happier.” Relenting, Nina gave Spence’s hand a squeeze. “They’re opening.”
“Good morning.” They were gray, Annie noted, biting back a long, dreamy, “Ahh.” A glorious gray. She tucked her little fantasy into the back of her mind and ushered in the first customers of the day. “May I help you?”
“My daughter’s interested in a doll.” Spence set Freddie on her feet again.
“Well, you’ve come to the right place.” Annie dutifully switched her attention to the child. She really was a cute little thing, with her father’s gray eyes and pale, flyaway blond hair. “What kind of doll would you like?”
“A pretty one,” Freddie answered immediately. “A pretty one with red hair and blue eyes.”
“I’m sure we have just what you want.” She offered a hand. “Would you like to look around?”
After a glance at her father for approval, Freddie linked hands with Annie and wandered off.
“Damn it.” Spence found himself wincing.
Nina squeezed his hand for the second time. “Spence—”
“I delude myself thinking that it doesn’t matter, that she doesn’t even remember.”
“Just because she wanted a doll with red hair and blue eyes doesn’t mean anything.”
“Red hair and blue eyes,” he repeated; the frustration welled up once more. “Just like Angela’s. She remembers, Nina. And it does matter.” Stuffing his hands into his pockets he walked away.
Three years, he thought. It had been nearly three years now. Freddie had still been in diapers. But she remembered Angela—beautiful, careless Angela. Not even the most liberal critic would have considered Angela a mother. She had never cuddled or crooned, never rocked or soothed.
He studied a small, porcelain-faced doll dressed in pale, angelic blue. Tiny, tapering fingers, huge, dreamy eyes. Angela had been like that, he remembered. Ethereally beautiful. And cold as glass.
He had loved her as a man might love a piece of art—distantly admiring the perfection of form, and constantly searching for the meaning beneath it. Between them they had somehow created a warm, gorgeous child who had managed to find her way through the first years of her life almost without help from her parents.
But he would make it up to her. Spence shut his eyes for a moment. He intended to do everything in his power to give his daughter the love, the structure and the security she deserved. The realness. The word seemed trite, but it was the only one he could find that described what he wanted for his daughter—the real, the solid bond of family.
She loved him. He felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders as he thought of the way Freddie’s big eyes would shine when he tucked her in at night, at the way her arms would wrap tightly around him when he held her. Perhaps he would never fully forgive himself for being so involved with his own problems, his own life during her infancy, but things had changed. Even this move had been made with her welfare in mind.
He heard her laugh, and the rest of the tension dissolved on a wave of pure pleasure. There was no sweeter music than his little girl’s laugh. An entire symphony could be written around it. He wouldn’t disturb her yet, Spence thought. Let her indulge herself with the bright and beautiful dolls, before he had to remind her that only one could be hers.
Relaxed again, he began to pay attention to the shop. Like the dolls he’d imagined for his daughter, it was bright and beautiful. Though small, it was packed from wall to wall with everything a child might covet. A big golden giraffe and a sad-eyed purple dog hung from the ceiling. Wooden trains, cars and planes, all painted in bold colors, jockeyed for position on a long display table with elegant miniature furniture. An old-fashioned jack-in-the-box sat beside an intricate scale model of a futuristic space station. There were dolls, some beautiful, some charmingly homely, erector sets and tea sets.
The lack of studied arrangement made the result all the more appealing. This was a place to pretend and to wish, a crowded Aladdin’s cave designed to make children’s eyes light in wonder. To make them laugh, as his daughter was laughing now. He could already foresee that he’d be hard-pressed to keep Freddie from making regular visits.
That was one of the reasons he’d made the move to a small town. He wanted his daughter to be able to reap the pleasures of local shops, where the merchants would know her name. She would be able to walk from one end of town to the other without those big-city worries about muggings, abductions and drugs. There would be no need for dead bolts and security systems, for “white noise” machines to block out the surge and grind of traffic. Even a girl as little as his Freddie wouldn’t be swallowed up here.
And perhaps, without the pace and the pressure, he would make peace with himself.
Idly he picked up a music box. It was of delicately crafted porcelain, graced with a figure of a raven-haired Gypsy woman in a flounced red dress. In her ears were tiny gold loops, and in her hands a tambourine with colored streamers. He was certain he wouldn’t have found anything more skillfully made on Fifth Avenue.
He wondered how the owner could leave it out where small, curious fingers might reach and break. Intrigued, he turned the key and watched the figure revolve around the tiny, china camp fire.
Tchaikovsky. He recognized the movement instantly, and his skilled ear approved the quality of tone. A moody, even passionate piece, he thought, finding it strange to come across such exquisite workmanship in a toy store. Then he glanced up and saw Natasha.
He stared. He couldn’t help it. She was standing a few feet away, her head up, slightly tilted as she watched him. Her hair was as dark as the dancer’s and corkscrewed around her face in a wild disarray that flowed beyond her shoulders. Her skin was a dark, rich gold that was set off by the simple red dress she wore.
But this woman was not fragile, he thought. Though she was small, he got the impression of power. Perhaps it was her face, with its full, unpainted mouth and high, slashing cheekbones. Her eyes were almost as dark as her hair, heavy-lidded and thickly lashed. Even from a distance of ten feet he sensed it. Strong, undiluted sex. It surrounded her as other women surrounded themselves with perfumes.
For the first time in years he felt the muscle-numbing heat of pure desire.
Natasha saw it, then recognized and resented it. What kind of man, she wondered, walked into a room with his wife and daughter, then looked at another woman with naked hunger in his eyes?
Not her kind.
Determined to ignore the look as she had ignored it from others in the past, she crossed to him. “Do you need some help?”
Help? Spence thought blankly. He needed oxygen. He hadn’t known it was literally possible for a woman to take a man’s breath away. “Who are you?”
“Natasha Stanislaski.” She offered her coolest smile. “I own the store.”
Her voice seemed to hang in the air, husky, vital, with a trace of her Slavic origins adding eroticism as truly as the music still playing behind him. She smelled of soap, nothing more, yet the fragrance completely seduced him.
When he didn’t speak, she lifted a brow. It might have been amusing to knock a man off his feet, but she was busy at the moment, and the man was married. “Your daughter has her selection down to three dolls. Perhaps you’d like to help her with her final choice.”
“In a minute. Your accent—is it Russian?”
“Yes.” She wondered if she should tell him his wife was standing near the front door, bored and impatient.
“How long have you been in America?”
“Since I was six.” She aimed a deliberately cold glance. “About the same age as your little girl. Excuse me—”
He had his hand on her arm before he could stop himself. Even though he knew the move was a bad one, the venom in her eyes surprised him. “Sorry. I was going to ask you about this music box.”
Natasha shifted her gaze to it as the music began to wind down. “It’s one of our best, handcrafted here in the States. Are you interested in buying it?”
“I haven’t decided, but I thought you might not have realized it was sitting out on that shelf.”
“Why?”
“It’s not the kind of merchandise one expects to find in a toy store. It could easily be broken.”
Natasha took it and placed it farther back on the shelf. “And it can be mended.” She made a quick, clearly habitual movement with her shoulders. It spoke of arrogance rather than carelessness. “I believe children should be allowed the pleasures of music, don’t you?”
“Yes.” For the first time a smile flickered over his face. It was, as Annie had noted, a particularly effective one, Natasha had to admit. Through her annoyance she felt the trickle of attraction, and strangely, kinship. Then he said, “As a matter of fact, I believe that quite strongly. Perhaps we could discuss it over dinner.”
Holding herself rigid, Natasha battled back fury. It was difficult for one with her hot, often turbulent nature, but she reminded herself that the man had not only his wife, but his young daughter in the store.
The angry insults that rose to her throat were swallowed, but not before Spence saw them reflected in her eyes.
“No,” was all she said as she turned.
“Miss—” Spence began, then Freddie whirled down the aisle, carrying a big, floppy Raggedy Ann.
“Daddy, isn’t she nice?” Eyes shining, she held out the doll for his approval.
It was redheaded, Spence thought. But it was anything but beautiful. Nor, to his relief, was it a symbol of Angela. Because he knew Freddie expected it, he took his time examining her choice. “This is,” he said after a moment, “the very best doll I’ve seen today.”
“Really?”
He crouched until he was eye to eye with his daughter. “Absolutely. You have excellent taste, funny face.”
Freddie reached out, crushing the doll between them as she hugged her father. “I can have her?”
“I thought she was for me.” As Freddie giggled, he picked up the pair of them.
“I’ll be happy to wrap her for you.” Natasha’s tone was warmer, she knew. He might be a jerk, but he loved his daughter.
“I can carry her.” Freddie squeezed her new friend close.
“All right. Then I’ll just give you a ribbon for her hair. Would you like that?”
“A blue one.”
“A blue one it is.” Natasha led the way to the cash register.
Nina took one look at the doll and rolled her eyes. “Darling, is that the best you could do?”
“Daddy likes her,” Freddie murmured, ducking her head.
“Yes, I do. Very much,” he added with a telling look for Nina. Setting Freddie on her feet again, he fished out his wallet.
The mother was certainly no prize, Natasha decided. Though that didn’t give the man a right to come on to a clerk in a toy store. She made change and handed over the receipt, then took out a length of blue ribbon.
“Thank you,” she said to Freddie. “I think she’s going to like her new home with you very much.”
“I’ll take good care of her,” Freddie promised, while she struggled to tie the ribbon through the yarn mop of hair. “Can people come in to look at the toys, or do they have to buy one?”
Natasha smiled, then taking another ribbon, tied a quick, sassy bow in the child’s hair. “You can come in and look anytime you like.”
“Spence, we really must be going.” Nina stood holding the door open.
“Right.” He hesitated. It was a small town, he reminded himself. And if Freddie could come in and look, so could he. “It was nice meeting you, Miss Stanislaski.”
“Goodbye.” She waited until the door jingled and closed, then let out a muttered stream of curses.
Annie peeked around a tower of building blocks. “Excuse me?”
“That man.”
“Yes.” With a little sigh, Annie waltzed down the aisle. “That man.”
“He brings his wife and child into a place like this, then looks at me as if he wants to nibble on my toes.”
“Tash.” Her expression pained, Annie pressed a hand to her heart. “Please don’t excite me.”
“I find it insulting.” She skirted around the checkout counter and swung a fist at a punching bag. “He asked me to dinner.”
“He what?” Delight showed in Annie’s eyes, before a look from Natasha dampened it. “You’re right. It is insulting, seeing as he’s a married man—even though his wife seemed like a cold fish.”
“His marital problems are no concern of mine.”
“No….” Practicality warred with fantasy. “I guess you turned him down.”
A choked sound caught in Natasha’s throat as she turned. “Of course I turned him down.”
“I mean, of course,” Annie put in quickly.
“The man has a nerve,” Natasha said; her fingers itched to hit something. “Coming into my place of business and propositioning me.”
“He didn’t!” Scandalized and thrilled, Annie grabbed Natasha’s arm. “Tash, he didn’t really proposition you? Right here?”
“With his eyes he did. The message was clear.” It infuriated her how often men looked at her and only saw the physical. Only wanted to see the physical, she thought in disgust. She had tolerated suggestions, propositions and proposals since before she had fully understood what they meant. But she understood now and tolerated nothing.
“If he hadn’t had that sweet little girl with him, I would have slapped his face.” Because the image pleased her so much, she let loose on the hapless punching bag again.
Annie had seen her employer’s temper fly often enough to know how to cool it. “She was sweet, wasn’t she? Her name’s Freddie. Isn’t that cute?”
Natasha took a long, steadying breath even as she rubbed her fisted hand in her other palm. “Yes.”
“She told me they had just moved to Shepherdstown from New York. The doll was going to be her first new friend.”
“Poor little thing.” Natasha knew too well the fears and anxieties of being a child in a strange place. Forget the father, she told herself with a toss of her head. “She looks to be about the same age as JoBeth Riley.” Annoyance forgotten, Natasha went behind the counter again and picked up the phone. It wouldn’t hurt to give Mrs. Riley a call.
Spence stood at the music-room window and stared out at a bed of summer flowers. Having flowers outside the window and a bumpy slope of lawn that would need tending was a new experience. He’d never cut grass in his life. Smiling to himself, he wondered how soon he could try his hand at it.
There was a big, spreading maple, its leaves a dark, dark green. In a few weeks, he imagined they would grow red and vibrant before they tumbled from the branches. He had enjoyed the view from his condo on Central Park West, watching the seasons come and go with the changing trees. But not like this, he realized.
Here the grass, the trees, the flowers he saw belonged to him. They were for him to enjoy and to care for. Here he could let Freddie take out her dolls for an afternoon tea party and not have to worry every second she was out of his sight. They would make a good life here, a solid life for both of them. He’d felt it when he’d flown down to discuss his position with the dean—and again when he’d walked through this big, rambling house with the anxious real-estate agent dogging his heels.
She hadn’t had to sell it, Spence thought. He’d been sold the moment he’d walked in the front door.
As he watched, a hummingbird swooped to hover at the cup of a bright red petunia. In that instant he was more convinced than ever that his decision to leave the city had been the right one.
Having a brief fling with rural living. Nina’s words rolled through his mind as he watched the sun flash on the bird’s iridescent wings. It was difficult to blame her for saying it, for believing it when he had always chosen to live in the middle of things. He couldn’t deny he had enjoyed those glittery parties that had lasted until dawn, or the elegant midnight suppers after a symphony or ballet.
He had been born into a world of glamour and wealth and prestige. He had lived all of his life in a place where only the best was acceptable. And he had relished it, Spence admitted. Summering in Monte Carlo, wintering in Nice or Cannes. Weekends in Aruba or Cancun.
He wouldn’t wish those experiences away, but he could wish, and did, that he had accepted the responsibilities of his life sooner.
He accepted them now. Spence watched the hummingbird streak away like a sapphire bullet. And as much to his own surprise as to that of people who knew him, he was enjoying those responsibilities. Freddie made the difference. All the difference.
He thought of her and she came running across the back lawn, her new rag doll tucked under her arm. She made a beeline, as he expected, to the swing set. It was so new that the blue and white paint gleamed in the sunlight, and the hard plastic seats were shiny as leather. With the doll in her lap, she pushed off, her face lifted skyward, her tiny mouth moving to some private song.
Love rammed into him with a velvet fist, solid and painful. In all of his life he had never known anything as consuming or as basic as the emotion she brought to him simply by being.
As she glided back and forth, she cuddled the doll, bringing her close to whisper secrets into her ear. It pleased him to see Freddie so taken with the cloth and cotton doll. She could have chosen china or velvet, but had picked something that looked as though it needed love.
She’d spoken of the toy store throughout the morning, and was wishing, Spence knew, for a return trip. Oh, she wouldn’t ask for anything, he thought. Not directly. She would use her eyes. It both amused and baffled him that at five, his little girl had already mastered that peculiar and effective feminine trick.
He’d thought of the toy store himself, and its owner. No feminine tricks there, just pure womanly disdain. It made him wince again to remember how clumsy he’d been. Out of practice, he reminded himself with a self-deprecating smile and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. What was more, he couldn’t remember ever experiencing that strong a sexual punch. It was like being hit by lightning, he decided. A man was entitled to fumble a bit after being electrified.
But her reaction… Frowning, Spence replayed the scene in his mind. She’d been furious. She’d damn near been quivering with fury before he’d opened his mouth—and put his foot in it.
She hadn’t even attempted to be polite in her refusal. Just no—a single hard syllable crusted with frost at the edges. It wasn’t as if he’d asked her to go to bed with him.
But he’d wanted to. From the first instant he had been able to imagine carrying her off to some dark, remote spot in the woods, where the ground was springy with moss and the trees blocked out the sky. There he could take the heat of those full, sulky lips. There he could indulge in the wild passion her face promised. Wild, mindless sex, heedless of time or place, of right or wrong.
Good God. Amazed, he pulled himself back. He was thinking like a teenager. No, Spence admitted, thrusting his hands into his pockets again. He was thinking like a man—one who had gone four years without a woman. He wasn’t certain if he wanted to thank Natasha Stanislaski for unlocking all those needs again, or throttle her.
But he was certain he was going to see her again.
“I’m all packed.” Nina paused in the doorway. She gave a little sigh; Spence was clearly absorbed in his own thoughts again. “Spencer,” she said, raising her voice as she crossed the room. “I said I’m all packed.”
“What? Oh.” He managed a distracted smile and forced his shoulders to relax. “We’ll miss you, Nina.”
“You’ll be glad to see the back of me,” she corrected, then gave him a quick peck on the cheek.
“No.” His smile came easier now, she saw, dutifully wiping the faint trace of lipstick from his skin. “I appreciate all you’ve done to help us settle in. I know how tight your schedule is.”
“I could hardly let my brother tackle the wilds of West Virginia alone.” She took his hand in a rare show of genuine agitation. “Oh, Spence, are you sure? Forget everything I’ve said before and think, really think it through. It’s such a big change, for both of you. What will you possibly do here in your free time?”
“Cut the grass.” Now he grinned at her expression. “Sit on the porch. Maybe I’ll even write music again.”
“You could write in New York.”
“I haven’t written two bars in almost four years,” he reminded her.
“All right.” She walked to the piano and waved a hand. “But if you wanted a change, you could have found a place on Long Island or even in Connecticut.”
“I like it here, Nina. Believe me, this is the best thing I could do for Freddie, and myself.”
“I hope you’re right.” Because she loved him, she smiled again. “I still say you’ll be back in New York within six months. In the meantime, as that child’s only aunt, I expect to be kept apprised of her progress.” She glanced down, annoyed to see a chip in her nail polish. “The idea of her attending public school—”
“Nina.”
“Never mind.” She held up a hand. “There’s no use starting this argument when I have a plane to catch. And I’m quite aware she’s your child.”
“Yes, she is.”
Nina tapped a finger on the glossy surface of the baby grand. “Spence, I know you’re still carrying around guilt because of Angela. I don’t like to see it.”
His easy smile vanished. “Some mistakes take along time to be erased.”
“She made you miserable,” Nina said flatly. “There were problems within the first year of your marriage. Oh, you weren’t forthcoming with information,” she added when he didn’t respond. “But there were others all too eager to pass it along to me or anyone else who would listen. It was no secret that she didn’t want the child.”
“And how much better was I, wanting the baby only because I thought it would fill the gaps in my marriage? That’s a large burden to hand a child.”
“You made mistakes. You recognized them and you rectified them. Angela never suffered a pang of guilt in her life. If she hadn’t died, you would have divorced her and taken custody of Freddie. The result’s the same. I know that sounds cold. The truth often is. I don’t like to think that you’re making this move, changing your life this dramatically because you’re trying to make up for something that’s long over.”
“Maybe that’s part of it. But there’s more.” He held out a hand, waiting until Nina came to him. “Look at her.” He pointed out the window to where Freddie continued to swing high, free as the hummingbird. “She’s happy. And so am I.”
CHAPTER TWO (#u64cc9cf6-f529-548f-8cd6-ae74e7915a54)
“I’m not scared.”
“Of course you’re not.” Spence looked at his daughter’s brave reflection in the mirror while he carefully braided her hair. He didn’t need the quaver in her voice to tell him she was terrified. There was a rock in the pit of his own stomach the size of a fist.
“Some of the kids might cry.” Her big eyes were already misted. “But I won’t.”
“You’re going to have fun.” He wasn’t any more certain of that than his nervous daughter. The trouble with being a parent, he thought, was that you were supposed to sound sure of everything. “The first day of school’s always a little scary, but once you get there and meet everyone, you’ll have a great time.”
She fixed him with a steady, owlish stare. “Really?”
“You liked kindergarten, didn’t you?” It was evasive, he admitted to himself, but he couldn’t make promises he might not be able to keep.
“Mostly.” She lowered her eyes, poking at the yellow, sea horse-shaped comb on her dresser. “But Amy and Pam won’t be there.”
“You’ll make new friends. You’ve already met JoBeth.” He thought of the pixieish brunette who had strolled by the house with her mother a couple of days before.
“I guess, and JoBeth is nice, but…” How could she explain that JoBeth already knew all of the other girls? “Maybe I should wait till tomorrow.”
Their eyes met in the mirror again; he rested his chin on her shoulder. She smelled of the pale green soap she loved because it was shaped like a dinosaur. Her face was so much like his own, yet softer, finer, and to him infinitely beautiful.
“You could, but then tomorrow would be your first day of school. You’d still have butterflies.”
“Butterflies?”
“Right here.” He patted her tummy. “Doesn’t it feel like butterflies dancing in there?”
That made her giggle. “Kind of.”
“I’ve got them, too.”
“Really?” Her eyes opened wide.
“Really. I’ve got to go to school this morning, just like you.”
She fiddled with the pink ribbons he’d tied on the ends of her pigtails. She knew it wasn’t the same for him, but didn’t say so because she was afraid he’d get that worried look. Freddie had heard him talking to Aunt Nina once, and remembered how impatient he had sounded when she’d complained that he was uprooting her niece during her formative years.
Freddie wasn’t sure exactly what formative years were, but she knew her daddy had been upset, and that even when Aunt Nina had gone again, he’d still had that worried look. She didn’t want to make him worried, or to make him think Aunt Nina was right. If they went back to New York, the only swing sets were in the park.
Besides, she liked the big house and her new room. Even better, her father’s new job was so close, he would be home every night long before dinner. Remembering not to pout, Freddie decided that since she wanted to stay, she’d have to go to school.
“Will you be here when I get home?”
“I think so. But if I’m not, Vera will be,” he said, thinking of their longtime housekeeper. “You can tell me everything that happened.” After kissing the top of her head, he set her on her feet. She looked achingly small in her pink and white playsuit. Her gray eyes were solemn, her bottom lip trembling. He fought back the urge to gather her up and promise that she’d never have to go to school or anywhere else that frightened her. “Let’s go see what Vera packed in your new lunch box.”
Twenty minutes later he was standing on the curb, holding Freddie’s hand in his own. With almost as much dread as his daughter he saw the big yellow school bus lumbering over the hill.
He should have driven her to school, he thought in sudden panic—at least for the first few days. He should take her himself, instead of putting her onto that bus with strangers. Yet it had seemed better to make the whole event normal, to let her ease into the group and become one of them from the outset.
How could he let her go? She was just a baby. His baby. What if he was wrong? This wasn’t just a matter of picking out the wrong color dress for her. Simply because it was the designated day and time, he was going to tell his daughter to get onto that bus, then walk away.
What if the driver was careless and drove off a cliff? How could he be sure someone would make certain Freddie got back onto the right bus that afternoon?
The bus rumbled to a halt and his fingers tightened instinctively on hers. When the door clattered open, he was almost ready to make a run for it.
“Hi, there.” The driver, a large woman with a wide smile, nodded at him. Behind her, children were yelling and bouncing on the seats. “You must be Professor Kimball.”
“Yes.” He had excuses for not putting Freddie on the bus on the tip of his tongue.
“I’m Dorothy Mansfield. The kids just call me Miss D. And you must be Frederica.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She bit her bottom lip to keep from turning away and hiding her face against her father’s side. “It’s Freddie.”
“Whew.” Miss D gave another big grin. “I’m glad to hear that. Frederica sure is a mouthful. Well, hop aboard, Freddie girl. This is the big day. John Harman, you give that book back to Mikey, less’n you want to sit behind me in the hot seat the rest of the week.”
Eyes swimming, Freddie put one foot onto the first step. Swallowing, she climbed the second.
“Why don’t you take a seat with JoBeth and Lisa there?” Miss D suggested kindly. She turned back to Spence with a wink and a wave. “Don’t worry about a thing, Professor. We’ll take good care of her.”
The door closed on a puff of air, then the bus rumbled ahead. Spence could only stand on the curb and watch it take his little girl away.
He wasn’t exactly idle. Spence’s time was eaten up almost from the moment he walked into the college. He had his own schedule to study, associates to meet, instruments and sheet music to pore over. There was a faculty meeting, a hurried lunch in the lounge, and there were papers, dozens of papers to read and digest. It was a familiar routine, one that he had begun three years before when he’d taken a post at the Juilliard School. But like Freddie, he was the new kid in town, and it was up to him to make the adjustments.
He worried about her. At lunchtime he imagined her sitting in the school cafeteria, a room that smelled of peanut butter and waxy cartons of milk. She would be huddled at the end of a table scattered with crumbs, alone, miserable, while other children laughed and joked with their friends. He could see her at recess, standing apart and looking on longingly, while the others raced and shouted and climbed like spiders on jungle gyms. The trauma would leave her insecure and unhappy for the rest of her life.
All because he’d put her onto that damn yellow bus.
By the end of the day he was feeling as guilty as a child abuser, certain his little girl would come home in tears, devastated by the rigors of the first day of school. More than once he asked himself if Nina had been right all along. Perhaps he should have left well enough alone and stayed in New York, where at least Freddie had had friends and the familiar.
With his briefcase in one hand and his jacket slung over his shoulder, he started for home. It was hardly more than a mile, and the weather remained unseasonably warm. Until winter hit, he would take advantage of it and walk to and from campus.
He had already fallen in love with the town. There were pretty shops and rambling old houses all along the tree-lined main street. It was a college town and proud of it, but it was equally proud of its age and dignity. The street climbed, and here and there the sidewalk showed cracks where tree roots had undermined it. Though there were cars passing, it was quiet enough to hear the bark of a dog or the music from a radio. A woman weeding marigolds along her walkway looked up and waved at him. Cheered, Spence waved back.
She didn’t even know him, he thought. But she had waved. He looked forward to seeing her again, planting bulbs perhaps, or sweeping snow from her porch. He could smell chrysanthemums. For some reason that alone gave him a shot of pleasure.
No, he hadn’t made a mistake. He and Freddie belonged here. In less than a week it had become home.
He stopped on the curb to wait for a laboring sedan to pass, and glancing across the street saw the sign for The Fun House. It was perfect, Spence thought. The perfect name. It conjured up laughter and surprises, just as the window display with its building blocks, chubby-cheeked dolls and shiny red cars promised a childhood treasure trove. At the moment he could think of nothing he wanted more than to find something that would bring a smile to his daughter’s face.
You spoil her.
He could hear Nina’s voice clearly in his ears.
So what? Glancing quickly up and down the street, he crossed to the opposite curb. His little girl had walked onto the school bus as bravely as any soldier marching into battle. There was no harm in buying her a small medal.
The door jingled as he entered. There was a scent, as cheerful as the sound of the bells. Peppermint, he thought and smiled. It delighted him to hear the tinny strains of “The Merry-Go-Round Broke Down,” coming from the rear of the shop.
“I’ll be right with you.”
He had forgotten, Spence realized, how that voice could cruise along the air.
He wouldn’t make a fool of himself again. This time he was prepared for what she looked like, sounded like, smelled like. He had come in to buy a present for his daughter, not to flirt with the proprietor. Then he grinned into the face of a forlorn panda. There didn’t seem to be any law against doing both.
“I’m sure Bonnie will love it,” Natasha said as she carried the miniature carousel for her customer. “It’s a beautiful birthday present.”
“She saw it in here a few weeks ago and hasn’t been able to talk about anything else.” Bonnie’s grandmother tried not to grimace at the price. “I guess she’s old enough to take care of it.”
“Bonnie’s a very responsible girl,” Natasha went on, then spotted Spence at the counter. “I’ll be right with you.” The temperature of her voice dropped a cool twenty degrees.
“Take your time.” It annoyed him that his reaction to her should be so strong, while hers played tug-of-war at the opposite end of the spectrum. It was obvious she’d decided to dislike him. It might be interesting, Spence thought, while he watched her slender, capable hands wrap the carousel, to find out her reasons.
And change her mind.
“That’s 55.27, Mrs. Mortimer.”
“Oh no, dear, the price tag said 67.”
Natasha, who knew Mrs. Mortimer juggled expenses on a fixed income, only smiled. “I’m sorry. Didn’t I tell you it was on sale?”
“No.” Mrs. Mortimer let out a little breath of relief as she counted out bills. “Well, this must be my lucky day.”
“And Bonnie’s.” Natasha topped the gift with a pretty, celebratory pink bow, remembering it was Bonnie’s favorite color. “Be sure to tell her happy birthday.”
“I will.” The proud grandmother lifted her package. “I can’t wait to see her face when she opens this. Bye, Natasha.”
Natasha waited until the door closed. “May I help you with something?”
“That was a very nice thing to do.”
She lifted a brow. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.” He had the absurd urge to take her hand and kiss it. It was incredible, he thought. He was almost thirty-five and tumbling into puppy love with a woman he barely knew. “I’d meant to come in before.”
“Oh? Was your daughter dissatisfied with her doll?”
“No, she loves it. It was just that I…” Good God, he was nearly stuttering. Five minutes with her, and he felt as awkward as a teenager at his first dance. He steadied himself with an effort. “I felt we’d gotten off on the wrong foot before. Should I apologize?”
“If you like.” Just because he looked appealing and a little awkward was no reason to go easy on him. “Did you come in only for that?”
“No.” His eyes darkened, just slightly. Noting it, Natasha wondered if she’d erred in her initial impression. Perhaps he wasn’t harmless, after all. There was something deeper in those eyes, stronger and more dangerous. What surprised her further was that she found it exciting.
Disgusted with herself, she gave him a polite smile. “Was there something else?”
“I wanted something for my daughter.” The hell with the gorgeous Russian princess, he thought. He had more important things to tend to.
“What was it you wanted for her?”
“I don’t know.” That was true enough. Setting down his briefcase, he glanced around the shop.
Unbending a little, Natasha came around the counter. “Is it her birthday?”
“No.” Feeling foolish, he shrugged. “It’s the first day of school, and she looked so…brave getting on the bus this morning.”
This time Natasha’s smile was spontaneous and full of warmth. It nearly stopped his heart. “You shouldn’t worry. When she comes home, she’ll be full of stories about everything and everyone. The first day is much harder, I think, on the parent than on the child.”
“It’s been the longest day of my life.”
She laughed, a rich smoky sound that seemed impossibly erotic in a room full of clowns and stuffed bears. “It sounds like you both deserve a present. You were looking at a music box before. I have another you might like.”
So saying, she led the way to the back of the shop. Spence did his best to ignore the subtle sway of her hips and the soft, fresh-scrubbed flavor of her scent. The box she chose was carved of wood, its pedestal topped with a cat and a fiddle, a cow and a quarter moon. As it turned to “Stardust,” he saw the laughing dog and the dish with the spoon.
“It’s charming.”
“It’s one of my favorites.” She’d decided that any man who adored his daughter so blatantly couldn’t be all bad. So she smiled again. “I think it would be a lovely memento, something she could play on her first day of college and remember her father was thinking of her.”
“If he survives first grade.” He shifted slightly to look at her. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”
It was the oddest thing—his body had hardly brushed hers, but she’d felt a jolt. For an instant she forgot he was a customer, a father, a husband, and thought of him only as a man. His eyes were the color of the river at dusk. His lips, as they formed the barest hint of a smile, were impossibly attractive, alluring. Involuntarily she wondered what it would be like to feel them against her own—to watch his face as mouth met mouth, and see herself reflected in his eyes.
Appalled, she stepped back and her voice grew colder. “I’ll box it for you.”
Intrigued by the sudden change in tone, he took his time following her back to the counter. Hadn’t he seen something in those fabulous eyes of hers? Or was it wishful thinking? It had gone quickly enough, heat smothered in frost. For the life of him he could find no reason for either.
“Natasha.” He laid a hand on hers as she began to pack the music box.
Slowly she lifted her eyes. She was already hating herself for noticing that his hands were beautiful, wide-palmed, long-fingered. There was also a note of patience in his voice that stretched her already frayed nerves. “Yes?”
“Why do I keep getting the feeling you’d like to boil me in oil?”
“You’re mistaken,” she said evenly. “I don’t think I’d like that.”
“You don’t sound convinced.” He felt her hand flex under his, soft and strong. The image of steel-lined velvet seemed particularly apt. “I’m having some trouble figuring out exactly what I’ve done to annoy you.”
“Then you’ll have to think about it. Cash or charge?”
He’d had little practice with rejection. Like a wasp it stung the ego. No matter how beautiful she was, he had no desire to continue to ram his head against the same brick wall.
“Cash.” The door jangled open behind them and he released her hand. Three children, fresh from school, came in giggling. A young boy with red hair and a face bursting with freckles stood on his toes in front of the counter.
“I have three dollars,” he announced.
Natasha fought back a grin. “You’re very rich today, Mr. Jensen.”
He flashed her a smile that revealed his latest missing tooth. “I’ve been saving up. I want the race car.”
Natasha only lifted a brow as she counted out Spence’s change. “Does your mother know you’re here spending your life savings?” Her new customer remained silent. “Scott?”
He shifted from one foot to the other. “She didn’t say I couldn’t.”
“And she didn’t say you could,” Natasha surmised. She leaned over to tug at his cowlick. “Go and ask her, then you come back. The race car will still be here.”
“But, Tash—”
“You wouldn’t want your mother to be mad at me, would you?”
Scott looked thoughtful for a moment, and Natasha could tell it was a tough choice. “I guess not.”
“Then go ask her, and I’ll hold one for you.”
Hope blossomed. “Promise?”
Natasha put a hand on her heart. “Solemnly.” She looked back at Spence, and the amusement faded from her eyes. “I hope Freddie enjoys her present.”
“I’m sure she will.” He walked out, annoyed with himself for wishing he were a ten-year-old boy with a missing tooth.
Natasha locked the shop at six. The sun was still bright, the air still steamy. It made her think of picnics under a shady tree. A nicer fantasy than the microwave meal on her agenda, she mused, but at the moment impractical.
As she walked home, she watched a couple stroll hand in hand into the restaurant across the street. Someone hailed her from a passing car, and she waved in response. She could have stopped in the local pub and whiled away an hour over a glass of wine with any number of people she knew. Finding a dinner companion was as simple as sticking her head through one of a dozen doors and making the suggestion.
She wasn’t in the mood for company. Not even her own.
It was the heat, she told herself as she turned the corner, the heat that had hung mercilessly in the air throughout the summer and showed no sign of yielding to autumn. It made her restless. It made her remember.
It had been summer when her life had changed so irrevocably.
Even now, years later, sometimes when she saw the roses in full bloom or heard the drunken buzz of bees she would ache. And wonder what might have happened. What would her life be like now, if…? She detested herself for playing those wishing games.
There were roses now, fragile pink ones that thrived despite the heat and lack of rain. She had planted them herself in the little patch of grass outside her apartment. Tending them brought her pleasure and pain. And what was life, she asked herself as she ran a fingertip over a petal, without them both? The warm scent of the roses followed her up the walkway.
Her rooms were quiet. She had thought about getting a kitten or a pup, so that there would be something there to greet her in the evening, something that loved and depended on her. But then she realized how unfair it would be to leave it alone while she was at the shop.
So she turned to music, flicking on the stereo as she stepped out of her shoes. Even that was a test. Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet. She could see herself dancing to those haunting, romantic strains, the hot lights surrounding her, the music beating like her blood, her movements fluid, controlled without looking it. A triple pirouette, showing grace without effort.
That was past, Natasha reminded herself. Regrets were for the weak.
She moved out of habit, changing her work clothes for a loose, sleeveless jumpsuit, hanging up her skirt and blouse neatly as she had been taught. It was habit again rather than necessity that had her checking the cotton skirt for wear.
There was iced tea in the refrigerator and one of those packaged meals for the microwave that she both depended on and detested. She laughed at herself as she pushed the buttons to heat it.
She was getting like an old woman, Natasha decided, cranky and cross from the heat. Sighing, she rubbed the cold glass over her forehead.
That man had started her off, she thought. For a few moments in the shop today she had actually started to like him. He’d been so sweet, worrying about his little girl, wanting to reward her for being brave enough to face that momentous first day in school. She’d liked the way his voice had sounded, the way his eyes had smiled. For those few moments he had seemed like someone she could laugh with, talk with.
Then that had changed. A part of it was surely her fault, she admitted. But that didn’t diminish his blame. She had felt something she hadn’t felt, hadn’t chosen to feel in a long, long time. That frisson of excitement. That tug of need. It made her angry and ashamed of herself. It made her furious with him.
The nerve, she thought, as she yanked her dish out of the microwave. Flirting with her as if she were some naive fool, before he went home to his wife and daughter.
Have dinner with him, indeed. She jammed her fork into the steaming seafood pasta. That kind of man expected payment in full for a meal. The candlelight and wine type, she thought with a sneer. Soft voice, patient eyes, clever hands. And no heart.
Just like Anthony. Impatient, she set the dish aside and picked up the glass that was already dripping with moisture. But she was wiser now than she had been at eighteen. Much wiser. Much stronger. She was no longer a woman who could be lured by charm and smooth words. Not that this man was smooth, she remembered with a quick smile. He— Lord, she didn’t even know his name and she already detested him—he was a little clumsy, a little awkward. That was a charm of its own.
But he was, she thought, very much like Anthony. Tall and blond with those oh, so American good looks. Looks that concealed a lack of morals and a carelessly deceitful heart.
What Anthony had cost her could never be tallied. Since that time, Natasha had made very, very certain no man would ever cost her so dearly again.
But she had survived. She lifted her glass in a self-toast. Not only had she survived, but except for times when memories crowded in on her, she was happy. She loved the shop, and the chance it gave her to be around children and make them happy. In her three years there she had watched them grow. She had a wonderful, funny friend in Annie, books that stayed in the black and a home that suited her.
She heard a thump over her head and smiled. The Jorgensons were getting ready for the evening meal. She imagined Don was fussing around Marilyn, who was carrying their first child. Natasha liked knowing they were there, just above her, happy, in love and full of hope.
That was family to her, what she had had in her youth, what she had expected as an adult. She could still see Papa fretting over Mama when she neared her time. Every time, Natasha remembered, thinking of her three younger siblings. How he had wept with happiness when his wife and babies were safe and well. He adored his Nadia. Even now Natasha knew he still brought flowers home to the little house in Brooklyn. When he came home after a day’s work, he kissed his wife, not with an absent peck on the cheek, but robustly, joyfully. A man wildly in love after almost thirty years.
It was her father who had kept her from shoveling all men into the pit Anthony had dug for her. Seeing her father and mother together had kept that small, secret hope alight that someday she would find someone who would love her as much and as honestly.
Someday, she thought with a shrug. But for now she had her own business, her own home and her own life. No man, no matter how beautiful his hands or how clear his eyes, was going to rock her boat. Secretly she hoped her newest customer’s wife gave him nothing but grief.
“One more story. Please, Daddy.” Freddie, her eyes heavy, her face shiny from her bath, used her most persuasive smile. She was nestled against Spence in her big, white canopy bed.
“You’re already asleep.”
“No, I’m not.” She peeked up at him, fighting to keep her eyes open. It had been the very best day of her life, and she didn’t want it to end. “Did I tell you that JoBeth’s cat had kittens? Six of them.”
“Twice.” Spence flicked a finger down her nose. He knew a hint when he heard one, and fell back on the parent’s standard. “We’ll see.”
Sleepy, Freddie smiled. She knew from his tone that her father was already weakening. “Mrs. Patterson’s real nice. She’s going to let us have Show and Tell every Friday.”
“So you said.” And he’d been worried, Spence thought. “I get the feeling you like school.”
“It’s neat.” She yawned hugely. “Did you fill out all the forms?”
“They’ll be ready for you to take in tomorrow.” All five hundred of them, he thought with a sigh. “Time to unplug the batteries, funny face.”
“One more story. The made-up kind.” She yawned again, comforted by the soft cotton of his shirt beneath her cheek and the familiar scent of his after-shave.
He gave in, knowing she would sleep long before he got to the happy ever after. He wove a story around a beautiful, dark-haired princess from a foreign land, and the knight who tried to rescue her from her ivory tower.
Foolishness, Spence thought even as he added a sorcerer and a two-headed dragon. He knew his thoughts were drifting toward Natasha again. She was certainly beautiful, but he didn’t think he’d ever met a woman less in need of rescuing.
It was just his bad luck that he had to pass her shop every day to and from campus.
He’d ignore her. If anything, he should be grateful to her. She’d made him want, made him feel things he hadn’t thought he could anymore. Maybe now that he and Freddie were settled, he’d start socializing again. There were plenty of attractive, single women at the college. But the idea of dating didn’t fill him with delight.
Socializing, Spence corrected. Dating was for teenagers and conjured up visions of drive-in movies, pizza and sweaty palms. He was a grown man, and it was certainly time he started enjoying female companionship again. Over the age of five, he thought, looking at Freddie’s small hand balled in his palm.
Just what would you think, he asked silently, if I brought a woman home to dinner? It made him remember how big and hurt her eyes had been when he and Angela had swept out of the condo for evenings at the theater or the opera.
It won’t ever be like that again, he promised as he shifted her from his chest to the pillow. He settled the grinning Raggedy Ann beside her, then tucked the covers under her chin. Resting a hand on the bedpost, he glanced around the room.
It already had Freddie’s stamp on it. The dolls lining the shelves with books jumbled beneath them, the fuzzy, pink elephant slippers beside her oldest and most favored sneakers. The room had that little-girl scent of shampoo and crayons. A night-light in the shape of a unicorn assured that she wouldn’t wake up in the dark and be afraid.
He stayed a moment longer, finding himself as soothed by the light as she. Quietly he stepped out, leaving her door open a few inches.
Downstairs he found Vera carrying a tray of coffee. The Mexican housekeeper was wide from shoulders to hips, and gave the impression of a small, compact freight train when she moved from room to room. Since Freddie’s birth, she had proven not only efficient but indispensable. Spence knew it was often possible to insure an employee’s loyalty with a paycheck, but not her love. From the moment Freddie had come home in her silk-trimmed blanket, Vera had been in love.
She cast an eye up the stairs now, and her lined face folded into a smile. “She had one big day, huh?”
“Yes, and one she fought ending to the last gasp. Vera, you didn’t have to bother.”
She shrugged her shoulders while she carried the coffee into his office. “You said you have to work tonight.”
“Yes, for a little while.”
“So I make you coffee before I go in and put my feet up to watch TV.” She arranged the tray on his desk, fussing a bit while she talked. “My baby, she’s happy with school and her new friends.” She didn’t add that she had wept into her apron when Freddie had stepped onto the bus. “With the house empty all day, I have plenty of time to get my work done. You don’t stay up too late, Dr. Kimball.”
“No.” It was a polite lie. He knew he was too restless for sleep. “Thank you, Vera.”
“¡De nada!” She patted her iron-gray hair. “I wanted to tell you that I like this place very much. I was afraid to leave New York, but now I’m happy.”
“We couldn’t manage without you.”
“Sí.” She took this as her due. For seven years she had worked for the señor, and basked in the prestige of being housekeeper for an important man—a respected musician, a doctor of music and a college professor. Since the birth of his daughter she had been so in love with her baby that she would have worked for Spence, whatever his station.
She had grumbled about moving from the beautiful high-rise in New York, to the rambling house in the small town, but Vera was shrewd enough to know that the señor had been thinking of Freddie. Freddie had come home from school only hours before, laughing, excited, with the names of new best friends tumbling from her lips. SoVera was content.
“You are a good father, Dr. Kimball.”
Spence glanced over before he sat down behind his desk. He was well aware that there had been a time Vera had considered him a very poor one.
“I’m learning.”
“Sí.” Casually she adjusted a book on the shelf. “In this big house you won’t have to worry about disturbing Freddie’s sleep if you play your piano at night.”
He looked over again, knowing she was encouraging him in her way to concentrate on his music. “No, it shouldn’t disturb her. Good night, Vera.”
After a quick glance around to be certain there was nothing more for her to tidy, she left him.
Alone, Spence poured the coffee, then studied the papers on his desk. Freddie’s school forms were stacked next to his own work. He had a great deal of preparation ahead of him, before his classes began the following week.
He looked forward to it, even as he tried not to regret that the music that had once played so effortlessly inside his head was still silent.
CHAPTER THREE (#u64cc9cf6-f529-548f-8cd6-ae74e7915a54)
Natasha scooped the barrette through the hair above her ear and hoped it would stay fixed for more than five minutes. She studied her reflection in the narrow mirror over the sink in the back of the shop before she decided to add a touch of lipstick. It didn’t matter that it had been a long and hectic day or that her feet were all but crying with fatigue. Tonight was her treat to herself, her reward for a job well done.
Every semester she signed up for one course at the college. She chose whatever seemed most fun, most intriguing or most unusual. Renaissance Poetry one year, Automotive Maintenance another. This term, two evenings a week, she would be taking Music History. Tonight she would begin an exploration of a new topic. Everything she learned she would store for her own pleasure, as other women stored diamonds and emeralds. It didn’t have to be useful. In Natasha’s opinion a glittery necklace wasn’t particularly useful, either. It was simply exciting to own.
She had her notebook, her pens and pencils and a flood of enthusiasm. To prepare herself, she had raided the library and pored over related books for the last two weeks. Pride wouldn’t allow her to go into class ignorant. Curiosity made her wonder if her instructor could take the dry, distant facts and add excitement.
There was little doubt that this particular instructor was adding dashes of excitement in other quarters. Annie had teased her just that morning about the new professor everyone was talking about. Dr. Spencer B. Kimball.
The name sounded very distinguished to Natasha, quite unlike the description of a hunk that Annie had passed along. Annie’s information came from her cousin’s daughter, who was majoring in Elementary Education with a minor in Music. A sun-god, Annie had relayed and made Natasha laugh.
A very gifted sun-god, Natasha mused while she turned off lights in the shop. She knew Kimball’s work well, or the work he had composed before he had suddenly and inexplicably stopped writing music. Why, she had even danced to his Prelude in D Minor when she had been with the corps de ballet in New York.
A million years ago, she thought as she stepped onto the street. Now she would be able to meet the genius, listen to his views and perhaps find new meanings in many of the classics she already loved.
He was probably the temperamental artiste type, she decided, pleased with the way the evening breeze lifted her hair and cooled her neck. Or a pale eccentric with one earring. It didn’t matter. She intended to work hard. Each course she took was a matter of pride to her. It still stung to remember how little she had known when she’d been eighteen. How little she had cared to know, Natasha admitted, other than dance. She had of her own choice closed herself off from so many worlds in order to focus everything on one. When that had been taken away, she had been as lost as a child set adrift on the Atlantic.
She had found her way to shore, just as her family had once found its way across the wilds of the Ukraine to the jungles of Manhattan. She liked herself better—the independent, ambitious American woman she had become. As she was now, she could walk into the big, beautiful old building on campus with as much pride as any freshman student.
There were footsteps echoing in the corridors, distant, dislocated. There was a hushed reverence that Natasha always associated with churches and universities. In a way there was religion here—the belief in learning.
She felt somewhat reverent herself as she made her way to her class. As a child of five in her small farming village, she had never even imagined such a building, or the books and beauty it contained.
Several students were already waiting. A mixed bag, she noted, ranging from college to middle age. All of them seemed to buzz with that excitement of beginning. She saw by the clock that it was two minutes shy of eight. She’d expected Kimball to be there, busily shuffling his papers, peering at them behind glasses, his hair a little wild and streaming to his shoulders.
Absently she smiled at a young man in horn-rims, who was staring at her as if he’d just woken from a dream. Ready to begin, she sat down, then looked up when the same man clumsily maneuvered himself into the desk beside her.
“Hello.”
He looked as though she’d struck him with a bat rather than offered a casual greeting. He pushed his glasses nervously up his nose. “Hello. I’m—I’m…Terry Maynard,” he finished on a burst as his name apparently came to him at last.
“Natasha.” She smiled again. He was on the sunny side of twenty-five and harmless as a puppy.
“I haven’t, ah, seen you on campus before.”
“No.” Though at twenty-seven it amused her to be taken for a coed, she kept her voice sober. “I’m only taking this one class. For fun.”
“For fun?” Terry appeared to take music very seriously. “Do you know who Dr. Kimball is?” His obvious awe made him almost whisper the name.
“I’ve heard of him. You’re a Music major?”
“Yes. I hope to, well one day, I hope to play with the New York Symphony.” His blunt fingers reached nervously to adjust his glasses. “I’m a violinist.”
She smiled again and made his Adam’s apple bob. “That’s wonderful. I’m sure you’re very good.”
“What do you play?”
“Five card draw.” Then she laughed and settled back in her chair. “I’m sorry. I don’t play an instrument. But I love to listen to music and thought I’d enjoy the class.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “If it ever starts, that is. Apparently our esteemed professor is late.”
At that moment the esteemed professor was rushing down the corridors, cursing himself for ever agreeing to take on this night class. By the time he had helped Freddie with her homework—how many animals can you find in this picture?—convinced her that brussels sprouts were cute instead of yucky, and changed his shirt because her affectionate hug had transferred some mysterious, sticky substance to his sleeve, he had wanted nothing more than a good book and a warm brandy.
Instead he was going to have to face a roomful of eager faces, all waiting to learn what Beethoven had worn when he’d composed his Ninth Symphony.
In the foulest of moods, he walked into class. “Good evening. I’m Dr. Kimball.” The murmurs and rattles quieted. “I must apologize for being late. If you’ll all take a seat, we’ll dive right in.”
As he spoke he scanned the room. And found himself staring into Natasha’s astonished face.
“No.” She wasn’t aware she’d spoken the word aloud, and wouldn’t have cared. It was some sort of joke, she thought, and a particularly bad one. This—this man in the casually elegant jacket was Spencer Kimball, a musician whose songs she had admired and danced to. The man who, while barely into his twenties had been performing at Carnegie Hall being hailed as a genius. This man who had tried to pick her up in a toy store was the illustrious Dr. Kimball?
It was ludicrous, it was infuriating, it was—
Wonderful, Spence thought as he stared at her. Absolutely wonderful. In fact, it was perfect, as long as he could control the laugh that was bubbling in his throat. So the czarina was one of his students. It was better, much better than a warm brandy and an evening of quiet.
“I’m sure,” he said after a long pause, “we’ll all find the next few months fascinating.”
She should have signed up for Astronomy, Natasha told herself. She could have learned all kinds of interesting things about the planets and stars. Asteroids. She’d have been much better off learning about—what was it?—gravitational pull and inertia. Whatever that was. Surely it was much more important for her to find out how many moons revolved around Jupiter than to study Burgundian composers of the fifteenth century.
She would transfer, Natasha decided. First thing in the morning she would make the arrangements. In fact, she would get up and walk out right now if she wasn’t certain Dr. Spencer Kimball would smirk.
Running her pencil between her fingers, she crossed her legs and determined not to listen.
It was a pity his voice was so attractive.
Impatient, Natasha looked at the clock. Nearly an hour to go. She would do what she did when she waited at the dentist’s office. Pretend she was someplace else. Struggling to block Spence’s voice from her mind she began to swing her foot and doodle on her pad.
She didn’t notice when her doodles became notes, or when she began to hang on every word. He made fifteenth-century musicians seem alive and vital—and their music as real as flesh and blood. Rondeaux, vieralais, ballades. She could almost hear the three-part chansons of the dawning Renaissance, the reverent, soaring Kyries and Glorias of the masses.
She was caught up, involved in that ancient rivalry between church and state and music’s part in the politics. She could see huge banqueting halls filled with elegantly dressed aristocrats, feasting on music as well as food.
“Next time we’ll be discussing the Franco-Flemish school and rhythmic developments.” Spence gave his class an easy smile. “And I’ll try to be on time.”
Was it over? Natasha glanced at the clock again and was shocked to see it was indeed after nine.
“Incredible, isn’t he?”
She looked at Terry. His eyes were gleaming behind his lenses. “Yes.” It cost her to admit it, but truth was truth.
“You should hear him in theory class.” He noticed with envy that several students were grouped around his idol. As yet, Terry hadn’t worked up the nerve to approach him. “I’ll—see you Thursday.”
“What? Oh. Good night, Terry.”
“I could, ah, give you a ride home if you want.” The fact that he was nearly out of gas and his muffler was currently held on by a coat hanger didn’t enter his mind.
She favored him with an absent smile that had his heart doing a cha-cha. “That’s nice of you, but I don’t live far.”
She hoped to breeze out of the classroom while Spence was still occupied. She should have known better.
He simply put a hand on her arm and stopped her. “I’d like to speak with you a moment, Natasha.”
“I’m in a hurry.”
“It won’t take long.” He nodded to the last of his departing students, then eased back against his desk and grinned at her. “I should have paid more attention to my roster, but then again, it’s nice to know there are still surprises in the world.”
“That depends on your point of view, Dr. Kimball.”
“Spence.” He continued to grin. “Class is over.”
“So it is.” Her regal nod made him think again of Russian royalty. “Excuse me.”
“Natasha.” He waited, almost seeing impatience shimmer around her as she turned. “I can’t imagine that someone with your heritage doesn’t believe in destiny.”
“Destiny?”
“Of all the classrooms in all the universities in all the world, she walks into mine.”
She wouldn’t laugh. She’d be damned if she would. But her mouth quirked up at the corners before she controlled it. “And here I was thinking it was just bad luck.”
“Why Music History?”
She balanced her notebook on her hip. “It was a toss-up between that and Astronomy.”
“That sounds like a fascinating story. Why don’t we go down the street for a cup of coffee? You can tell me about it.” Now he saw it—molten fury that turned her eyes from rich velvet to sharp jet. “Now why does that infuriate you?” he inquired, almost to himself. “Is an offer of a cup of coffee in this town similiar to an illicit proposition?”
“You should know, Dr. Kimball.” She turned, but he reached the door before her, slamming it with enough force to make her step back. He was every bit as angry as herself, she noted. Not that it mattered. It was only that he had seemed a mild sort of man. Detestable, but mild. There was nothing mild about him now. Those fascinating bones and angles in his face might have been carved of stone.
“Clarify.”
“Open the door.”
“Gladly. After you answer my question.” He was angry. Spence realized he hadn’t felt this kind of hot, blood-pumping rage in years. It felt wonderful. “I realize that just because I’m attracted to you doesn’t mean you have to return the favor.”
She threw up her chin, hating herself for finding the storm-cloud-gray eyes so hypnotic. “I don’t.”
“Fine.” He couldn’t strangle her for that, however much he’d like to. “But, damn it, I want to know why you aim and fire every time I’m around you.”
“Because men like you deserve to be shot.”
“Men like me,” he repeated, measuring out the words. “What exactly does that mean?”
He was standing close, all but looming over her. As in the shop when he had brushed up against her, she felt those bubble bursts of excitement, attraction, confusion. It was more than enough to push her over the edge.
“Do you think because you have a nice face and a pretty smile you can do whatever you like? Yes,” she answered before he could speak and slapped her notebook against his chest. “You think you have only to snap your fingers.” She demonstrated dramatically. “And a woman will fall into your arms. Not this woman.”
Her accent thickened when she was on a roll, he noted, somewhat baffled by her claim. “I don’t recall snapping my fingers.”
She let loose one short, explicit Ukrainian oath and grabbed the knob. “You want to have a cup of coffee with me? Good. We’ll have your coffee—and we’ll call your wife and ask her to join us.”
“My what?” He closed his hand over hers so that the door was jerked open, then slammed shut again. “I don’t have a wife.”
“Really?” The single word dripped with scorn; her eyes flashed at him. “And I suppose the woman who came with you to the shop is your sister.”
It should have been funny. But he couldn’t quite get the joke. “Nina? As a matter of fact, she is.”
Natasha yanked open the door with a sound of disgust. “That is pathetic.”
Filled with righteous indignation, she stormed down the corridor and out the main door. In a staccato rhythm that matched her mood, her heels beat on the concrete as she started down the steps. When she was abruptly whirled around, she nearly took the last two in a tumble.
“You’ve got a hell of a nerve.”
“I?” she managed. “I have a nerve?”
“You think you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?” Having the advantage of height, Spence could stare down at her. Natasha saw shadows move over his face as temper colored his voice. He didn’t appear awkward now, but every bit in control. “Or I should say you think you’ve got me figured.”
“It takes very little.” The fingers on her arm were very firm. She hated knowing that mixed with her own anger was basic sexual attraction. Fighting it off, she tossed back her hair. “You’re really very typical.”
“I wonder, can your opinion of me get any lower?” Now fury ground edge to edge with desire.
“Doubtful.”
“In that case, I might as well satisfy myself.”
The notebook flew out of her hand when he dragged her close. She managed a single, startled sound in her throat before his mouth covered hers. Covered, crushed, then conquered.
Natasha would have fought him. Over and over she told herself she would fight him. But it was shock—at least, she prayed it was shock—that had her arms falling limply to her sides.
It was wrong. It was unforgivable. And, oh God, it was wonderful. Instinctively he’d found the key to unlock the passion that had lain dormant in her for so long. Her blood swam hot with it. Her mind hazed. Dimly she heard someone laugh as they strolled down the sidewalk below. A beep of a car horn, a shout of greeting, then silence once more.
She murmured, a pitiful protest that shamed her and was easily ignored as his tongue glided over her own. His taste was a banquet after a long fast. Though she kept her hands balled at her sides, she leaned into the kiss.
Kissing her was like walking through a mine field. Any moment he expected the bomb to go off and blow him to pieces. He should have stopped after the first shock, but danger had a thrill of its own.
And she was dangerous. As his fingers dived into her hair, he could feel the ground quiver and quake. It was her—the promise, the threat of titanic passion. He could taste it on her lips, even as she fought to hold it back. He could feel it in her taut, terrified stance. If she released it, she could make him a slave.
Needs such as he’d never known battered his system with heavy fists. Images, all fire and smoke, danced in his brain. Something struggled to break free, like a bird beating at the bars of a cage. He could feel it straining. Then Natasha was pulling away from him, standing apart and staring at him with wide, eloquent eyes.
She couldn’t breathe. For an instant she was genuinely afraid she would die on the spot with this unwanted, shameful desire on her conscience. In defiance she took a huge gulp of air.
“I could never hate anyone as much as I hate you.”
He shook his head to clear it. She had left him dizzy, dazed and utterly defenseless. For his own sake he waited until he was sure he could speak. “That’s a lofty position you put me in, Natasha.” He stepped down until they were at eye level. There were tears on her lashes, but they were offset by the condemnation in her eyes. “Let’s just be sure you’ve put me there for the right reasons. Is it because I kissed you, or because you liked it?”
She swung her hand out. He could have avoided the blow easily enough, but thought she deserved a hit. As the crack of the slap echoed, he decided they were even.
“Don’t come near me again,” she said, breathing hard. “I warn you, if you do, I won’t care what I say or who hears me. If it wasn’t for your little girl—” She broke off and bent to gather her things. Her pride was shattered, along with her self-esteem. “You don’t deserve such a beautiful child.”
He caught her arm again, but this time the expression on his face made her blood go cold. “You’re right. I never have and probably never will deserve Freddie, but I’m all she has. Her mother—my wife—died three years ago.”
He strode off, was caught in the beam of a street lamp, then disappeared into the dark beyond. Her notebook pressed against her chest, Natasha sank weakly onto the bottom step.
What in hell was she going to do now?
There was no choice. No matter how much she hated it, there was really only one course to take. Natasha rubbed the palms of her hands on the thighs of her khakis, then started up the freshly painted wooden steps.
It was a nice house, she thought, stalling. Of course she’d seen it so often that she rarely noticed it anymore. It was one of those sturdy old brick places tucked back from the street and shielded by trees and box hedges.
The summer flowers had yet to fade, but the fall blooms were already staking their claim. Showy delphiniums vied with spicy scented mums, vivid dahlias with starry asters. Someone was caring for them. She could see fresh mulch on the flower beds, damp with watering.
Wanting a little more time, she studied the house. There were curtains at the windows, thin ivory sheers that would let in the light. Higher up she caught a glimpse of a fanciful pattern of unicorns that identified a little girl’s room.
She gathered her courage and crossed the porch to the front door. It would be quick, she promised herself. Not painless, but quick. She rapped, released her breath and waited.
The woman who answered was short and wide with a face as brown and wrinkled as a raisin. Natasha found herself fixed by a pair of small, dark eyes while the housekeeper dried her hands on the skirt of a stained apron.
“May I help you?”
“I’d like to see Dr. Kimball if he’s in.” She smiled, pretending she didn’t feel as though she were stepping into the pillory. “I’m Natasha Stanislaski.” She saw the housekeeper’s little eyes narrow, so that they nearly disappeared into the folds of her face.
Vera had at first taken Natasha for one of the señor’s students, and had been prepared to nudge her on her way. “You own the toy store in town.”
“That’s right.”
“Ah.” With a nod, she opened the door wider to let Natasha in. “Freddie says you are a very nice lady, who gave her a blue ribbon for her doll. I promised to take her back, but just to look.” She gestured for Natasha to follow.
As they made their way down the hall, Natasha caught the hesitant notes of a piano. When she saw her reflection in an old oval mirror, it surprised her that she was smiling.
He was sitting at the piano with the child on his lap, looking over her head while she slowly tapped out “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” The sun streamed in through the windows behind them. At that moment she wished she could paint. How else could it be captured?
It was perfect. The light, the shadows, the pale pastels of the room all combined to make the perfect backdrop. The alignment of their heads, their bodies, was too natural and eloquent ever to be posed. The girl was in pink and white, the laces of one sneaker untied. He had taken off his jacket and tie, then rolled up the sleeves of the pale dress shirt to the elbows like a workman.
There was the fragile shine of the child’s hair, the deeper glow of his. The child leaned back against her father, her head resting just under his collarbone; the faintest smile of pleasure lighted her face. Over it all was the simple nursery rhyme music she was playing.
He had his hands on the knees of her jeans, his long, beautiful fingers tapping the time in tandem with the tick of the antique metronome. She could see it all, the love, the patience, the pride.
“No, please,” Natasha whispered, holding out a hand to Vera. “Don’t disturb them.”
“You play now, Daddy.” Freddie tilted her head toward his. Her hair wisped around her face where it had escaped from its clips. “Play something pretty.”
“Für Elise.” Natasha recognized it instantly, that soft, romantic, somehow lonely music. It went straight to her heart as she watched his fingers stroke, caress, seduce the keys.
What was he thinking? She could see that his thoughts had turned inward—to the music, to himself. There was an effortlessness in the way his fingers flowed over the keys, and yet she knew that kind of beauty was never achieved without the greatest effort.
The song swelled, note after note, unbearably sad, impossibly beautiful, like the vase of waxy calla lilies that rested on the glossy surface of the piano.
Too much emotion, Natasha thought. Too much pain, though the sun was still shining through the gauzy curtains and the child on his lap continued to smile. The urge to go to him, to put a comforting hand onto his shoulder, to hold them both against her heart, was so strong that she had to curl her fingers into her palms.
Then the music drifted away, the last note lingering like a sigh.
“I like that one,” Freddie told him. “Did you make it up?”
“No.” He looked at his fingers, spreading them, flexing them, then letting them rest on hers. “Beethoven did.” Then he was smiling again, pressing his lips to the soft curve of his daughter’s neck. “Had enough for today, funny face?”
“Can I play outside until dinner?”
“Well… What’ll you give me?”
It was an old game and a favorite one. Giggling, she swiveled on his lap and gave him a hard, smacking kiss. Still squealing from the bear hug, she spotted Natasha. “Hi!”
“Miss Stanislaski would like to see you, Dr. Kimball.” At his nod, Vera walked back to the kitchen.
“Hello.” Natasha managed to smile, even when Spence lifted his daughter and turned. She wasn’t over the music yet. It was still pouring through her like tears. “I hope I haven’t come at a bad time.”
“No.” After a last squeeze, he set Freddie down, and she immediately bounded to Natasha.
“We’re all finished with my lesson. Did you come to play?”
“No, not this time.” Unable to resist, Natasha bent to stroke Freddie’s cheek. “Actually I came to talk to your father.” But she was a coward, Natasha thought in disgust. Rather than look at him, she continued to address Freddie. “How do you like school? You have Mrs. Patterson, don’t you?”
“She’s nice. She didn’t even yell when Mikey Towers’s icky bug collection got loose in the classroom. And I can read all of Go, Dog, Go.”
Natasha crouched so that they were eye to eye. “Do you like my hat?”
Freddie laughed, recognizing the line from the Dr. Seuss classic. “I like the dog party part the best.”
“So do I.” Automatically she tied Freddie’s loose laces. “Will you come to the store and visit me soon?”
“Okay.” Delighted with herself, Freddie raced for the door. “Bye Miss Stanof—Stanif—”
“Tash.” She sent Freddie a wink. “All the kids call me Tash.”
“Tash.” Freddie grinned at the sound of the name, then streaked away.
She listened to Freddie’s sneakers squeak down the hall, then took a long breath. “I’m sorry to disturb you at home, but I felt it would be more…” What was the word? Appropriate, comfortable? “It would be better.”
“All right.” His eyes were very cool, not like those of the man who had played such sad and passionate music. “Would you like to sit down?”
“No.” She said it too quickly, then reminded herself that it was better if they were both stiffly polite. “It won’t take long. I only want to apologize.”
“Oh? For something specific?”
Fire blazed in her eyes. He enjoyed seeing it, particularly since he’d spent most of the night cursing her. “When I make a mistake, I make a point of admitting it. But since you behaved so—” Oh, why did she always lose her English when she was angry?
“Unconscionably?” he suggested.
Her brow shot up into her fall of hair. “So you admit it.”
“I thought you were the one who was here to admit something.” Enjoying himself, he sat on the arm of a wing chair in pale blue damask. “Don’t let me interrupt.”
She was tempted, very tempted, to turn on her heel and stalk out. Pride was equally as strong as temper. She would do what she had come to do, then forget it.
“What I said about you—about you and your daughter was unfair and untrue. Even when I was…mistaken about other things, I knew it was untrue. And I’m very sorry I said it.”
“I can see that.” Out of the corner of his eye he caught a movement. He turned his head in time to see Freddie make her sprinter’s rush for the swings. “We’ll forget it.”
Natasha followed his gaze and softened. “She really is a beautiful child. I hope you let her come into the shop from time to time.”
The tone of her voice had him studying Natasha more carefully. Was it longing, sorrow? “I doubt I could keep her away. You’re very fond of children.”
Natasha brought her emotions under control with a quick jerk. “Yes, of course. In my business it’s a requirement. I won’t keep you, Dr. Kimball.”
He rose to accept the hand she had formally held out. “Spence,” he corrected, gently tightening his fingers on hers. “What else was it you were mistaken about?”
So it wasn’t going to be easy. Then again, Natasha thought she deserved a dose of humiliation. “I thought you were married, and was very angry and insulted when you asked me out.”
“You’re taking my word now that I’m not married.”
“No. I looked it up in the library in Who’s Who.”
He stared at her for a moment longer, then threw back his head and laughed. “God, what a trusting soul. Find anything else that interested you?”
“Only things that would fill your ego. You still have my hand.”
“I know. Tell me, Natasha, did you dislike me on general principles, or only because you thought I was a married man and had no business flirting with you?”
“Flirting?” She nearly choked on the word. “There was nothing so innocent in the way you looked at me. As if…”
“As if—?” he prompted.
As if we were already lovers, she thought, and felt her skin heat. “I didn’t like it,” she said shortly.
“Because you thought I was married?”
“Yes. No,” she said, correcting herself when she realized where that could lead. “I just didn’t like it.” He brought her hand to his lips. “Don’t,” she managed.
“How would you like me to look at you?”
“It isn’t necessary for you to look at all.”
“But it is.” He could feel it again, that high-strung passion, just waiting to burst free from whatever cell she had locked it in. “You’ll be sitting right in front of me tomorrow night in class.”
“I’m going to transfer.”
“No, you won’t.” He brushed a finger over the small gold hoop in her ear. “You enjoyed it too much. I could see the wheels turning in that fabulous head of yours. And if you did,” he continued before she could sputter out a response, “I’d just make a nuisance of myself in your shop.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re the first woman I’ve wanted in longer than I can remember.”
Excitement rippled up her spine like chain lightning. Before she could prevent it, the memory of that stormy kiss curved back to weaken her. Yes, that had been a man who had wanted. And had, no matter how she had resisted, made her want, too.
But that had only been one kiss, fueled by lust despite the moonlight and soft air. She knew heartbreakingly well where such desires could lead.
“That’s nonsense.”
“Simple honesty,” he murmured, fascinated by the emotions that came and went in her dark eyes. “I thought it best, since we’d gotten off to such a shaky beginning. Since you’ve determined for yourself that I’m not married, knowing I’m attracted to you shouldn’t insult you.”
“I’m not insulted,” she said carefully. “I’m just not interested.”
“Do you always kiss men you’re not interested in?”
“I didn’t kiss you.” She jerked her hand free. “You kissed me.”
“We can fix that.” He gathered her close. “This time kiss me back.”
She could have pulled away. His arms weren’t banding her as they had before, but were wrapped loosely, coaxingly around her. His lips were soft this time, soft, persuasive, patient. She could feel the warmth seep into her bloodstream like a drug. With a little moan, she slipped her hands up his back and held on.
It was like holding a candle and feeling the wax slowly melt as the fire burned at its center. He could feel her yield degree by degree until her lips parted for his own, accepting, inviting. But even as she gave, he could sense some strong, hard core that resisted, held back. She didn’t want to feel whatever he was making her feel.
Impatient, he dragged her closer. Though her body molded itself to his and her head fell back in erotic surrender, there was still a part of her standing just out of his reach. What she gave him only stirred his appetite for more.
She was breathless when he released her. It took an effort, too much of an effort, Natasha thought, to level herself. But once she had, her voice was steady.
“I don’t want to be involved.”
“With me, or with anyone?”
“With anyone.”
“Good.” He brushed a hand over her hair. “It’ll be simpler to change your mind.”
“I’m very stubborn,” she muttered.
“Yes, I’ve noticed. Why don’t you stay for dinner?”
“No.”
“All right. I’ll take you to dinner Saturday night.”
“No.”
“Seven-thirty. I’ll pick you up.”
“No.”
“You wouldn’t want me to come by the shop Saturday afternoon and embarrass you.”
Out of patience, she stalked to the door. “I can’t understand how a man that could play music with such sensitivity could be such a clod.”
Just lucky, I guess, he thought when the door slammed. Alone again, he caught himself whistling.
CHAPTER FOUR (#u64cc9cf6-f529-548f-8cd6-ae74e7915a54)
Saturdays in a toy store were noisy, crowded and chaotic. They were supposed to be. To a child even the word Saturday was magic—it meant a magic twenty-four hours when school was too faraway to be a problem. There were bikes to be ridden, games to be played, races to be won. For as long as Natasha had been running The Fun House, she had enjoyed Saturdays as much as her pint-size clientele.
It was one more black mark against Spence that he was the reason she couldn’t enjoy this one.
She’d told him no, she reminded herself as she rang up sales on a set of jacks, three plastic dinosaurs and a pint of blowing bubbles. And she’d meant no.
The man didn’t seem to understand plain English.
Why else would he have sent her the single red rose? And to the shop, of all places? she thought now, trying to scowl at it. Annie’s romantic enthusiasm had been impossible to hold off. Even when Natasha had ignored the flower, Annie had rescued it, running across the street to buy a plastic bud vase so that it could have a place of honor on the checkout counter.
Natasha did her best not to look at it, not to stroke the tightly closed petals, but it wasn’t as easy to ignore the fragile scent that wafted toward her every time she rang up a sale.
Why did men think they could soften up a woman with a flower?
Because they could, Natasha admitted, biting off a sigh as she glanced toward it.
That didn’t mean she was going out to dinner with him. Tossing back her hair, Natasha counted out the pile of sweaty pennies and nickels the young Hampston boy passed her for his monthly comic-book purchase. Life should be so simple, she thought as the boy rushed out with the latest adventures of Commander Zark. Damn it, it was that simple. On a deep breath she steeled her determination. Her life was exactly that simple, no matter how Spence tried to complicate it. To prove it, she intended to go home, soak in a hot tub, then spend the rest of her evening stretched out on the sofa, watching an old movie and eating popcorn.
He’d been clever. She left the counter to go into the next aisle to referee a huffy disagreement between the Freedmont brothers about how they should spend their pooled resources. She wondered if the esteemed professor looked at their relationship—their nonrelationship, she corrected—as a chess match. She’d always been too reckless to succeed at that particular game, but she had a feeling Spence would play it patiently and well. All the same, if he thought she would be easily checkmated, he had a surprise coming.
Spence had led her second class brilliantly, never looking at her any longer than he had looked at any of his other students, answering her questions in the same tone he used with others. Yes, a very patient player.
Then, just when she’d relaxed, he’d passed her that first red rose as she walked out of class. A very smart move to endanger her queen.
If she’d had any spine at all, Natasha thought now, she would have dropped it onto the floor and ground it under her heel. But she hadn’t, and now had to scramble to keep one play ahead of him. Because it had caught her off guard, Natasha told herself. Just like the one that had been delivered to the shop this morning.
If he kept it up, people were going to begin to talk. In a town this size, news items like red roses bounced from shop to pub, from pub to front stoop and from front stoop to backyard gossip sessions. She needed to find a way to stop it. At the moment, she couldn’t come up with anything better than ignoring it. Ignoring Spence, she added. How she wished she could.
Bringing herself back to the problem at hand, Natasha hooked an arm around each of the squabbling Freedmont boys in a mock headlock.
“Enough. If you keep calling each other names like nerd and…what was the other?”
“Dork,” the taller of the boys told her with relish.
“Yes, dork.” She couldn’t resist committing it to memory. “That’s a good one. If you keep it up, I’ll tell your mother not to let you come in for two weeks.”
“Aw, Tash.”
“That means everyone else will see all the creepy things I get in for Halloween before either of you.” She let that threat hang, giving the two little necks a quick squeeze. “So, I’ll make a suggestion. Flip a coin and decide whether to buy the football or the magic set. Whatever you don’t get now, you ask for for Christmas. Good idea?”
The boys grimaced at each other from either side of her. “Pretty good.”
“No, you have to say it’s very good, or I’ll knock your heads together.”
She left them arguing over which coin to use for the fatal flip.
“You missed your calling,” Annie commented when the brothers raced off with the football.
“How’s that?”
“You should be working for the UN.” She nodded out the front window; the boys were practicing passing on their way down the street. “There aren’t many tougher nuts than the Freedmont brothers.”
“I make them afraid of me first, then offer them a dignified way out.”
“See? Definitely UN material.”
With a laugh, Natasha shook her head. “Other people’s problems are the easiest to solve.” Weakening, she glanced toward the rose again. If she had one wish at the moment, it would be for someone to come along and solve her own.
An hour later she felt a tug on the hem of her skirt.
“Hi.”
“Freddie, hello.” She flicked her finger over a bow that was trying to hold back Freddie’s flyaway hair. It was tied from the blue ribbon Natasha had given her on her first visit. “Don’t you look pretty today.”
Freddie beamed, female to female. “Do you like my outfit?”
Natasha surveyed the obviously new blue denim overalls, parade stiff with sizing. “I like it very much. I have a pair just like them.”
“You do?” Nothing, since Freddie had decided to make Natasha her newest heroine, could have pleased her more. “My daddy got them for me.”
“That’s nice.” Despite her better judgment, Natasha scanned the shop for him. “Did he, ah, bring you in today?”
“No, Vera did. You said it was all right just to look.”
“Sure it is. I’m glad you came in.” And she was, Natasha realized. Just as she was stupidly disappointed that Freddie hadn’t brought her daddy.
“I’m not supposed to touch anything.” Freddie tucked her itchy fingers into her pockets. “Vera said I should look with my eyes and not with my hands.”
“That’s very good advice.” And some Natasha wouldn’t have minded others passing along to nimble-fingered children. “But some things are okay to touch. You just ask me.”
“Okay. I’m going to join the Brownies and get a uniform and everything.”
“That’s wonderful. You’ll come in and show it to me?”
Delight nearly split Freddie’s face in two. “Okay. It has a hat, and I’m going to learn how to make pillows and candle holders and all kinds of things. I’ll make you something.”
“I’d like that.” She tidied Freddie’s lopsided bow.
“Daddy said you were going to eat dinner with him in a restaurant tonight.”
“Well, I—”
“I don’t like restaurants very much, except for pizza, so I’m going to stay home, and Vera’s going to fix tortillas for me and JoBeth. We get to eat in the kitchen.”
“That sounds nice.”
“If you don’t like the restaurant, you can come back and have some. Vera always makes a lot.”
Uttering a helpless little sigh, Natasha bent to tie Freddie’s left shoelace. “Thank you.”
“Your hair smells pretty.”
Half in love, Natasha leaned closer to sniff Freddie’s. “So does yours.”
Fascinated by Natasha’s tangle of curls, Freddie reached out to touch. “I wish my hair was like yours,” she said. “It’s straight as a pin,” she added, quoting her Aunt Nina.
Smiling, Natasha brushed at the fragile wisps over Freddie’s brow. “When I was a little girl, we put an angel on top of the Christmas tree every year. She was very beautiful, and she had hair just like yours.”
Pleasure came flushing into Freddie’s cheeks.
“Ah, there you are.” Vera shuffled down the crowded aisle, straw carryall on one arm, a canvas bag on the other. “Come, come, we must get back home before your father thinks we are lost.” She held out a hand for Freddie and nodded to Natasha. “Good afternoon, miss.”
“Good afternoon.” Curious, Natasha raised a brow. She was being summed up again by the little dark eyes, and definitely being found wanting, Natasha thought. “I hope you’ll bring Freddie back to visit soon.”
“We will see. It is as hard for a child to resist a toy store as it is for a man to resist a beautiful woman.”
Vera led Freddie down the aisle, not looking back when the girl waved and grinned over her shoulder.
“Well,” Annie murmured as she stuck her head around the corner. “What brought that on?”
With a humorless smile, Natasha shoved a pin back into her hair. “At a guess, I would say the woman believes I have designs on her employer.”
Annie gave an unladylike snort. “If anything, the employer has designs on you. I should be so lucky.” Her sigh was only a little envious. “Now that we know the new hunk on the block isn’t married, all’s right with the world. Why didn’t you tell me you were going out with him?”
“Because I wasn’t.”
“But I heard Freddie say—”
“He asked me out,” Natasha clarified. “I said no.”
“I see.” After a brief pause, Annie tilted her head. “When did you have the accident?”
“Accident?”
“Yes, the one where you suffered brain damage.”
Natasha’s face cleared with a laugh, and she started toward the front of the shop.
“I’m serious,” Annie said as soon as they had five free minutes. “Dr. Spencer Kimball is gorgeous, unattached and…” She leaned over the counter to sniff at the rose. “Charming. Why aren’t you taking off early to work on real problems, like what to wear tonight?”
“I know what I’m wearing tonight. My bathrobe.”
Annie couldn’t resist the grin. “Aren’t you rushing things just a tad? I don’t think you should wear your robe until at least your third date.”
“There’s not going to be a first one.” Natasha smiled at her next customer and rang up a sale.
It took Annie forty minutes to work back to the subject at hand. “Just what are you afraid of?”
“The IRS.”
“Tash, I’m serious.”
“So am I.” When her pins worked loose again, she gave up and yanked them out. “Every American businessperson is afraid of the IRS.”
“We’re talking about Spence Kimball.”
“No,” Natasha corrected. “You’re talking about Spence Kimball.”
“I thought we were friends.”
Surprised by Annie’s tone, Natasha stopped tidying the racetrack display her Saturday visitors had wrecked. “We are. You know we are.”
“Friends talk to each other, Tash, confide in each other, ask advice.” Puffing out a breath, Annie stuffed her hands into the pockets of her baggy jeans. “Look, I know that things happened to you before you came here, things you’re still carrying around but never talk about. I figured I was being a better friend by not asking you about it.”
Had she been so obvious? Natasha wondered. All this time she’d been certain she had buried the past and all that went with it—deeply. Feeling a little helpless, she reached out to touch Annie’s hand. “Thank you.”
With a dismissive shrug, Annie turned to flick the lock on the front door. The shop was empty now, the bustle of the afternoon only an echo. “Remember when you let me cry on your shoulder after Don Newman dumped me?”
Natasha pressed her lips in to a thin line. “He wasn’t worth crying over.”
“I enjoyed crying over him,” Annie returned with a quick, amused smile. “I needed to cry and yell and moan and get a little drunk. You were right there for me, saying all those great, nasty things about him.”
“That was the easy part,” Natasha remembered. “He was a dork.” It pleased her tremendously to use the young Freedmont boy’s insult.
“Yeah, but he was a terrific-looking dork.” Annie allowed herself a brief reminiscence. “Anyway, you helped me over that rough spot until I convinced myself I was better off without him. You’ve never needed my shoulder, Tash, because you’ve never let a guy get past this.” She lifted a hand, pressing her palm against empty air.
Amused, Natasha leaned back against the counter. “And what is that?”
“The Great Stanislaski Force Field,” Annie told her. “Guaranteed to repel all males from the age of twenty-five to fifty.”
Natasha lifted a brow, not quite sure if she was amused any longer. “I’m not certain if you’re trying to flatter or insult me.”
“Neither. Just listen to me a minute, okay?” Annie took a deep breath to keep herself from rushing through something she thought should be taken step-by-step. “Tash, I’ve seen you brush off guys with less effort than you’d swat away a gnat. And just as automatically,” she added when Natasha remained silent. “You’re very pleasant about it, and also very definite. I’ve never seen you give any man a second’s thought once you’ve politely shown him the door. I’ve even admired you for it, for being so sure of yourself, so comfortable with yourself that you didn’t need a date on Saturday night to keep your ego out of the dirt.”
“Not sure of myself,” Natasha murmured. “Just apathetic about relationships.”
“All right.” Annie nodded slowly. “I’ll accept that. But this time it’s different.”
“What is?” Natasha skirted the counter and began to tally the day’s sales.
“You see? You know I’m going to mention his name, and you’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” Natasha lied.
“You’ve been nervous, moody and distracted since Kimball walked into the shop a couple of weeks ago. In over three years, I’ve never seen you give a man more than five minutes’ thought. Until now.”
“That’s only because this one is more annoying than most.” At Annie’s shrewd look, Natasha gave up. “All right, there is…something,” she admitted. “But I’m not interested.”
“You’re afraid to be interested.”
Natasha didn’t like the sound of that, but forced herself to shrug it off. “It’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s not.” Annie put a hand over Natasha’s and squeezed. “Look, I’m not pushing you toward this guy. For all I know, he could have murdered his wife and buried her in the rose garden. All I’m saying is, you’re not going to be comfortable with yourself until you stop being afraid.”
Annie was right, Natasha thought later as she sat on her bed with her chin on her hand. She was moody, she was distracted. And she was afraid. Not of Spence, Natasha assured herself. No man would ever frighten her again. But she was afraid of the feelings he stirred up. Forgotten, unwanted feelings.
Did that mean she was no longer in charge of her emotions? No. Did that mean she would act irrationally, impulsively, just because needs and desires had pried their way back into her life? No. Did that mean she would hide in her room, afraid to face a man? A most definite no.
She was only afraid because she had yet to test herself, Natasha thought, moving toward her closet. So tonight she would have dinner with the persistent Dr. Kimball, prove to herself that she was strong and perfectly capable of resisting a fleeting attraction, then get back to normal.
Natasha frowned at her wardrobe. With a restless move of her shoulders she pulled out a deep blue cocktail dress with a jeweled belt. Not that she was dressing for him. He was really irrelevant. It was one of her favorite dresses, Natasha thought as she stripped off her robe, and she rarely had the opportunity to wear anything but work clothes.
He knocked at precisely seven twenty-eight. Natasha detested herself for anxiously watching the clock. She had reapplied her lipstick twice, checked and rechecked the contents of her purse and fervently wished that she had delayed taking her stand.
She was acting like a teenager, Natasha told herself as she walked to the door. It was only dinner, the first and last dinner she intended to share with him. And he was only a man, she added, pulling the door open.
An outrageously attractive man.
He looked wonderful, was all she could think, with his hair swept back from his face, and that half smile in his eyes. It had never occurred to her that a man could be gut-wrenchingly sexy in a suit and a tie.
“Hi.” He held out another red rose.
Natasha nearly sighed. It was a pity the smoke-gray suit didn’t make him seem more professorial. Giving in a little, she tapped the blossom against her cheek. “It wasn’t the roses that changed my mind.”
“About what?”
“About having dinner with you.” She stepped back, deciding that she had no choice but to let him in while she put the flower into water.
He smiled then, fully, and exasperated her by looking charming and cocky at the same time. “What did?”
“I’m hungry.” She set her short velvet jacket on the arm of the sofa. “I’ll put this in water. You can sit if you like.”
She wasn’t going to give him an inch, Spence thought as he watched her walk away. Oddly enough, that only made her more interesting. He took a deep breath, shaking his head. Incredible. Just when he was convinced that nothing smelled sexier than soap, she put something on that made him think of midnight and weeping violins.
Deciding that he was safer thinking of something else, he studied the room. She preferred vivid colors, he mused, noting the emerald and teal slashes of the pillows on a sapphire-blue couch. There was a huge brass urn beside it, stuffed with silky peacock feathers. Candles of varying sizes and shades were set around the room so that it smelled, romantically, of vanilla and jasmine and gardenia. A shelf in the corner was crammed with books that ran the gamut from popular fiction to classic literature by way of home improvements for the novice.
The table surfaces were crowded with mementos, framed pictures, dried bouquets, fanciful statuettes inspired by fairy tales. There was a gingerbread house no bigger than his palm, a girl dressed as Red Riding Hood, a pig peeking out of the window of a tiny straw house, a beautiful woman holding a single glass slipper.
Practical tips on plumbing, passionate colors and fairy tales, he mused, touching a fingertip to the tiny crystal slipper. It was as curious and as intriguing a combination as the woman herself.
Hearing her come back into the room, Spence turned. “These are beautiful,” he said, gesturing to one of the figures. “Freddie’s eyes would pop out.”
“Thank you. My brother makes them.”
“Makes them?” Fascinated, Spence picked up the gingerbread house to study it more closely. It was carved from polished wood, then intricately painted so that each licorice whip and lollipop looked good enough to eat. “It’s incredible. You rarely see workmanship like this.”
Whatever her reservations, she warmed toward him and crossed the room to join him. “He’s been carving and sculpting since he was a child. One day his art will be in galleries and museums.”
“It should be already.”
The sincerity in his voice hit her most vulnerable spot, her love of family. “It’s not so easy. He’s young and hardheaded and proud, so he keeps his job, hammering wood, instead of carving it to bring in money for the family. But one day…” She smiled at the collection. “He makes these for me, because I struggled so hard to learn to read English from this book of fairy tales I found in the boxes of things the church gave us when we came to New York. The pictures were so pretty, and I wanted so badly to know the stories that went with them.”
She caught herself, embarrassed to have said anything. “We should go.”
He only nodded, having already decided to pry gently until she told him more. “You should wear your jacket.” He lifted it from the sofa. “It’s getting chilly.”
The restaurant he’d chosen was only a short drive away and sat on one of the wooded hills that overlooked the Potomac. If Natasha had been given a guess, she would have been on target with his preference for a quiet, elegant backdrop and discreetly speedy service. Over her first glass of wine, she told herself to relax and enjoy.
“Freddie was in the shop today.”
“So I heard.” Amused, Spence lifted his own glass. “She wants her hair curled.”
Natasha’s puzzled look became a smile; she lifted a hand to her own. “Oh. That’s sweet.”
“Easy for you to say. I’ve just gotten the hang of pigtails.”
To her surprise, Natasha could easily picture him patiently braiding the soft, flaxen tresses. “She’s beautiful.” The image of him holding the girl on his lap at the piano slipped back into her mind. “She has your eyes.”
“Don’t look now,” Spence murmured, “but I believe you’ve given me a compliment.”
Feeling awkward, Natasha lifted the menu. “To soften the blow,” she told him. “I’m about to make up for skipping lunch this afternoon.”
True to her word, she ordered generously. As long as she was eating, Natasha figured, the interlude would go smoothly. Over appetizers she was careful to steer the conversation toward subjects they had touched on in class. Comfortably they discussed late fifteenth-century music with its four-part harmonies and traveling musicians. Spence appreciated her genuine curiosity and interest, but was equally determined to explore more personal areas.
“Tell me about your family.”
Natasha slipped a hot, butter-drenched morsel of lobster into her mouth, enjoying the delicate, almost decadent flavor. “I’m the oldest of four,” she began, then became abruptly aware that his fingertips were playing casually with hers on the tablecloth. She slid her hand out of reach.
Her maneuver had him lifting his glass to hide a smile. “Are you all spies?”
A flicker of temper joined the lights that the candle brought to her eyes. “Certainly not.”
“I wondered, since you seem so reluctant to talk about them.” His face sober, he leaned toward her. “Say ‘Get moose and squirrel.’”
Her mouth quivered before she gave up and laughed. “No.” She dipped her lobster in melted butter again, coating it slowly, enjoying the scent, then the taste and texture. “I have two brothers and a sister. My parents still live in Brooklyn.”
“Why did you move here, to West Virginia?”
“I wanted a change.” She lifted a shoulder. “Didn’t you?”
“Yes.” A faint line appeared between his brows as he studied her. “You said you were about Freddie’s age when you came to the States. Do you remember much about your life before that?”
“Of course.” For some reason she sensed he was thinking more of his daughter than of her own memories of the Ukraine. “I’ve always believed impressions made on us in those first few years stay the longest. Good or bad, they help form what we are.” Concerned, she leaned closer, smiling. “Tell me, when you think about being five, what do you remember?”
“Sitting at the piano, doing scales.” It came so clearly that he nearly laughed. “Smelling hothouse roses and watching the snow outside the window. Being torn between finishing my practice and getting to the park to throw snowballs at my nanny.”
“Your nanny,” Natasha repeated, but with a chuckle rather than a sneer he noted. She cupped her chin in her hands, leaning closer, alluring him with the play of light and shadow over her face. “And what did you do?”
“Both.”
“A responsible child.”
He ran a fingertip down her wrist and surprised a shiver out of her. Before she moved her hand away, he felt her pulse scramble. “What do you remember about being five?”
Because her reaction annoyed her, she was determined to show him nothing. She only shrugged. “My father bringing in wood for the fire, his hair and coat all covered with snow. The baby crying—my youngest brother. The smell of the bread my mother had baked. Pretending to be asleep while I listened to Papa talk to her about escape.”
“Were you afraid?”
“Yes.” Her eyes blurred with the memory. She didn’t often look back, didn’t often need to. But when she did, it came not with the watery look of old dreams, but clear as glass. “Oh, yes. Very afraid. More than I will ever be again.”
“Will you tell me?”
“Why?”
His eyes were dark, and fixed on her face. “Because I’d like to understand.”
She started to pass it off, even had the words in her mind. But the memory remained too vivid. “We waited until spring and took only what we could carry. We told no one, no one at all, and set off in the wagon. Papa said we were going to visit my mother’s sister who lived in the west. But I think there were some who knew, who watched us go with tired faces and big eyes. Papa had papers, badly forged, but he had a map and hoped we would avoid the border guards.”
“And you were only five?”
“Nearly six by then.” Thinking, she ran a fingertip around and around the rim of her glass. “Mikhail was between four and five, Alex just two. At night, if we could risk a fire, we would sit around it and Papa would tell stories. Those were good nights. We would fall asleep listening to his voice and smelling the smoke from the fire. We went over the mountains and into Hungary. It took us ninety-three days.”
He couldn’t imagine it, not even when he could see it reflected so clearly in her eyes. Her voice was low, but the emotions were all there, bringing it richness. Thinking of the little girl, he took her hand and waited for her to go on.
“My father had planned for years. Perhaps he had dreamed it all of his life. He had names, people who would help defectors. There was war, the cold one, but I was too young to understand. I understood the fear, in my parents, in the others who helped us. We were smuggled out of Hungary into Austria. The church sponsored us, brought us to America. It was a long time before I stopped waiting for the police to come and take my father away.”
She brought herself back, embarrassed to have spoken of it, surprised to find her hand caught firmly in his.
“That’s a lot for a child to deal with.”
“I also remember eating my first hot dog.” She smiled and picked up her wine again. She never spoke of that time, never. Not even with family. Now that she had, with him, she felt a desperate need to change the subject. “And the day my father brought home our first television. No childhood, even one with nannies, is ever completely secure. But we grow up. I’m a businesswoman, and you’re a respected composer. Why don’t you write?” She felt his fingers tense on hers. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I had no business asking that.”
“It’s all right.” His fingers relaxed again. “I don’t write because I can’t.”
She hesitated, then went on impulse. “I know your music. Something that intense doesn’t fade.”
“It hasn’t mattered a great deal in the past couple of years. Just lately it’s begun to matter again.”
“Don’t be patient.”
When he smiled, she shook her head, at once impatient and regal. Her hand was gripping his now, hard and strong.
“No, I mean it. People always say when the time is right, when the mood is right, when the place is right. Years are wasted that way. If my father had waited until we were older, until the trip was safer, we might still be in the Ukraine. There are some things that should be grabbed with both hands and taken. Life can be very, very short.”
He could feel the urgency in the way her hands gripped his. And he could see the shadow of regret in her eyes. The reason for both intrigued him as much as her words.
“You may be right,” he said slowly, then brought the palm of her hand to his lips. “Waiting isn’t always the best answer.”
“It’s getting late.” Natasha pulled her hand free, then balled it into a fist on her lap. But that didn’t stop the heat from spearing her arm. “We should go.”
She was relaxed again when he walked her to her door. During the short drive home he had made her laugh with stories of Freddie’s ploys to interest him in a kitten.
“I think cutting pictures of cats from a magazine to make you a poster was very clever.” She turned to lean back against her front door. “You are going to let her have one?”
“I’m trying not to be a pushover.”
Natasha only smiled. “Big old houses like yours tend to get mice in the winter. In fact, in a house of that size, you’d be wise to take two of JoBeth’s kittens.”
“If Freddie pulls that one on me, I’ll know exactly where she got it.” He twirled one of Natasha’s curls around his fingers. “And you have a quiz coming up next week.”
Natasha lifted both brows. “Blackmail, Dr. Kimball?”
“You bet.”
“I intend to ace your quiz, and I have a strong feeling that Freddie could talk you into taking the entire litter all by herself, if she put her mind to it.”
“Just the little gray one.”
“You’ve already been to see them.”
“A couple of times. You’re not going to ask me in?”
“No.”
“All right.” He slipped his arms around her waist.
“Spence—”
“I’m just taking your advice,” he murmured as he skimmed his lips over her jaw. “Not being patient.” He brought her closer; his mouth brushed her earlobe. “Taking what I want.” His teeth scraped over her bottom lip. “Not wasting time.”
Then he was crushing his mouth against hers. He could taste the faintest tang of wine on her lips and knew he could get drunk on that alone. Her flavors were rich, exotic, intoxicating. Like the hint of autumn in the air, she made him think of smoking fires, drifting fog. And her body was already pressed eagerly against his in an instantaneous acknowledgment.
Passion didn’t bloom, it didn’t whisper. It exploded so that even the air around them seemed to shudder with it.
She made him feel reckless. Unaware of what he murmured to her, he raced his lips over her face, coming back, always coming back to her heated, hungry mouth. In one rough stroke he took his hands over her.
Her head was spinning. If only she could believe it was the wine. But she knew it was he, only he who made her dizzy and dazed and desperate. She wanted to be touched. By him. On a breathless moan, she let her head fall back, and the urgent trail of his lips streaked down her throat.
Feeling this way had to be wrong. Old fears and doubts swirled inside her, leaving empty holes that begged to be filled. And when they were filled, with liquid, shimmering pleasure, the fear only grew.
“Spence.” Her fingers dug into his shoulders; she fought a war between the need to stop him and the impossible desire to go on. “Please.”
He was as shaken as she and took a moment, burying his face in her hair. “Something happens to me every time I’m with you. I can’t explain it.”
She wanted badly to hold him against herself, but forced her arms to drop to her sides. “It can’t continue to happen.”
He drew away, just far enough to be able to take her face into both hands. The chill of the evening and the heat of passion had brought color to her cheeks. “If I wanted to stop it, which I don’t, I couldn’t.”
She kept her eyes level with his and tried not to be moved by the gentle way he cradled her face. “You want to go to bed with me.”
“Yes.” He wasn’t certain if he wanted to laugh or curse her for being so matter-of-fact. “But it’s not quite that simple.”
“Sex is never simple.”
His eyes narrowed. “I’m not interested in having sex with you.”
“You just said—”
“I want to make love with you. There’s a difference.”
“I don’t choose to romanticize it.”
The annoyance in his eyes vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Then I’m sorry I’ll have to disappoint you. When we make love, whenever, wherever, it’s going to be very romantic.” Before she could evade, he closed his mouth over hers. “That’s a promise I intend to keep.”
CHAPTER FIVE (#u64cc9cf6-f529-548f-8cd6-ae74e7915a54)
“Natasha! Hey, ah, Natasha!”
Broken out of thoughts that weren’t particularly productive, Natasha glanced over and spied Terry. He was wearing a long yellow-and white-striped scarf in defense against a sudden plunge in temperature that had sprinkled frost on the ground. As he raced after her, it flapped awkwardly behind him. By the time he reached her, his glasses had slipped crookedly down to the tip of his reddening nose.
“Hi, Terry.”
The hundred-yard dash had winded him. He dearly hoped it wouldn’t aggravate his asthma. “Hi. I was—I saw you heading in.” He’d been waiting hopefully for her for twenty minutes.
Feeling a bit like a mother with a clumsy child, she straightened his glasses, then wrapped the scarf more securely around his skinny neck. His rapid breathing fogged his lenses. “You should be wearing gloves,” she told him, then patting his chilled hand, led him up the steps.
Overwhelmed, he tried to speak and only made a strangled sound in his throat.
“Are you catching a cold?” Searching through her purse, she found a tissue and offered it.
He cleared his throat loudly. “No.” But he took the tissue and vowed to keep it until the day he died. “I was just wondering if tonight—after class—you know, if you don’t have anything to do… You’ve probably got plans, but if you don’t, then maybe…we could have a cup of coffee. Two cups,” he amended desperately. “I mean you could have your own cup, and I’d have one.” So saying, he turned a thin shade of green.
The poor boy was lonely, Natasha thought, giving him an absent smile. “Sure.” It wouldn’t hurt to keep him company for an hour or so, she decided as she walked into class. And it would help her keep her mind off…
Off the man standing in front of the class, Natasha reflected with a scowl; the man who had kissed the breath out of her two weeks before and who was currently laughing with a sassy little blonde who couldn’t have been a day over twenty.
Her mood grim, she plopped down at her desk and poked her nose into a textbook.
Spence knew the moment she walked into the room. He was more than a little gratified to have seen the huffy jealousy on her face before she stuck a book in front of it. Apparently fate hadn’t been dealing him such a bad hand when it kept him up to his ears in professional and personal problems for the last couple of weeks. Between leaky plumbing, PTA and Brownie meetings and a faculty conference, he hadn’t had an hour free. But now things were running smoothly again. He studied the top of Natasha’s head. He intended to make up for lost time.
Sitting on the edge of his desk, he opened a discussion of the distinctions between sacred and secular music during the baroque period.
She didn’t want to be interested. Natasha was sure he knew it. Why else would he deliberately call on her for an opinion—twice?
Oh, he was clever, she thought. Not by a flicker, not by the slightest intonation did he reveal a more personal relationship with her. No one in class would possibly suspect that this smooth, even brilliant lecturer had kissed her senseless, not once, not twice, but three times. Now he calmly talked of early seventeenth-century operatic developments.
In his black turtleneck and gray tweed jacket he looked casually elegant and totally in charge. And of course, as always, he had the class in the palms of those beautiful hands he eloquently used to make a point. When he smiled over a student’s comment, Natasha heard the little blonde two seats behind her sigh. Because she’d nearly done so herself, Natasha stiffened her spine.
He probably had a whole string of eager women. A man who looked like him, talked like him, kissed like him was bound to. He was the type that made promises to one woman at midnight and snuggled up to another over breakfast in bed.
Wasn’t it fortunate she no longer believed in promises?
Something was going on inside that fabulous head of hers, Spence mused. One moment she was listening to him as if he had the answers to the mysteries of the universe on the tip of his tongue. The next, she was sitting rigidly and staring off into space, as though she wished herself somewhere else. He would swear that she was angry, and that the anger was directed squarely at him. Why was an entirely different matter.
Whenever he’d tried to have a word with her after class over the last couple of weeks, she’d been out of the building like a bullet. Tonight he would have to outmaneuver her.
She stood the moment class was over. Spence watched her smile at the man sitting across from her. Then she bent down to pick up the books and pencils the man scattered as he rose.
What was his name? Spence wondered. Maynard. That was it. Mr. Maynard was in several of his classes, and managed to fade into the background in each one. Yet at the moment the unobtrusive Mr. Maynard was crouched knee to knee with Natasha.
“I think we’ve got them all.” Natasha gave Terry’s glasses a friendly shove back up his nose.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t forget your scarf—” she began, then looked up. A hand closed over her arm and helped her to her feet. “Thank you, Dr. Kimball.”
“I’d like to talk to you, Natasha.”
“Would you?” She gave the hand on her arm a brief look, then snatched up her coat and books. Feeling as though she were on a chessboard again, she decided to aggressively counter his move. “I’m sorry, it’ll have to wait. I have a date.”
“A date?” he managed, getting an immediate picture of someone dark, dashing and muscle-bound.
“Yes. Excuse me.” She shook off his hand and stuck an arm into the sleeve of her coat. Since the men on either side of her seemed equally paralyzed, she shifted the books to her other arm and struggled to find the second sleeve. “Are you ready, Terry?”
“Well, yeah, sure. Yeah.” He was staring at Spence with a mixture of awe and trepidation. “But I can wait if you want to talk to Dr. Kimball first.”
“There’s no need.” She scooped up his arm and pulled him to the door.
Women, Spence thought as he sat down at a desk. He’d already accepted the fact that he had never understood them. Apparently he never would.
“Jeez, Tash, don’t you think you should have seen what Dr. Kimball wanted?”
“I know what he wanted,” she said between her teeth as she pushed open the main doors. The rush of autumn air cooled her cheeks. “I wasn’t in the mood to discuss it tonight.” When Terry tripped over the uneven sidewalk, she realized she was still dragging him and slowed her pace. “Besides, I thought we were going to have some coffee.”
“Right.” When she smiled at him, he tugged on his scarf as if to keep from strangling.
They walked into a small lounge where half the little square tables were empty. At the antique bar two men were muttering over their beers. A couple in the corner were all but sitting on each other’s laps and ignoring their drinks.
She’d always liked this room with its dim lighting and old black-and-white posters of James Dean and Marilyn Monroe. It smelled of cigarettes and jug wine. There was a big portable stereo on a shelf above the bar that played an old Chuck Berry number loudly enough to make up for the lack of patrons. Natasha felt the bass vibrate through her chair as she sat down.
“Just coffee, Joe,” she called to the man behind the bar before she leaned her elbows on the table. “So,” she said to Terry, “how’s everything going?”
“Okay.” He couldn’t believe it. He was here, sitting with her. On a date. She’d called it a date herself.
It would take a little prodding. Patient, she shrugged out of her coat. The overheated room had her pushing the sleeves of her sweater past her elbows. “It must be different for you here. Did you ever tell me where you were going to college before?”
“I graduated from Michigan State.” Because his lenses were fogged again, Natasha seemed to be shrouded by a thin, mysterious mist. “When I, ah, heard that Dr. Kimball would be teaching here, I decided to take a couple years of graduate study.”
“You came here because of Spence—Dr. Kimball?”
“I didn’t want to miss the opportunity. I went to New York last year to hear him lecture.” Terry lifted a hand and nearly knocked over a bowl of sugar. “He’s incredible.”
“I suppose,” she murmured as their coffee was served.
“Where you been hiding?” the bartender asked, giving her shoulder a casual squeeze. “I haven’t seen you in here all month.”
“Business is good. How’s Darla?”
“History.” Joe gave her a quick, friendly wink. “I’m all yours, Tash.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.” With a laugh, she turned back to Terry. “Is something wrong?” she asked when she saw him dragging at his collar.
“Yes. No. That is… Is he your boyfriend?”
“My…” To keep herself from laughing in Terry’s face, she took a sip of coffee. “You mean Joe? No.” She cleared her throat and sipped again. “No, he’s not. We’re just…” She searched for a word. “Pals.”
“Oh.” Relief and in security warred. “I just thought, since he…Well.”
“He was only joking.” Wanting to put Terry at ease again, she squeezed his hand. “What about you? Do you have a girl back in Michigan?”
“No. There’s nobody. Nobody at all.” He turned his hand over, gripping hers.
Oh, my God. As realization hit, Natasha felt her mouth drop open. Only a fool would have missed it, she thought as she stared into Terry’s adoring, myopic eyes. A fool, she added, who was so tied up with her own problems that she missed what was happening under her nose. She was going to have to be careful, Natasha decided. Very careful.
“Terry,” she began. “You’re very sweet—”
That was all it took to make his hand shake. Coffee spilled down his shirt. Moving quickly, Natasha shifted chairs so that she was beside him. Snatching paper napkins from the dispenser, she began to blot the stain.
“It’s a good thing they never serve it hot in this place. If you soak this in cold water right away, you should be all right.”
Overcome, Terry grabbed both of her hands. Her head was bent close, and the scent of her hair was making him dizzy. “I love you,” he blurted, and took aim with his mouth; his glasses slid down his nose.
Natasha felt his lips hit her cheekbone, cold and trembly. Because her heart went out to him, she decided that being careful wasn’t the right approach. Firmness was called for, quickly.
“No, you don’t.” Her voice was brisk, she pulled back far enough to dab at the spill on the table.
“I don’t?” Her response threw him off. It was nothing like any of the fantasies he’d woven. There was the one where he’d saved her from a runaway truck. And another where he’d played the song he was writing for her and she had collapsed in a passionate, weeping puddle into his arms. His imagination hadn’t stretched far enough to see her wiping up coffee and calmly telling him he wasn’t in love at all.
“Yes, I do.” He snatched at her hand again.
“That’s ridiculous,” she said, and smiled to take the sting out of the words. “You like me, and I like you, too.”
“No, it’s more than that. I—”
“All right. Why do you love me?”
“Because you’re beautiful,” he managed, losing his grip as he stared into her face again. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
“And that’s enough?” Disengaging her hand from his, she linked her fingers to rest her chin on them. “What if I told you I was a thief—or that I liked to run down small, furry animals with my car? Maybe I’ve been married three times and have murdered all my husbands in their sleep.”
“Tash—”
She laughed, but resisted the temptation to pet his cheek. “I mean, you don’t know me enough to love me. If you did, what I looked like wouldn’t matter.”
“But—but I think about you all the time.”
“Because you’ve told yourself it would be nice to be in love with me.” He looked so forlorn that she took a chance and laid one hand upon his. “I’m very flattered.”
“Does this mean you won’t go out with me?”
“I’m out with you now.” She pushed her cup of coffee in front of him. “As friends,” she said before the light could dawn again in his eyes. “I’m too old to be anything but your friend.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Oh, yes.” Suddenly she felt a hundred. “Yes, I am.”
“You think I’m stupid,” he muttered. In place of confused excitement came a crushing wave of humiliation. He could feel his cheeks sting with it.
“No, I don’t.” Her voice softened, and she reached once more for his hands. “Terry, listen—”
Before she could stop him, he pushed back his chair. “I’ve got to go.”
Cursing herself, Natasha picked up his striped scarf. There was no use in following him now. He needed time, she decided. And she needed air.
The leaves were beginning to turn, and a few that had fallen early scraped along the sidewalk ahead of the wind. It was the kind of evening Natasha liked best, but now she barely noticed it. She’d left her coffee untouched to take a long, circular walk through town.
Heading home, she thought of a dozen ways she could have handled Terry’s infatuation better. Through her clumsiness she had wounded a sensitive, vulnerable boy. It could have been avoided, all of it, if she had been paying attention to what was happening in front of her face.
Instead she’d been blinded by her own unwelcome feelings for someone else.
She knew too well what it was to believe yourself in love, desperately, hopelessly in love. And she knew how it hurt to discover that the one you loved didn’t return those feelings. Cruel or kind, the rejection of love left the heart bruised.
Uttering a sigh, she ran a hand over the scarf in her pocket. Had she ever been so trusting and defenseless? Yes, she answered herself. That and much, much more.
It was about damn time, Spence thought as he watched her start up the walk. Obviously her mind was a million miles away. On her date, he decided and tried not to grind his teeth. Well, he was going to see to it that she had a lot more to think about in very short order.
“Didn’t he walk you home?”
Natasha stopped dead with an involuntary gasp. In the beam of her porch light she saw Spence sitting on her stoop. That was all she needed, she thought while she dragged a hand through her hair. With Terry she’d felt as though she’d kicked a puppy. Now she was going to have to face down a large, hungry wolf.
“What are you doing here?”
“Freezing.”
She nearly laughed. His breath was puffing out in white steam. With the wind chill, she imagined that the effective temperature was hovering around twenty-five degrees Fahrenheit. After a moment, Natasha decided she must be a very poor sport to be amused at the thought of Spence sitting on cold concrete for the past hour.
He rose as she continued down the walk. How could she have forgotten how tall he was? “Didn’t you invite your friend back for a drink?”
“No.” She reached out and twisted the knob. Like most of the doors in town, it was unlocked. “If I had, you’d be very embarrassed.”
“That’s not the word for it.”
“I’m suppose I’m lucky I didn’t find you waiting up for me inside.”
“You would have,” he muttered, “if it had occurred to me to try the door.”
“Good night.”
“Wait a damn minute.” He slapped his palm on the door before she could close it in his face. “I didn’t sit out here in the cold for my health. I want to talk to you.”
There was something satisfying in the brief, fruitless push-push they played with the door. “It’s late.”
“And getting later by the second. If you close the door, I’m just going to beat on it until all your neighbors poke their heads out their windows.”
“Five minutes,” she said graciously, because she had planned to grant him that in any case. “I’ll give you a brandy, then you’ll go.”
“You’re all heart, Natasha.”
“No.” She laid her coat over the back of the couch. “I’m not.”
She disappeared into the kitchen without another word. When she returned with two snifters of brandy, he was standing in the center of the room, running Terry’s scarf through his fingers.
“What kind of game are you playing?”
She set down his brandy, then sipped calmly at her own. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“What are you doing, going out on dates with some college kid who’s still wet behind the ears?”
Both her back and her voice stiffened. “It’s none of your business whom I go out with.”
“It is now,” Spence replied, realizing it now mattered to him.
“No, it’s not. And Terry’s a very nice young man.”
“Young’s the operative word.” Spence tossed the scarf aside. “He’s certainly too young for you.”
“Is that so?” It was one thing for her to say it, and quite another to have Spence throw it at her like an accusation. “I believe that’s for me to decide.”
“Hit a nerve that time,” Spence muttered to himself. There had been a time—hadn’t there?—when he had been considered fairly smooth with women. “Maybe I should have said you’re too old for him.”
“Oh, yes.” Despite herself, she began to see the humor of it. “That’s a great deal better. Would you like to drink this brandy or wear it?”
“I’ll drink it, thanks.” He lifted the glass, but instead of bringing it to his lips, took another turn around the room. He was jealous, Spence realized. It was rather pathetic, but he was jealous of an awkward, tongue-tied grad student. And while he was about it, he was making a very big fool of himself. “Listen, maybe I should start over.”
“I don’t know why you would want to start something over you should never have begun.”
But like a dog with a bone, he couldn’t stop gnawing. “It’s just that he’s obviously not your type.”
Fire blazed again. “Oh, and you’d know about my type?”
Spence held up his free hand. “All right, one straight question before my foot is permanently lodged in my mouth. Are you interested in him?”
“Of course I am.” Then she cursed herself; it was impossible to use Terry and his feelings as a barricade against Spence. “He’s a very nice boy.”
Spence almost relaxed, then spotted the scarf again, still spread over the back of her couch. “What are you doing with that?”
“I picked it up for him.” The sight of it, bright and a little foolish on the jewel colors of her couch, made her feel like the most vicious kind of femme fatale. “He left it behind after I broke his heart. He thinks he’s in love with me.” Miserable, she dropped into a chair. “Oh, go away. I don’t know why I’m talking to you.”
The look on her face made him want to smile and stroke her hair. He thought better of it and kept his tone brisk. “Because you’re upset, and I’m the only one here.”
“I guess that’ll do.” She didn’t object when Spence sat down across from her. “He was very sweet and nervous, and I had no idea what he was feeling—or what he thought he was feeling. I should have realized, but I didn’t until he spilled his coffee all over his shirt, and… Don’t laugh at him.”
Spence continued to smile as he shook his head. “I’m not. Believe me, I know exactly how he must have felt. There are some women who make you clumsy.”
Their eyes met and held. “Don’t flirt with me.”
“I’m past flirting with you, Natasha.”
Restless, she rose to pace the room. “You’re changing the subject.”
“Am I?”
She waved an impatient hand as she paced. “I hurt his feelings. If I had known what was happening, I might have stopped it. There is nothing,” she said passionately, “nothing worse than loving someone and being turned away.”
“No.” He understood that. And he could see by the shadows haunting her eyes that she did, too. “But you don’t really believe he’s in love with you.”
“He believes it. I ask him why he thinks it, and do you know what he says?” She whirled back, her hair swirling around her shoulders with the movement. “He says because he thinks I’m beautiful. That’s it.” She threw up her hands and started to pace again. Spence only watched, caught up in her movements and by the musical cadence that agitation brought to her voice. “When he says it, I want to slap him and say—what’s wrong with you? A face is nothing but a face. You don’t know my mind or my heart. But he has big, sad eyes, so I can’t yell at him.”
“You never had a problem yelling at me.”
“You don’t have big, sad eyes, and you’re not a boy who thinks he’s in love.”
“I’m not a boy,” he agreed, catching her by the shoulders from behind. Even as she stiffened, he turned her around. “And I like more than your face, Natasha. Though I like that very much.”
“You don’t know anything about me, either.”
“Yes, I do. I know you lived through experiences I can hardly imagine. I know you love and miss your family, that you understand children and have a natural affection for them. You’re organized, stubborn and passionate.” He ran his hands down her arms, then back to her shoulders. “I know you’ve been in love before.” He tightened his grip before she could pull away. “And you’re not ready to talk about it. You have a sharp, curious mind and caring heart, and you wish you weren’t attracted to me. But you are.”
She lowered her lashes briefly to veil her eyes. “Then it would seem you know more of me than I of you.”
“That’s easy to fix.”
“I don’t know if I want to. Or why I should.”
His lips brushed hers, then retreated before she could respond or reject. “There’s something there,” he murmured. “That’s reason enough.”
“Maybe there is,” she began. “No.” She drew back when he would have kissed her again. “Don’t. I’m not very strong tonight.”
“A good way to make me feel guilty if I press my advantage.”
She felt twin rushes of disappointment and relief when he released her. “I’ll make you dinner,” she said on impulse.
“Now?”
“Tomorrow. Just dinner,” she added, wondering if she should already be regretting the invitation. “If you bring Freddie.”
“She’d like that. So would I.”
“Good. Seven o’clock.” Natasha picked up his coat and held it out. “Now you have to go.”
“You should learn to say what’s on your mind.” With a half laugh, Spence took the coat from her. “One more thing.”
“Only one?”
“Yeah.” He swung her back into his arms for one long, hard, mind-numbing kiss. He had the satisfaction of seeing her sink weakly onto the arm of the sofa when he released her.
“Good night,” he said, then stepping outside, gulped in a deep breath of cold air.
It was the first time Freddie had been asked out to a grown-up dinner, and she waited impatiently while her father shaved. Usually she enjoyed watching him slide the razor through the white foam on his face. There were even times when she secretly wished she were a boy, so that she could look forward to the ritual. But tonight she thought her father was awfully slow.
“Can we go now?”
Standing in his bathrobe, Spence rinsed off the traces of lather. “It might be a better idea if I put some pants on.”
Freddie only rolled her eyes. “When are you going to?”
Spence scooped her up to bite gently at her neck. “As soon as you beat it.”
Taking him at his word, she raced downstairs to prowl the foyer and count to sixty. Around the fifth round, she sat on the bottom step to play with the buckle of her left shoe.
Freddie had it all figured out. Her father was going to marry either Tash or Mrs. Patterson, because they were both pretty and had nice smiles. Afterward, the one he married would come and live in their new house. Soon she would have a new baby sister. A baby brother would do in a pinch, but it was definitely a second choice. Everybody would be happy, because everybody would like each other a lot. And her daddy would play his music late at night again.
When she heard Spence start down, Freddie jumped up and whirled around to face him. “Daddy, I counted to sixty a jillion times.”
“I bet you left out the thirties again.” He took her coat from the hall closet and helped bundle her into it.
“No, I didn’t.” At least she didn’t think she had. “You took forever.” With a sigh, she pulled him to the door.
“We’re still going to be early.”
“She won’t mind.”
At that moment, Natasha was pulling a sweater over her head and wondering why she had invited anyone to dinner, particularly a man every instinct told her to avoid. She’d been distracted all day, worrying if the food would be right, if she’d chosen the most complimentary wine. And now she was changing for the third time.
Totally out of character, she told herself as she frowned at her reflection in the mirror. The casual blue sweater and leggings calmed her. If she looked at ease, Natasha decided she would be at ease. She fastened long silver columns at her ears, gave her hair a quick toss, then hurried back to the kitchen. She had hardly checked her sauce when she heard the knock.
They were early, she thought, allowing herself one mild oath before going to the door.
They looked wonderful. Agitation vanished in a smile. The sight of the little girl with her hand caught firmly in her father’s went straight to her heart. Because it came naturally, she bent to kiss Freddie on both cheeks. “Hello.”
“Thank you for asking me to dinner.” Freddie recited the sentence, then looked at her father for approval.
“You’re welcome.”
“Aren’t you going to kiss Daddy, too?”
Natasha hesitated, then caught Spence’s quick, challenging grin. “Of course.” She brushed her lips formally against his cheeks. “That is a traditional Ukrainian greeting.”
“I’m very grateful for glasnost.” Still smiling, he took her hand and brought it to his lips.
“Are we going to have borscht?” Freddie wanted to know.
“Borscht?” Natasha lifted a brow as she helped Freddie out of her coat.
“When I told Mrs. Patterson that me and Daddy were going to have dinner at your house, she said that borscht was Russian for beet soup.” Freddie managed not to say she thought it sounded gross, but Natasha got the idea.
“I’m sorry I didn’t make any,” she said, straight faced. “I made another traditional dish instead. Spaghetti and meatballs.”
It was easy, surprisingly so. They ate at the old gateleg table by the window, and their talk ranged from Freddie’s struggles with arithmetic to Neapolitan opera. It took only a little prodding for Natasha to talk of her family. Freddie wanted to know everything there was about being a big sister.
“We didn’t fight very much,” Natasha reflected as she drank after-dinner coffee and balanced Freddie on her knee. “But when we did, I won, because I was the oldest. And the meanest.”
“You’re not mean.”
“Sometimes when I’m angry I am.” She looked at Spence, remembering—and regretting—telling him he didn’t deserve Freddie. “Then I’m sorry.”
“When people fight, it doesn’t always mean they don’t like each other,” Spence murmured. He was doing his best not to think how perfect, how perfectly right his daughter looked cuddled on Natasha’s lap. Too far, too fast, he warned himself. For everyone involved.
Freddie wasn’t sure she understood, but she was only five. Then she remembered happily that she would soon be six. “I’m going to have a birthday.”
“Are you?” Natasha looked appropriately impressed. “When?”
“In two weeks. Will you come to my party?”
“I’d love to.” Natasha looked at Spence as Freddie recited all the wonderful treats that were in store.
It wasn’t wise to get so involved with the little girl, she warned herself. Not when the little girl was attached so securely to a man who made Natasha long for things she had put behind her. Spence smiled at her. No, it wasn’t wise, she thought again. But it was irresistible.
CHAPTER SIX (#u64cc9cf6-f529-548f-8cd6-ae74e7915a54)
“Chicken pox.” Spence said the two words again. He stood in the doorway and watched his little girl sleep. “It’s a hell of a birthday present, sweetie.”
In two days his daughter would be six, and by then, according to the doctor, she’d be covered with the itchy rash that was now confined to her belly and chest.
It was going around, the pediatrician had said. It would run its course. Easy for him to say, Spence thought. It wasn’t his daughter whose eyes were teary. It wasn’t his baby with a hundred-and-one-degree temperature.
She’d never been sick before, Spence realized as he rubbed his tired eyes. Oh, the sniffles now and again, but nothing a little TLC and baby aspirin hadn’t put right. He dragged a hand through his hair; Freddie moaned in her sleep and tried to find a cool spot on her pillow.
The call from Nina hadn’t helped. He’d had to come down hard to prevent her from catching the shuttle and arriving on his doorstep. That hadn’t stopped her telling him that Freddie had undoubtedly caught chicken pox because she was attending public school. That was nonsense, of course, but when he looked at his little girl, tossing in her bed, her face flushed with fever, the guilt was almost unbearable.
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Nora Roberts
NORA ROBERTS is the New York Times bestselling author of more than one hundred and ninety novels. A born storyteller, she creates a blend of warmth, humour and poignancy that speaks directly to her readers and has earned her almost every award for excellence in her field. The youngest of five children, Nora Roberts lives in western Maryland. She has two sons.
Visit her website at www.noraroberts.com (http://www.noraroberts.com)
Also available by Nora Roberts (#u64cc9cf6-f529-548f-8cd6-ae74e7915a54)
THE MACKADE BROTHERS
The Return of Rafe MacKade
The Pride of Jared MacKade
The Heart of Devin MacKade
The Fall of Shane MacKade
THE O’HURLEYS
The Last Honest Woman
Dance to the Piper
Skin Deep
Without a Trace
THE STANISLASKIS
Taming Natasha
Falling for Rachel
Luring a Lady
Convincing Alex
Waiting for Nick
Considering Kate
THE CALHOUN WOMEN
The Calhoun Sisters
For the Love of Lilah
Suzanna’s Surender
Megan’s Mate
CORDINA’S ROYAL FAMILY
Affaire Royale
Command Performance
The Playboy Prince
Cordina’s Crown Jewel
THE MacGREGORS
Playing the Odds
Tempting Fate
All the Possibilities
One Man’s Art
For Now, Forever
The MacGregor Grooms
The Perfect Neighbour
Rebellion
THE STARS OF MITHRA
Hidden Star
Captive Star
Secret Star
THE DONOVAN LEGACY
Captivated
Entranced
Charmed
NIGHT TALES
Night Shift
Night Shadow
Nightshade
Night Smoke
Night Shield
Reflections
Night Moves
Dance of Dreams
Boundary Lines
Dream Makers
Risky Business
The Welcoming
The Right Path
Partners
The Art of Deception
The Winning Hand
Irish Rebel
The Law is a Lady
Summer Pleasures
Under Summer Skies
California Summer
Hazy Summer Nights
Summer Dreams
Dual Image
Unfinished Business
Mind Over Matter
Best Laid Plans
Lessons Learned
Summer With You
Long Summer Days
Summer Desserts
Loving Jack
Summer in the Sun
Catching Snowflakes
Christmas Magic
Time Was
Times Change
This Christmas…
Table of Contents
Cover (#u57f764fd-4f05-536d-8bbb-d8de58be1951)
About the Author (#u27e89129-5e48-5234-b809-15d789d190b8)
Booklist (#u5a2c2ff6-164f-5a6b-8ecd-f2045533363a)
Title Page (#u0adefa9a-b8af-590e-96fa-537c93878141)
Taming Natasha (#uc39ffafe-e325-5b53-8364-57dc9f394e13)
Dedication (#uff0c95e6-72e0-5684-bf9f-e19dd7cc6326)
CHAPTER ONE (#u396c4757-4002-5bf7-b97f-7d5938895507)
CHAPTER TWO (#u2ed09c35-d965-5359-8f6e-9ba16944d402)
CHAPTER THREE (#u9ded1272-1375-50aa-b69e-d4da02fe436b)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u8bf4cb42-7b44-5538-a12b-76248e1cf2fe)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u4a59ffc3-32ec-5589-b559-9b9ad8232af4)
CHAPTER SIX (#uaab0174d-187a-5111-8733-5e89a3c6dc4c)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Considering Kate (#litres_trial_promo)
Dedication (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Taming Natasha (#u64cc9cf6-f529-548f-8cd6-ae74e7915a54)
For Gayle Link. Welcome to the fold
CHAPTER ONE (#u64cc9cf6-f529-548f-8cd6-ae74e7915a54)
“Why is it that all the really great-looking men are married?”
“Is that a trick question?” Natasha arranged a velvet-gowned doll in a child-sized bentwood rocker before she turned to her assistant. “Okay, Annie, what great-looking man are we talking about in particular?”
“The tall, blond and gorgeous one who’s standing outside the shop window with his nifty-looking wife and beautiful little girl.” Annie tucked a wad of gum into her cheek and heaved a gusty sigh. “They look like an ad for Perfect Family Digest.”
“Then perhaps they’ll come in and buy the perfect toy.”
Natasha stepped back from her grouping of Victorian dolls and accessories with a nod of approval. It looked exactly as she wanted—appealing, elegant and old-fashioned. She checked everything down to the tasseled fan in a tiny, china hand.
The toy store wasn’t just her business, it was her greatest pleasure. Everything from the smallest rattle to the biggest stuffed bear was chosen by her with the same eye for detail and quality. She insisted on the best for her shop and her customers, whether it was a five-hundred-dollar doll with its own fur wrap or a two-dollar, palm-sized race car. When the match was right, she was pleased to ring up either sale.
In the three years since she had opened her jingling front door, Natasha had made The Fun House one of the most thriving concerns in the small college town on the West Virginia border. It had taken drive and persistence, but her success was more a direct result of her innate understanding of children. She didn’t want her clients to walk out with a toy. She wanted them to walk out with the right toy.
Deciding to make a few adjustments, Natasha moved over to a display of miniature cars.
“I think they’re going to come in,” Annie was saying as she smoothed down her short crop of auburn hair. “The little girl’s practically bouncing out of her Mary Janes. Want me to open up?”
Always precise, Natasha glanced at the grinning clown clock overhead. “We have five minutes yet.”
“What’s five minutes? Tash, I’m telling you this guy is incredible.” Wanting a closer look, Annie edged down an aisle to restack board games. “Oh, yes. Six foot two, a hundred and sixty pounds. The best shoulders I’ve ever seen fill out a suit jacket. Oh Lord, it’s tweed. I didn’t know a guy in tweed could make me salivate.”
“A man in cardboard can make you salivate.”
“Most of the guys I know are cardboard.” A dimple winked at the corner of Annie’s mouth. She peeked around the counter of wooden toys to see if he was still at the window. “He must have spent some time at the beach this summer. His hair’s sun-streaked and he’s got a fabulous tan. Oh, God, he smiled at the little girl. I think I’m in love.”
Choreographing a scaled-down traffic jam, Natasha smiled. “You always think you’re in love.”
“I know.” Annie sighed. “I wish I could see the color of his eyes. He’s got one of those wonderfully lean and bony faces. I’m sure he’s incredibly intelligent and has suffered horribly.”
Natasha shot a quick, amused look over her shoulder. Annie, with her tall, skinny build had a heart as soft as marshmallow cream. “I’m sure his wife would be fascinated with your fantasy.”
“It’s a woman’s privilege—no, her obligation—to weave fantasies over men like that.”
Though she couldn’t have disagreed more, Natasha let Annie have her way. “All right then. Go ahead and open up.”
“One doll,” Spence said, giving his daughter’s ear a tug. “I might have thought twice about moving into that house, if I’d realized there was a toy store a half mile away.”
“You’d buy her the bloody toy store if you had your way.”
He spared one glance for the woman beside him. “Don’t start, Nina.”
The slender blonde shrugged her shoulders, rippling the trim, rose linen jacket of her suit, then looked at the little girl. “I just meant your daddy tends to spoil you because he loves you so much. Besides, you deserve a present for being so good about the move.”
Little Frederica Kimball’s bottom lip pouted. “I like my new house.” She slipped her hand into her father’s, automatically aligning herself with him and against the world. “I have a yard and a swing set all of my own.”
Nina looked them over, the tall, rangy man and the fairy-sized young girl. They had identical stubborn chins. As far as she could remember, she’d never won an argument with either one.
“I suppose I’m the only one who doesn’t see that as an advantage over living in New York.” Nina’s tone warmed slightly as she stroked the girl’s hair. “I can’t help worrying about you a little bit. I really only want you to be happy, darling. You and your daddy.”
“We are.” To break the tension, Spence swung Freddie into his arms. “Aren’t we, funny face?”
“She’s about to be that much happier.” Relenting, Nina gave Spence’s hand a squeeze. “They’re opening.”
“Good morning.” They were gray, Annie noted, biting back a long, dreamy, “Ahh.” A glorious gray. She tucked her little fantasy into the back of her mind and ushered in the first customers of the day. “May I help you?”
“My daughter’s interested in a doll.” Spence set Freddie on her feet again.
“Well, you’ve come to the right place.” Annie dutifully switched her attention to the child. She really was a cute little thing, with her father’s gray eyes and pale, flyaway blond hair. “What kind of doll would you like?”
“A pretty one,” Freddie answered immediately. “A pretty one with red hair and blue eyes.”
“I’m sure we have just what you want.” She offered a hand. “Would you like to look around?”
After a glance at her father for approval, Freddie linked hands with Annie and wandered off.
“Damn it.” Spence found himself wincing.
Nina squeezed his hand for the second time. “Spence—”
“I delude myself thinking that it doesn’t matter, that she doesn’t even remember.”
“Just because she wanted a doll with red hair and blue eyes doesn’t mean anything.”
“Red hair and blue eyes,” he repeated; the frustration welled up once more. “Just like Angela’s. She remembers, Nina. And it does matter.” Stuffing his hands into his pockets he walked away.
Three years, he thought. It had been nearly three years now. Freddie had still been in diapers. But she remembered Angela—beautiful, careless Angela. Not even the most liberal critic would have considered Angela a mother. She had never cuddled or crooned, never rocked or soothed.
He studied a small, porcelain-faced doll dressed in pale, angelic blue. Tiny, tapering fingers, huge, dreamy eyes. Angela had been like that, he remembered. Ethereally beautiful. And cold as glass.
He had loved her as a man might love a piece of art—distantly admiring the perfection of form, and constantly searching for the meaning beneath it. Between them they had somehow created a warm, gorgeous child who had managed to find her way through the first years of her life almost without help from her parents.
But he would make it up to her. Spence shut his eyes for a moment. He intended to do everything in his power to give his daughter the love, the structure and the security she deserved. The realness. The word seemed trite, but it was the only one he could find that described what he wanted for his daughter—the real, the solid bond of family.
She loved him. He felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders as he thought of the way Freddie’s big eyes would shine when he tucked her in at night, at the way her arms would wrap tightly around him when he held her. Perhaps he would never fully forgive himself for being so involved with his own problems, his own life during her infancy, but things had changed. Even this move had been made with her welfare in mind.
He heard her laugh, and the rest of the tension dissolved on a wave of pure pleasure. There was no sweeter music than his little girl’s laugh. An entire symphony could be written around it. He wouldn’t disturb her yet, Spence thought. Let her indulge herself with the bright and beautiful dolls, before he had to remind her that only one could be hers.
Relaxed again, he began to pay attention to the shop. Like the dolls he’d imagined for his daughter, it was bright and beautiful. Though small, it was packed from wall to wall with everything a child might covet. A big golden giraffe and a sad-eyed purple dog hung from the ceiling. Wooden trains, cars and planes, all painted in bold colors, jockeyed for position on a long display table with elegant miniature furniture. An old-fashioned jack-in-the-box sat beside an intricate scale model of a futuristic space station. There were dolls, some beautiful, some charmingly homely, erector sets and tea sets.
The lack of studied arrangement made the result all the more appealing. This was a place to pretend and to wish, a crowded Aladdin’s cave designed to make children’s eyes light in wonder. To make them laugh, as his daughter was laughing now. He could already foresee that he’d be hard-pressed to keep Freddie from making regular visits.
That was one of the reasons he’d made the move to a small town. He wanted his daughter to be able to reap the pleasures of local shops, where the merchants would know her name. She would be able to walk from one end of town to the other without those big-city worries about muggings, abductions and drugs. There would be no need for dead bolts and security systems, for “white noise” machines to block out the surge and grind of traffic. Even a girl as little as his Freddie wouldn’t be swallowed up here.
And perhaps, without the pace and the pressure, he would make peace with himself.
Idly he picked up a music box. It was of delicately crafted porcelain, graced with a figure of a raven-haired Gypsy woman in a flounced red dress. In her ears were tiny gold loops, and in her hands a tambourine with colored streamers. He was certain he wouldn’t have found anything more skillfully made on Fifth Avenue.
He wondered how the owner could leave it out where small, curious fingers might reach and break. Intrigued, he turned the key and watched the figure revolve around the tiny, china camp fire.
Tchaikovsky. He recognized the movement instantly, and his skilled ear approved the quality of tone. A moody, even passionate piece, he thought, finding it strange to come across such exquisite workmanship in a toy store. Then he glanced up and saw Natasha.
He stared. He couldn’t help it. She was standing a few feet away, her head up, slightly tilted as she watched him. Her hair was as dark as the dancer’s and corkscrewed around her face in a wild disarray that flowed beyond her shoulders. Her skin was a dark, rich gold that was set off by the simple red dress she wore.
But this woman was not fragile, he thought. Though she was small, he got the impression of power. Perhaps it was her face, with its full, unpainted mouth and high, slashing cheekbones. Her eyes were almost as dark as her hair, heavy-lidded and thickly lashed. Even from a distance of ten feet he sensed it. Strong, undiluted sex. It surrounded her as other women surrounded themselves with perfumes.
For the first time in years he felt the muscle-numbing heat of pure desire.
Natasha saw it, then recognized and resented it. What kind of man, she wondered, walked into a room with his wife and daughter, then looked at another woman with naked hunger in his eyes?
Not her kind.
Determined to ignore the look as she had ignored it from others in the past, she crossed to him. “Do you need some help?”
Help? Spence thought blankly. He needed oxygen. He hadn’t known it was literally possible for a woman to take a man’s breath away. “Who are you?”
“Natasha Stanislaski.” She offered her coolest smile. “I own the store.”
Her voice seemed to hang in the air, husky, vital, with a trace of her Slavic origins adding eroticism as truly as the music still playing behind him. She smelled of soap, nothing more, yet the fragrance completely seduced him.
When he didn’t speak, she lifted a brow. It might have been amusing to knock a man off his feet, but she was busy at the moment, and the man was married. “Your daughter has her selection down to three dolls. Perhaps you’d like to help her with her final choice.”
“In a minute. Your accent—is it Russian?”
“Yes.” She wondered if she should tell him his wife was standing near the front door, bored and impatient.
“How long have you been in America?”
“Since I was six.” She aimed a deliberately cold glance. “About the same age as your little girl. Excuse me—”
He had his hand on her arm before he could stop himself. Even though he knew the move was a bad one, the venom in her eyes surprised him. “Sorry. I was going to ask you about this music box.”
Natasha shifted her gaze to it as the music began to wind down. “It’s one of our best, handcrafted here in the States. Are you interested in buying it?”
“I haven’t decided, but I thought you might not have realized it was sitting out on that shelf.”
“Why?”
“It’s not the kind of merchandise one expects to find in a toy store. It could easily be broken.”
Natasha took it and placed it farther back on the shelf. “And it can be mended.” She made a quick, clearly habitual movement with her shoulders. It spoke of arrogance rather than carelessness. “I believe children should be allowed the pleasures of music, don’t you?”
“Yes.” For the first time a smile flickered over his face. It was, as Annie had noted, a particularly effective one, Natasha had to admit. Through her annoyance she felt the trickle of attraction, and strangely, kinship. Then he said, “As a matter of fact, I believe that quite strongly. Perhaps we could discuss it over dinner.”
Holding herself rigid, Natasha battled back fury. It was difficult for one with her hot, often turbulent nature, but she reminded herself that the man had not only his wife, but his young daughter in the store.
The angry insults that rose to her throat were swallowed, but not before Spence saw them reflected in her eyes.
“No,” was all she said as she turned.
“Miss—” Spence began, then Freddie whirled down the aisle, carrying a big, floppy Raggedy Ann.
“Daddy, isn’t she nice?” Eyes shining, she held out the doll for his approval.
It was redheaded, Spence thought. But it was anything but beautiful. Nor, to his relief, was it a symbol of Angela. Because he knew Freddie expected it, he took his time examining her choice. “This is,” he said after a moment, “the very best doll I’ve seen today.”
“Really?”
He crouched until he was eye to eye with his daughter. “Absolutely. You have excellent taste, funny face.”
Freddie reached out, crushing the doll between them as she hugged her father. “I can have her?”
“I thought she was for me.” As Freddie giggled, he picked up the pair of them.
“I’ll be happy to wrap her for you.” Natasha’s tone was warmer, she knew. He might be a jerk, but he loved his daughter.
“I can carry her.” Freddie squeezed her new friend close.
“All right. Then I’ll just give you a ribbon for her hair. Would you like that?”
“A blue one.”
“A blue one it is.” Natasha led the way to the cash register.
Nina took one look at the doll and rolled her eyes. “Darling, is that the best you could do?”
“Daddy likes her,” Freddie murmured, ducking her head.
“Yes, I do. Very much,” he added with a telling look for Nina. Setting Freddie on her feet again, he fished out his wallet.
The mother was certainly no prize, Natasha decided. Though that didn’t give the man a right to come on to a clerk in a toy store. She made change and handed over the receipt, then took out a length of blue ribbon.
“Thank you,” she said to Freddie. “I think she’s going to like her new home with you very much.”
“I’ll take good care of her,” Freddie promised, while she struggled to tie the ribbon through the yarn mop of hair. “Can people come in to look at the toys, or do they have to buy one?”
Natasha smiled, then taking another ribbon, tied a quick, sassy bow in the child’s hair. “You can come in and look anytime you like.”
“Spence, we really must be going.” Nina stood holding the door open.
“Right.” He hesitated. It was a small town, he reminded himself. And if Freddie could come in and look, so could he. “It was nice meeting you, Miss Stanislaski.”
“Goodbye.” She waited until the door jingled and closed, then let out a muttered stream of curses.
Annie peeked around a tower of building blocks. “Excuse me?”
“That man.”
“Yes.” With a little sigh, Annie waltzed down the aisle. “That man.”
“He brings his wife and child into a place like this, then looks at me as if he wants to nibble on my toes.”
“Tash.” Her expression pained, Annie pressed a hand to her heart. “Please don’t excite me.”
“I find it insulting.” She skirted around the checkout counter and swung a fist at a punching bag. “He asked me to dinner.”
“He what?” Delight showed in Annie’s eyes, before a look from Natasha dampened it. “You’re right. It is insulting, seeing as he’s a married man—even though his wife seemed like a cold fish.”
“His marital problems are no concern of mine.”
“No….” Practicality warred with fantasy. “I guess you turned him down.”
A choked sound caught in Natasha’s throat as she turned. “Of course I turned him down.”
“I mean, of course,” Annie put in quickly.
“The man has a nerve,” Natasha said; her fingers itched to hit something. “Coming into my place of business and propositioning me.”
“He didn’t!” Scandalized and thrilled, Annie grabbed Natasha’s arm. “Tash, he didn’t really proposition you? Right here?”
“With his eyes he did. The message was clear.” It infuriated her how often men looked at her and only saw the physical. Only wanted to see the physical, she thought in disgust. She had tolerated suggestions, propositions and proposals since before she had fully understood what they meant. But she understood now and tolerated nothing.
“If he hadn’t had that sweet little girl with him, I would have slapped his face.” Because the image pleased her so much, she let loose on the hapless punching bag again.
Annie had seen her employer’s temper fly often enough to know how to cool it. “She was sweet, wasn’t she? Her name’s Freddie. Isn’t that cute?”
Natasha took a long, steadying breath even as she rubbed her fisted hand in her other palm. “Yes.”
“She told me they had just moved to Shepherdstown from New York. The doll was going to be her first new friend.”
“Poor little thing.” Natasha knew too well the fears and anxieties of being a child in a strange place. Forget the father, she told herself with a toss of her head. “She looks to be about the same age as JoBeth Riley.” Annoyance forgotten, Natasha went behind the counter again and picked up the phone. It wouldn’t hurt to give Mrs. Riley a call.
Spence stood at the music-room window and stared out at a bed of summer flowers. Having flowers outside the window and a bumpy slope of lawn that would need tending was a new experience. He’d never cut grass in his life. Smiling to himself, he wondered how soon he could try his hand at it.
There was a big, spreading maple, its leaves a dark, dark green. In a few weeks, he imagined they would grow red and vibrant before they tumbled from the branches. He had enjoyed the view from his condo on Central Park West, watching the seasons come and go with the changing trees. But not like this, he realized.
Here the grass, the trees, the flowers he saw belonged to him. They were for him to enjoy and to care for. Here he could let Freddie take out her dolls for an afternoon tea party and not have to worry every second she was out of his sight. They would make a good life here, a solid life for both of them. He’d felt it when he’d flown down to discuss his position with the dean—and again when he’d walked through this big, rambling house with the anxious real-estate agent dogging his heels.
She hadn’t had to sell it, Spence thought. He’d been sold the moment he’d walked in the front door.
As he watched, a hummingbird swooped to hover at the cup of a bright red petunia. In that instant he was more convinced than ever that his decision to leave the city had been the right one.
Having a brief fling with rural living. Nina’s words rolled through his mind as he watched the sun flash on the bird’s iridescent wings. It was difficult to blame her for saying it, for believing it when he had always chosen to live in the middle of things. He couldn’t deny he had enjoyed those glittery parties that had lasted until dawn, or the elegant midnight suppers after a symphony or ballet.
He had been born into a world of glamour and wealth and prestige. He had lived all of his life in a place where only the best was acceptable. And he had relished it, Spence admitted. Summering in Monte Carlo, wintering in Nice or Cannes. Weekends in Aruba or Cancun.
He wouldn’t wish those experiences away, but he could wish, and did, that he had accepted the responsibilities of his life sooner.
He accepted them now. Spence watched the hummingbird streak away like a sapphire bullet. And as much to his own surprise as to that of people who knew him, he was enjoying those responsibilities. Freddie made the difference. All the difference.
He thought of her and she came running across the back lawn, her new rag doll tucked under her arm. She made a beeline, as he expected, to the swing set. It was so new that the blue and white paint gleamed in the sunlight, and the hard plastic seats were shiny as leather. With the doll in her lap, she pushed off, her face lifted skyward, her tiny mouth moving to some private song.
Love rammed into him with a velvet fist, solid and painful. In all of his life he had never known anything as consuming or as basic as the emotion she brought to him simply by being.
As she glided back and forth, she cuddled the doll, bringing her close to whisper secrets into her ear. It pleased him to see Freddie so taken with the cloth and cotton doll. She could have chosen china or velvet, but had picked something that looked as though it needed love.
She’d spoken of the toy store throughout the morning, and was wishing, Spence knew, for a return trip. Oh, she wouldn’t ask for anything, he thought. Not directly. She would use her eyes. It both amused and baffled him that at five, his little girl had already mastered that peculiar and effective feminine trick.
He’d thought of the toy store himself, and its owner. No feminine tricks there, just pure womanly disdain. It made him wince again to remember how clumsy he’d been. Out of practice, he reminded himself with a self-deprecating smile and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. What was more, he couldn’t remember ever experiencing that strong a sexual punch. It was like being hit by lightning, he decided. A man was entitled to fumble a bit after being electrified.
But her reaction… Frowning, Spence replayed the scene in his mind. She’d been furious. She’d damn near been quivering with fury before he’d opened his mouth—and put his foot in it.
She hadn’t even attempted to be polite in her refusal. Just no—a single hard syllable crusted with frost at the edges. It wasn’t as if he’d asked her to go to bed with him.
But he’d wanted to. From the first instant he had been able to imagine carrying her off to some dark, remote spot in the woods, where the ground was springy with moss and the trees blocked out the sky. There he could take the heat of those full, sulky lips. There he could indulge in the wild passion her face promised. Wild, mindless sex, heedless of time or place, of right or wrong.
Good God. Amazed, he pulled himself back. He was thinking like a teenager. No, Spence admitted, thrusting his hands into his pockets again. He was thinking like a man—one who had gone four years without a woman. He wasn’t certain if he wanted to thank Natasha Stanislaski for unlocking all those needs again, or throttle her.
But he was certain he was going to see her again.
“I’m all packed.” Nina paused in the doorway. She gave a little sigh; Spence was clearly absorbed in his own thoughts again. “Spencer,” she said, raising her voice as she crossed the room. “I said I’m all packed.”
“What? Oh.” He managed a distracted smile and forced his shoulders to relax. “We’ll miss you, Nina.”
“You’ll be glad to see the back of me,” she corrected, then gave him a quick peck on the cheek.
“No.” His smile came easier now, she saw, dutifully wiping the faint trace of lipstick from his skin. “I appreciate all you’ve done to help us settle in. I know how tight your schedule is.”
“I could hardly let my brother tackle the wilds of West Virginia alone.” She took his hand in a rare show of genuine agitation. “Oh, Spence, are you sure? Forget everything I’ve said before and think, really think it through. It’s such a big change, for both of you. What will you possibly do here in your free time?”
“Cut the grass.” Now he grinned at her expression. “Sit on the porch. Maybe I’ll even write music again.”
“You could write in New York.”
“I haven’t written two bars in almost four years,” he reminded her.
“All right.” She walked to the piano and waved a hand. “But if you wanted a change, you could have found a place on Long Island or even in Connecticut.”
“I like it here, Nina. Believe me, this is the best thing I could do for Freddie, and myself.”
“I hope you’re right.” Because she loved him, she smiled again. “I still say you’ll be back in New York within six months. In the meantime, as that child’s only aunt, I expect to be kept apprised of her progress.” She glanced down, annoyed to see a chip in her nail polish. “The idea of her attending public school—”
“Nina.”
“Never mind.” She held up a hand. “There’s no use starting this argument when I have a plane to catch. And I’m quite aware she’s your child.”
“Yes, she is.”
Nina tapped a finger on the glossy surface of the baby grand. “Spence, I know you’re still carrying around guilt because of Angela. I don’t like to see it.”
His easy smile vanished. “Some mistakes take along time to be erased.”
“She made you miserable,” Nina said flatly. “There were problems within the first year of your marriage. Oh, you weren’t forthcoming with information,” she added when he didn’t respond. “But there were others all too eager to pass it along to me or anyone else who would listen. It was no secret that she didn’t want the child.”
“And how much better was I, wanting the baby only because I thought it would fill the gaps in my marriage? That’s a large burden to hand a child.”
“You made mistakes. You recognized them and you rectified them. Angela never suffered a pang of guilt in her life. If she hadn’t died, you would have divorced her and taken custody of Freddie. The result’s the same. I know that sounds cold. The truth often is. I don’t like to think that you’re making this move, changing your life this dramatically because you’re trying to make up for something that’s long over.”
“Maybe that’s part of it. But there’s more.” He held out a hand, waiting until Nina came to him. “Look at her.” He pointed out the window to where Freddie continued to swing high, free as the hummingbird. “She’s happy. And so am I.”
CHAPTER TWO (#u64cc9cf6-f529-548f-8cd6-ae74e7915a54)
“I’m not scared.”
“Of course you’re not.” Spence looked at his daughter’s brave reflection in the mirror while he carefully braided her hair. He didn’t need the quaver in her voice to tell him she was terrified. There was a rock in the pit of his own stomach the size of a fist.
“Some of the kids might cry.” Her big eyes were already misted. “But I won’t.”
“You’re going to have fun.” He wasn’t any more certain of that than his nervous daughter. The trouble with being a parent, he thought, was that you were supposed to sound sure of everything. “The first day of school’s always a little scary, but once you get there and meet everyone, you’ll have a great time.”
She fixed him with a steady, owlish stare. “Really?”
“You liked kindergarten, didn’t you?” It was evasive, he admitted to himself, but he couldn’t make promises he might not be able to keep.
“Mostly.” She lowered her eyes, poking at the yellow, sea horse-shaped comb on her dresser. “But Amy and Pam won’t be there.”
“You’ll make new friends. You’ve already met JoBeth.” He thought of the pixieish brunette who had strolled by the house with her mother a couple of days before.
“I guess, and JoBeth is nice, but…” How could she explain that JoBeth already knew all of the other girls? “Maybe I should wait till tomorrow.”
Their eyes met in the mirror again; he rested his chin on her shoulder. She smelled of the pale green soap she loved because it was shaped like a dinosaur. Her face was so much like his own, yet softer, finer, and to him infinitely beautiful.
“You could, but then tomorrow would be your first day of school. You’d still have butterflies.”
“Butterflies?”
“Right here.” He patted her tummy. “Doesn’t it feel like butterflies dancing in there?”
That made her giggle. “Kind of.”
“I’ve got them, too.”
“Really?” Her eyes opened wide.
“Really. I’ve got to go to school this morning, just like you.”
She fiddled with the pink ribbons he’d tied on the ends of her pigtails. She knew it wasn’t the same for him, but didn’t say so because she was afraid he’d get that worried look. Freddie had heard him talking to Aunt Nina once, and remembered how impatient he had sounded when she’d complained that he was uprooting her niece during her formative years.
Freddie wasn’t sure exactly what formative years were, but she knew her daddy had been upset, and that even when Aunt Nina had gone again, he’d still had that worried look. She didn’t want to make him worried, or to make him think Aunt Nina was right. If they went back to New York, the only swing sets were in the park.
Besides, she liked the big house and her new room. Even better, her father’s new job was so close, he would be home every night long before dinner. Remembering not to pout, Freddie decided that since she wanted to stay, she’d have to go to school.
“Will you be here when I get home?”
“I think so. But if I’m not, Vera will be,” he said, thinking of their longtime housekeeper. “You can tell me everything that happened.” After kissing the top of her head, he set her on her feet. She looked achingly small in her pink and white playsuit. Her gray eyes were solemn, her bottom lip trembling. He fought back the urge to gather her up and promise that she’d never have to go to school or anywhere else that frightened her. “Let’s go see what Vera packed in your new lunch box.”
Twenty minutes later he was standing on the curb, holding Freddie’s hand in his own. With almost as much dread as his daughter he saw the big yellow school bus lumbering over the hill.
He should have driven her to school, he thought in sudden panic—at least for the first few days. He should take her himself, instead of putting her onto that bus with strangers. Yet it had seemed better to make the whole event normal, to let her ease into the group and become one of them from the outset.
How could he let her go? She was just a baby. His baby. What if he was wrong? This wasn’t just a matter of picking out the wrong color dress for her. Simply because it was the designated day and time, he was going to tell his daughter to get onto that bus, then walk away.
What if the driver was careless and drove off a cliff? How could he be sure someone would make certain Freddie got back onto the right bus that afternoon?
The bus rumbled to a halt and his fingers tightened instinctively on hers. When the door clattered open, he was almost ready to make a run for it.
“Hi, there.” The driver, a large woman with a wide smile, nodded at him. Behind her, children were yelling and bouncing on the seats. “You must be Professor Kimball.”
“Yes.” He had excuses for not putting Freddie on the bus on the tip of his tongue.
“I’m Dorothy Mansfield. The kids just call me Miss D. And you must be Frederica.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She bit her bottom lip to keep from turning away and hiding her face against her father’s side. “It’s Freddie.”
“Whew.” Miss D gave another big grin. “I’m glad to hear that. Frederica sure is a mouthful. Well, hop aboard, Freddie girl. This is the big day. John Harman, you give that book back to Mikey, less’n you want to sit behind me in the hot seat the rest of the week.”
Eyes swimming, Freddie put one foot onto the first step. Swallowing, she climbed the second.
“Why don’t you take a seat with JoBeth and Lisa there?” Miss D suggested kindly. She turned back to Spence with a wink and a wave. “Don’t worry about a thing, Professor. We’ll take good care of her.”
The door closed on a puff of air, then the bus rumbled ahead. Spence could only stand on the curb and watch it take his little girl away.
He wasn’t exactly idle. Spence’s time was eaten up almost from the moment he walked into the college. He had his own schedule to study, associates to meet, instruments and sheet music to pore over. There was a faculty meeting, a hurried lunch in the lounge, and there were papers, dozens of papers to read and digest. It was a familiar routine, one that he had begun three years before when he’d taken a post at the Juilliard School. But like Freddie, he was the new kid in town, and it was up to him to make the adjustments.
He worried about her. At lunchtime he imagined her sitting in the school cafeteria, a room that smelled of peanut butter and waxy cartons of milk. She would be huddled at the end of a table scattered with crumbs, alone, miserable, while other children laughed and joked with their friends. He could see her at recess, standing apart and looking on longingly, while the others raced and shouted and climbed like spiders on jungle gyms. The trauma would leave her insecure and unhappy for the rest of her life.
All because he’d put her onto that damn yellow bus.
By the end of the day he was feeling as guilty as a child abuser, certain his little girl would come home in tears, devastated by the rigors of the first day of school. More than once he asked himself if Nina had been right all along. Perhaps he should have left well enough alone and stayed in New York, where at least Freddie had had friends and the familiar.
With his briefcase in one hand and his jacket slung over his shoulder, he started for home. It was hardly more than a mile, and the weather remained unseasonably warm. Until winter hit, he would take advantage of it and walk to and from campus.
He had already fallen in love with the town. There were pretty shops and rambling old houses all along the tree-lined main street. It was a college town and proud of it, but it was equally proud of its age and dignity. The street climbed, and here and there the sidewalk showed cracks where tree roots had undermined it. Though there were cars passing, it was quiet enough to hear the bark of a dog or the music from a radio. A woman weeding marigolds along her walkway looked up and waved at him. Cheered, Spence waved back.
She didn’t even know him, he thought. But she had waved. He looked forward to seeing her again, planting bulbs perhaps, or sweeping snow from her porch. He could smell chrysanthemums. For some reason that alone gave him a shot of pleasure.
No, he hadn’t made a mistake. He and Freddie belonged here. In less than a week it had become home.
He stopped on the curb to wait for a laboring sedan to pass, and glancing across the street saw the sign for The Fun House. It was perfect, Spence thought. The perfect name. It conjured up laughter and surprises, just as the window display with its building blocks, chubby-cheeked dolls and shiny red cars promised a childhood treasure trove. At the moment he could think of nothing he wanted more than to find something that would bring a smile to his daughter’s face.
You spoil her.
He could hear Nina’s voice clearly in his ears.
So what? Glancing quickly up and down the street, he crossed to the opposite curb. His little girl had walked onto the school bus as bravely as any soldier marching into battle. There was no harm in buying her a small medal.
The door jingled as he entered. There was a scent, as cheerful as the sound of the bells. Peppermint, he thought and smiled. It delighted him to hear the tinny strains of “The Merry-Go-Round Broke Down,” coming from the rear of the shop.
“I’ll be right with you.”
He had forgotten, Spence realized, how that voice could cruise along the air.
He wouldn’t make a fool of himself again. This time he was prepared for what she looked like, sounded like, smelled like. He had come in to buy a present for his daughter, not to flirt with the proprietor. Then he grinned into the face of a forlorn panda. There didn’t seem to be any law against doing both.
“I’m sure Bonnie will love it,” Natasha said as she carried the miniature carousel for her customer. “It’s a beautiful birthday present.”
“She saw it in here a few weeks ago and hasn’t been able to talk about anything else.” Bonnie’s grandmother tried not to grimace at the price. “I guess she’s old enough to take care of it.”
“Bonnie’s a very responsible girl,” Natasha went on, then spotted Spence at the counter. “I’ll be right with you.” The temperature of her voice dropped a cool twenty degrees.
“Take your time.” It annoyed him that his reaction to her should be so strong, while hers played tug-of-war at the opposite end of the spectrum. It was obvious she’d decided to dislike him. It might be interesting, Spence thought, while he watched her slender, capable hands wrap the carousel, to find out her reasons.
And change her mind.
“That’s 55.27, Mrs. Mortimer.”
“Oh no, dear, the price tag said 67.”
Natasha, who knew Mrs. Mortimer juggled expenses on a fixed income, only smiled. “I’m sorry. Didn’t I tell you it was on sale?”
“No.” Mrs. Mortimer let out a little breath of relief as she counted out bills. “Well, this must be my lucky day.”
“And Bonnie’s.” Natasha topped the gift with a pretty, celebratory pink bow, remembering it was Bonnie’s favorite color. “Be sure to tell her happy birthday.”
“I will.” The proud grandmother lifted her package. “I can’t wait to see her face when she opens this. Bye, Natasha.”
Natasha waited until the door closed. “May I help you with something?”
“That was a very nice thing to do.”
She lifted a brow. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.” He had the absurd urge to take her hand and kiss it. It was incredible, he thought. He was almost thirty-five and tumbling into puppy love with a woman he barely knew. “I’d meant to come in before.”
“Oh? Was your daughter dissatisfied with her doll?”
“No, she loves it. It was just that I…” Good God, he was nearly stuttering. Five minutes with her, and he felt as awkward as a teenager at his first dance. He steadied himself with an effort. “I felt we’d gotten off on the wrong foot before. Should I apologize?”
“If you like.” Just because he looked appealing and a little awkward was no reason to go easy on him. “Did you come in only for that?”
“No.” His eyes darkened, just slightly. Noting it, Natasha wondered if she’d erred in her initial impression. Perhaps he wasn’t harmless, after all. There was something deeper in those eyes, stronger and more dangerous. What surprised her further was that she found it exciting.
Disgusted with herself, she gave him a polite smile. “Was there something else?”
“I wanted something for my daughter.” The hell with the gorgeous Russian princess, he thought. He had more important things to tend to.
“What was it you wanted for her?”
“I don’t know.” That was true enough. Setting down his briefcase, he glanced around the shop.
Unbending a little, Natasha came around the counter. “Is it her birthday?”
“No.” Feeling foolish, he shrugged. “It’s the first day of school, and she looked so…brave getting on the bus this morning.”
This time Natasha’s smile was spontaneous and full of warmth. It nearly stopped his heart. “You shouldn’t worry. When she comes home, she’ll be full of stories about everything and everyone. The first day is much harder, I think, on the parent than on the child.”
“It’s been the longest day of my life.”
She laughed, a rich smoky sound that seemed impossibly erotic in a room full of clowns and stuffed bears. “It sounds like you both deserve a present. You were looking at a music box before. I have another you might like.”
So saying, she led the way to the back of the shop. Spence did his best to ignore the subtle sway of her hips and the soft, fresh-scrubbed flavor of her scent. The box she chose was carved of wood, its pedestal topped with a cat and a fiddle, a cow and a quarter moon. As it turned to “Stardust,” he saw the laughing dog and the dish with the spoon.
“It’s charming.”
“It’s one of my favorites.” She’d decided that any man who adored his daughter so blatantly couldn’t be all bad. So she smiled again. “I think it would be a lovely memento, something she could play on her first day of college and remember her father was thinking of her.”
“If he survives first grade.” He shifted slightly to look at her. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”
It was the oddest thing—his body had hardly brushed hers, but she’d felt a jolt. For an instant she forgot he was a customer, a father, a husband, and thought of him only as a man. His eyes were the color of the river at dusk. His lips, as they formed the barest hint of a smile, were impossibly attractive, alluring. Involuntarily she wondered what it would be like to feel them against her own—to watch his face as mouth met mouth, and see herself reflected in his eyes.
Appalled, she stepped back and her voice grew colder. “I’ll box it for you.”
Intrigued by the sudden change in tone, he took his time following her back to the counter. Hadn’t he seen something in those fabulous eyes of hers? Or was it wishful thinking? It had gone quickly enough, heat smothered in frost. For the life of him he could find no reason for either.
“Natasha.” He laid a hand on hers as she began to pack the music box.
Slowly she lifted her eyes. She was already hating herself for noticing that his hands were beautiful, wide-palmed, long-fingered. There was also a note of patience in his voice that stretched her already frayed nerves. “Yes?”
“Why do I keep getting the feeling you’d like to boil me in oil?”
“You’re mistaken,” she said evenly. “I don’t think I’d like that.”
“You don’t sound convinced.” He felt her hand flex under his, soft and strong. The image of steel-lined velvet seemed particularly apt. “I’m having some trouble figuring out exactly what I’ve done to annoy you.”
“Then you’ll have to think about it. Cash or charge?”
He’d had little practice with rejection. Like a wasp it stung the ego. No matter how beautiful she was, he had no desire to continue to ram his head against the same brick wall.
“Cash.” The door jangled open behind them and he released her hand. Three children, fresh from school, came in giggling. A young boy with red hair and a face bursting with freckles stood on his toes in front of the counter.
“I have three dollars,” he announced.
Natasha fought back a grin. “You’re very rich today, Mr. Jensen.”
He flashed her a smile that revealed his latest missing tooth. “I’ve been saving up. I want the race car.”
Natasha only lifted a brow as she counted out Spence’s change. “Does your mother know you’re here spending your life savings?” Her new customer remained silent. “Scott?”
He shifted from one foot to the other. “She didn’t say I couldn’t.”
“And she didn’t say you could,” Natasha surmised. She leaned over to tug at his cowlick. “Go and ask her, then you come back. The race car will still be here.”
“But, Tash—”
“You wouldn’t want your mother to be mad at me, would you?”
Scott looked thoughtful for a moment, and Natasha could tell it was a tough choice. “I guess not.”
“Then go ask her, and I’ll hold one for you.”
Hope blossomed. “Promise?”
Natasha put a hand on her heart. “Solemnly.” She looked back at Spence, and the amusement faded from her eyes. “I hope Freddie enjoys her present.”
“I’m sure she will.” He walked out, annoyed with himself for wishing he were a ten-year-old boy with a missing tooth.
Natasha locked the shop at six. The sun was still bright, the air still steamy. It made her think of picnics under a shady tree. A nicer fantasy than the microwave meal on her agenda, she mused, but at the moment impractical.
As she walked home, she watched a couple stroll hand in hand into the restaurant across the street. Someone hailed her from a passing car, and she waved in response. She could have stopped in the local pub and whiled away an hour over a glass of wine with any number of people she knew. Finding a dinner companion was as simple as sticking her head through one of a dozen doors and making the suggestion.
She wasn’t in the mood for company. Not even her own.
It was the heat, she told herself as she turned the corner, the heat that had hung mercilessly in the air throughout the summer and showed no sign of yielding to autumn. It made her restless. It made her remember.
It had been summer when her life had changed so irrevocably.
Even now, years later, sometimes when she saw the roses in full bloom or heard the drunken buzz of bees she would ache. And wonder what might have happened. What would her life be like now, if…? She detested herself for playing those wishing games.
There were roses now, fragile pink ones that thrived despite the heat and lack of rain. She had planted them herself in the little patch of grass outside her apartment. Tending them brought her pleasure and pain. And what was life, she asked herself as she ran a fingertip over a petal, without them both? The warm scent of the roses followed her up the walkway.
Her rooms were quiet. She had thought about getting a kitten or a pup, so that there would be something there to greet her in the evening, something that loved and depended on her. But then she realized how unfair it would be to leave it alone while she was at the shop.
So she turned to music, flicking on the stereo as she stepped out of her shoes. Even that was a test. Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet. She could see herself dancing to those haunting, romantic strains, the hot lights surrounding her, the music beating like her blood, her movements fluid, controlled without looking it. A triple pirouette, showing grace without effort.
That was past, Natasha reminded herself. Regrets were for the weak.
She moved out of habit, changing her work clothes for a loose, sleeveless jumpsuit, hanging up her skirt and blouse neatly as she had been taught. It was habit again rather than necessity that had her checking the cotton skirt for wear.
There was iced tea in the refrigerator and one of those packaged meals for the microwave that she both depended on and detested. She laughed at herself as she pushed the buttons to heat it.
She was getting like an old woman, Natasha decided, cranky and cross from the heat. Sighing, she rubbed the cold glass over her forehead.
That man had started her off, she thought. For a few moments in the shop today she had actually started to like him. He’d been so sweet, worrying about his little girl, wanting to reward her for being brave enough to face that momentous first day in school. She’d liked the way his voice had sounded, the way his eyes had smiled. For those few moments he had seemed like someone she could laugh with, talk with.
Then that had changed. A part of it was surely her fault, she admitted. But that didn’t diminish his blame. She had felt something she hadn’t felt, hadn’t chosen to feel in a long, long time. That frisson of excitement. That tug of need. It made her angry and ashamed of herself. It made her furious with him.
The nerve, she thought, as she yanked her dish out of the microwave. Flirting with her as if she were some naive fool, before he went home to his wife and daughter.
Have dinner with him, indeed. She jammed her fork into the steaming seafood pasta. That kind of man expected payment in full for a meal. The candlelight and wine type, she thought with a sneer. Soft voice, patient eyes, clever hands. And no heart.
Just like Anthony. Impatient, she set the dish aside and picked up the glass that was already dripping with moisture. But she was wiser now than she had been at eighteen. Much wiser. Much stronger. She was no longer a woman who could be lured by charm and smooth words. Not that this man was smooth, she remembered with a quick smile. He— Lord, she didn’t even know his name and she already detested him—he was a little clumsy, a little awkward. That was a charm of its own.
But he was, she thought, very much like Anthony. Tall and blond with those oh, so American good looks. Looks that concealed a lack of morals and a carelessly deceitful heart.
What Anthony had cost her could never be tallied. Since that time, Natasha had made very, very certain no man would ever cost her so dearly again.
But she had survived. She lifted her glass in a self-toast. Not only had she survived, but except for times when memories crowded in on her, she was happy. She loved the shop, and the chance it gave her to be around children and make them happy. In her three years there she had watched them grow. She had a wonderful, funny friend in Annie, books that stayed in the black and a home that suited her.
She heard a thump over her head and smiled. The Jorgensons were getting ready for the evening meal. She imagined Don was fussing around Marilyn, who was carrying their first child. Natasha liked knowing they were there, just above her, happy, in love and full of hope.
That was family to her, what she had had in her youth, what she had expected as an adult. She could still see Papa fretting over Mama when she neared her time. Every time, Natasha remembered, thinking of her three younger siblings. How he had wept with happiness when his wife and babies were safe and well. He adored his Nadia. Even now Natasha knew he still brought flowers home to the little house in Brooklyn. When he came home after a day’s work, he kissed his wife, not with an absent peck on the cheek, but robustly, joyfully. A man wildly in love after almost thirty years.
It was her father who had kept her from shoveling all men into the pit Anthony had dug for her. Seeing her father and mother together had kept that small, secret hope alight that someday she would find someone who would love her as much and as honestly.
Someday, she thought with a shrug. But for now she had her own business, her own home and her own life. No man, no matter how beautiful his hands or how clear his eyes, was going to rock her boat. Secretly she hoped her newest customer’s wife gave him nothing but grief.
“One more story. Please, Daddy.” Freddie, her eyes heavy, her face shiny from her bath, used her most persuasive smile. She was nestled against Spence in her big, white canopy bed.
“You’re already asleep.”
“No, I’m not.” She peeked up at him, fighting to keep her eyes open. It had been the very best day of her life, and she didn’t want it to end. “Did I tell you that JoBeth’s cat had kittens? Six of them.”
“Twice.” Spence flicked a finger down her nose. He knew a hint when he heard one, and fell back on the parent’s standard. “We’ll see.”
Sleepy, Freddie smiled. She knew from his tone that her father was already weakening. “Mrs. Patterson’s real nice. She’s going to let us have Show and Tell every Friday.”
“So you said.” And he’d been worried, Spence thought. “I get the feeling you like school.”
“It’s neat.” She yawned hugely. “Did you fill out all the forms?”
“They’ll be ready for you to take in tomorrow.” All five hundred of them, he thought with a sigh. “Time to unplug the batteries, funny face.”
“One more story. The made-up kind.” She yawned again, comforted by the soft cotton of his shirt beneath her cheek and the familiar scent of his after-shave.
He gave in, knowing she would sleep long before he got to the happy ever after. He wove a story around a beautiful, dark-haired princess from a foreign land, and the knight who tried to rescue her from her ivory tower.
Foolishness, Spence thought even as he added a sorcerer and a two-headed dragon. He knew his thoughts were drifting toward Natasha again. She was certainly beautiful, but he didn’t think he’d ever met a woman less in need of rescuing.
It was just his bad luck that he had to pass her shop every day to and from campus.
He’d ignore her. If anything, he should be grateful to her. She’d made him want, made him feel things he hadn’t thought he could anymore. Maybe now that he and Freddie were settled, he’d start socializing again. There were plenty of attractive, single women at the college. But the idea of dating didn’t fill him with delight.
Socializing, Spence corrected. Dating was for teenagers and conjured up visions of drive-in movies, pizza and sweaty palms. He was a grown man, and it was certainly time he started enjoying female companionship again. Over the age of five, he thought, looking at Freddie’s small hand balled in his palm.
Just what would you think, he asked silently, if I brought a woman home to dinner? It made him remember how big and hurt her eyes had been when he and Angela had swept out of the condo for evenings at the theater or the opera.
It won’t ever be like that again, he promised as he shifted her from his chest to the pillow. He settled the grinning Raggedy Ann beside her, then tucked the covers under her chin. Resting a hand on the bedpost, he glanced around the room.
It already had Freddie’s stamp on it. The dolls lining the shelves with books jumbled beneath them, the fuzzy, pink elephant slippers beside her oldest and most favored sneakers. The room had that little-girl scent of shampoo and crayons. A night-light in the shape of a unicorn assured that she wouldn’t wake up in the dark and be afraid.
He stayed a moment longer, finding himself as soothed by the light as she. Quietly he stepped out, leaving her door open a few inches.
Downstairs he found Vera carrying a tray of coffee. The Mexican housekeeper was wide from shoulders to hips, and gave the impression of a small, compact freight train when she moved from room to room. Since Freddie’s birth, she had proven not only efficient but indispensable. Spence knew it was often possible to insure an employee’s loyalty with a paycheck, but not her love. From the moment Freddie had come home in her silk-trimmed blanket, Vera had been in love.
She cast an eye up the stairs now, and her lined face folded into a smile. “She had one big day, huh?”
“Yes, and one she fought ending to the last gasp. Vera, you didn’t have to bother.”
She shrugged her shoulders while she carried the coffee into his office. “You said you have to work tonight.”
“Yes, for a little while.”
“So I make you coffee before I go in and put my feet up to watch TV.” She arranged the tray on his desk, fussing a bit while she talked. “My baby, she’s happy with school and her new friends.” She didn’t add that she had wept into her apron when Freddie had stepped onto the bus. “With the house empty all day, I have plenty of time to get my work done. You don’t stay up too late, Dr. Kimball.”
“No.” It was a polite lie. He knew he was too restless for sleep. “Thank you, Vera.”
“¡De nada!” She patted her iron-gray hair. “I wanted to tell you that I like this place very much. I was afraid to leave New York, but now I’m happy.”
“We couldn’t manage without you.”
“Sí.” She took this as her due. For seven years she had worked for the señor, and basked in the prestige of being housekeeper for an important man—a respected musician, a doctor of music and a college professor. Since the birth of his daughter she had been so in love with her baby that she would have worked for Spence, whatever his station.
She had grumbled about moving from the beautiful high-rise in New York, to the rambling house in the small town, but Vera was shrewd enough to know that the señor had been thinking of Freddie. Freddie had come home from school only hours before, laughing, excited, with the names of new best friends tumbling from her lips. SoVera was content.
“You are a good father, Dr. Kimball.”
Spence glanced over before he sat down behind his desk. He was well aware that there had been a time Vera had considered him a very poor one.
“I’m learning.”
“Sí.” Casually she adjusted a book on the shelf. “In this big house you won’t have to worry about disturbing Freddie’s sleep if you play your piano at night.”
He looked over again, knowing she was encouraging him in her way to concentrate on his music. “No, it shouldn’t disturb her. Good night, Vera.”
After a quick glance around to be certain there was nothing more for her to tidy, she left him.
Alone, Spence poured the coffee, then studied the papers on his desk. Freddie’s school forms were stacked next to his own work. He had a great deal of preparation ahead of him, before his classes began the following week.
He looked forward to it, even as he tried not to regret that the music that had once played so effortlessly inside his head was still silent.
CHAPTER THREE (#u64cc9cf6-f529-548f-8cd6-ae74e7915a54)
Natasha scooped the barrette through the hair above her ear and hoped it would stay fixed for more than five minutes. She studied her reflection in the narrow mirror over the sink in the back of the shop before she decided to add a touch of lipstick. It didn’t matter that it had been a long and hectic day or that her feet were all but crying with fatigue. Tonight was her treat to herself, her reward for a job well done.
Every semester she signed up for one course at the college. She chose whatever seemed most fun, most intriguing or most unusual. Renaissance Poetry one year, Automotive Maintenance another. This term, two evenings a week, she would be taking Music History. Tonight she would begin an exploration of a new topic. Everything she learned she would store for her own pleasure, as other women stored diamonds and emeralds. It didn’t have to be useful. In Natasha’s opinion a glittery necklace wasn’t particularly useful, either. It was simply exciting to own.
She had her notebook, her pens and pencils and a flood of enthusiasm. To prepare herself, she had raided the library and pored over related books for the last two weeks. Pride wouldn’t allow her to go into class ignorant. Curiosity made her wonder if her instructor could take the dry, distant facts and add excitement.
There was little doubt that this particular instructor was adding dashes of excitement in other quarters. Annie had teased her just that morning about the new professor everyone was talking about. Dr. Spencer B. Kimball.
The name sounded very distinguished to Natasha, quite unlike the description of a hunk that Annie had passed along. Annie’s information came from her cousin’s daughter, who was majoring in Elementary Education with a minor in Music. A sun-god, Annie had relayed and made Natasha laugh.
A very gifted sun-god, Natasha mused while she turned off lights in the shop. She knew Kimball’s work well, or the work he had composed before he had suddenly and inexplicably stopped writing music. Why, she had even danced to his Prelude in D Minor when she had been with the corps de ballet in New York.
A million years ago, she thought as she stepped onto the street. Now she would be able to meet the genius, listen to his views and perhaps find new meanings in many of the classics she already loved.
He was probably the temperamental artiste type, she decided, pleased with the way the evening breeze lifted her hair and cooled her neck. Or a pale eccentric with one earring. It didn’t matter. She intended to work hard. Each course she took was a matter of pride to her. It still stung to remember how little she had known when she’d been eighteen. How little she had cared to know, Natasha admitted, other than dance. She had of her own choice closed herself off from so many worlds in order to focus everything on one. When that had been taken away, she had been as lost as a child set adrift on the Atlantic.
She had found her way to shore, just as her family had once found its way across the wilds of the Ukraine to the jungles of Manhattan. She liked herself better—the independent, ambitious American woman she had become. As she was now, she could walk into the big, beautiful old building on campus with as much pride as any freshman student.
There were footsteps echoing in the corridors, distant, dislocated. There was a hushed reverence that Natasha always associated with churches and universities. In a way there was religion here—the belief in learning.
She felt somewhat reverent herself as she made her way to her class. As a child of five in her small farming village, she had never even imagined such a building, or the books and beauty it contained.
Several students were already waiting. A mixed bag, she noted, ranging from college to middle age. All of them seemed to buzz with that excitement of beginning. She saw by the clock that it was two minutes shy of eight. She’d expected Kimball to be there, busily shuffling his papers, peering at them behind glasses, his hair a little wild and streaming to his shoulders.
Absently she smiled at a young man in horn-rims, who was staring at her as if he’d just woken from a dream. Ready to begin, she sat down, then looked up when the same man clumsily maneuvered himself into the desk beside her.
“Hello.”
He looked as though she’d struck him with a bat rather than offered a casual greeting. He pushed his glasses nervously up his nose. “Hello. I’m—I’m…Terry Maynard,” he finished on a burst as his name apparently came to him at last.
“Natasha.” She smiled again. He was on the sunny side of twenty-five and harmless as a puppy.
“I haven’t, ah, seen you on campus before.”
“No.” Though at twenty-seven it amused her to be taken for a coed, she kept her voice sober. “I’m only taking this one class. For fun.”
“For fun?” Terry appeared to take music very seriously. “Do you know who Dr. Kimball is?” His obvious awe made him almost whisper the name.
“I’ve heard of him. You’re a Music major?”
“Yes. I hope to, well one day, I hope to play with the New York Symphony.” His blunt fingers reached nervously to adjust his glasses. “I’m a violinist.”
She smiled again and made his Adam’s apple bob. “That’s wonderful. I’m sure you’re very good.”
“What do you play?”
“Five card draw.” Then she laughed and settled back in her chair. “I’m sorry. I don’t play an instrument. But I love to listen to music and thought I’d enjoy the class.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “If it ever starts, that is. Apparently our esteemed professor is late.”
At that moment the esteemed professor was rushing down the corridors, cursing himself for ever agreeing to take on this night class. By the time he had helped Freddie with her homework—how many animals can you find in this picture?—convinced her that brussels sprouts were cute instead of yucky, and changed his shirt because her affectionate hug had transferred some mysterious, sticky substance to his sleeve, he had wanted nothing more than a good book and a warm brandy.
Instead he was going to have to face a roomful of eager faces, all waiting to learn what Beethoven had worn when he’d composed his Ninth Symphony.
In the foulest of moods, he walked into class. “Good evening. I’m Dr. Kimball.” The murmurs and rattles quieted. “I must apologize for being late. If you’ll all take a seat, we’ll dive right in.”
As he spoke he scanned the room. And found himself staring into Natasha’s astonished face.
“No.” She wasn’t aware she’d spoken the word aloud, and wouldn’t have cared. It was some sort of joke, she thought, and a particularly bad one. This—this man in the casually elegant jacket was Spencer Kimball, a musician whose songs she had admired and danced to. The man who, while barely into his twenties had been performing at Carnegie Hall being hailed as a genius. This man who had tried to pick her up in a toy store was the illustrious Dr. Kimball?
It was ludicrous, it was infuriating, it was—
Wonderful, Spence thought as he stared at her. Absolutely wonderful. In fact, it was perfect, as long as he could control the laugh that was bubbling in his throat. So the czarina was one of his students. It was better, much better than a warm brandy and an evening of quiet.
“I’m sure,” he said after a long pause, “we’ll all find the next few months fascinating.”
She should have signed up for Astronomy, Natasha told herself. She could have learned all kinds of interesting things about the planets and stars. Asteroids. She’d have been much better off learning about—what was it?—gravitational pull and inertia. Whatever that was. Surely it was much more important for her to find out how many moons revolved around Jupiter than to study Burgundian composers of the fifteenth century.
She would transfer, Natasha decided. First thing in the morning she would make the arrangements. In fact, she would get up and walk out right now if she wasn’t certain Dr. Spencer Kimball would smirk.
Running her pencil between her fingers, she crossed her legs and determined not to listen.
It was a pity his voice was so attractive.
Impatient, Natasha looked at the clock. Nearly an hour to go. She would do what she did when she waited at the dentist’s office. Pretend she was someplace else. Struggling to block Spence’s voice from her mind she began to swing her foot and doodle on her pad.
She didn’t notice when her doodles became notes, or when she began to hang on every word. He made fifteenth-century musicians seem alive and vital—and their music as real as flesh and blood. Rondeaux, vieralais, ballades. She could almost hear the three-part chansons of the dawning Renaissance, the reverent, soaring Kyries and Glorias of the masses.
She was caught up, involved in that ancient rivalry between church and state and music’s part in the politics. She could see huge banqueting halls filled with elegantly dressed aristocrats, feasting on music as well as food.
“Next time we’ll be discussing the Franco-Flemish school and rhythmic developments.” Spence gave his class an easy smile. “And I’ll try to be on time.”
Was it over? Natasha glanced at the clock again and was shocked to see it was indeed after nine.
“Incredible, isn’t he?”
She looked at Terry. His eyes were gleaming behind his lenses. “Yes.” It cost her to admit it, but truth was truth.
“You should hear him in theory class.” He noticed with envy that several students were grouped around his idol. As yet, Terry hadn’t worked up the nerve to approach him. “I’ll—see you Thursday.”
“What? Oh. Good night, Terry.”
“I could, ah, give you a ride home if you want.” The fact that he was nearly out of gas and his muffler was currently held on by a coat hanger didn’t enter his mind.
She favored him with an absent smile that had his heart doing a cha-cha. “That’s nice of you, but I don’t live far.”
She hoped to breeze out of the classroom while Spence was still occupied. She should have known better.
He simply put a hand on her arm and stopped her. “I’d like to speak with you a moment, Natasha.”
“I’m in a hurry.”
“It won’t take long.” He nodded to the last of his departing students, then eased back against his desk and grinned at her. “I should have paid more attention to my roster, but then again, it’s nice to know there are still surprises in the world.”
“That depends on your point of view, Dr. Kimball.”
“Spence.” He continued to grin. “Class is over.”
“So it is.” Her regal nod made him think again of Russian royalty. “Excuse me.”
“Natasha.” He waited, almost seeing impatience shimmer around her as she turned. “I can’t imagine that someone with your heritage doesn’t believe in destiny.”
“Destiny?”
“Of all the classrooms in all the universities in all the world, she walks into mine.”
She wouldn’t laugh. She’d be damned if she would. But her mouth quirked up at the corners before she controlled it. “And here I was thinking it was just bad luck.”
“Why Music History?”
She balanced her notebook on her hip. “It was a toss-up between that and Astronomy.”
“That sounds like a fascinating story. Why don’t we go down the street for a cup of coffee? You can tell me about it.” Now he saw it—molten fury that turned her eyes from rich velvet to sharp jet. “Now why does that infuriate you?” he inquired, almost to himself. “Is an offer of a cup of coffee in this town similiar to an illicit proposition?”
“You should know, Dr. Kimball.” She turned, but he reached the door before her, slamming it with enough force to make her step back. He was every bit as angry as herself, she noted. Not that it mattered. It was only that he had seemed a mild sort of man. Detestable, but mild. There was nothing mild about him now. Those fascinating bones and angles in his face might have been carved of stone.
“Clarify.”
“Open the door.”
“Gladly. After you answer my question.” He was angry. Spence realized he hadn’t felt this kind of hot, blood-pumping rage in years. It felt wonderful. “I realize that just because I’m attracted to you doesn’t mean you have to return the favor.”
She threw up her chin, hating herself for finding the storm-cloud-gray eyes so hypnotic. “I don’t.”
“Fine.” He couldn’t strangle her for that, however much he’d like to. “But, damn it, I want to know why you aim and fire every time I’m around you.”
“Because men like you deserve to be shot.”
“Men like me,” he repeated, measuring out the words. “What exactly does that mean?”
He was standing close, all but looming over her. As in the shop when he had brushed up against her, she felt those bubble bursts of excitement, attraction, confusion. It was more than enough to push her over the edge.
“Do you think because you have a nice face and a pretty smile you can do whatever you like? Yes,” she answered before he could speak and slapped her notebook against his chest. “You think you have only to snap your fingers.” She demonstrated dramatically. “And a woman will fall into your arms. Not this woman.”
Her accent thickened when she was on a roll, he noted, somewhat baffled by her claim. “I don’t recall snapping my fingers.”
She let loose one short, explicit Ukrainian oath and grabbed the knob. “You want to have a cup of coffee with me? Good. We’ll have your coffee—and we’ll call your wife and ask her to join us.”
“My what?” He closed his hand over hers so that the door was jerked open, then slammed shut again. “I don’t have a wife.”
“Really?” The single word dripped with scorn; her eyes flashed at him. “And I suppose the woman who came with you to the shop is your sister.”
It should have been funny. But he couldn’t quite get the joke. “Nina? As a matter of fact, she is.”
Natasha yanked open the door with a sound of disgust. “That is pathetic.”
Filled with righteous indignation, she stormed down the corridor and out the main door. In a staccato rhythm that matched her mood, her heels beat on the concrete as she started down the steps. When she was abruptly whirled around, she nearly took the last two in a tumble.
“You’ve got a hell of a nerve.”
“I?” she managed. “I have a nerve?”
“You think you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?” Having the advantage of height, Spence could stare down at her. Natasha saw shadows move over his face as temper colored his voice. He didn’t appear awkward now, but every bit in control. “Or I should say you think you’ve got me figured.”
“It takes very little.” The fingers on her arm were very firm. She hated knowing that mixed with her own anger was basic sexual attraction. Fighting it off, she tossed back her hair. “You’re really very typical.”
“I wonder, can your opinion of me get any lower?” Now fury ground edge to edge with desire.
“Doubtful.”
“In that case, I might as well satisfy myself.”
The notebook flew out of her hand when he dragged her close. She managed a single, startled sound in her throat before his mouth covered hers. Covered, crushed, then conquered.
Natasha would have fought him. Over and over she told herself she would fight him. But it was shock—at least, she prayed it was shock—that had her arms falling limply to her sides.
It was wrong. It was unforgivable. And, oh God, it was wonderful. Instinctively he’d found the key to unlock the passion that had lain dormant in her for so long. Her blood swam hot with it. Her mind hazed. Dimly she heard someone laugh as they strolled down the sidewalk below. A beep of a car horn, a shout of greeting, then silence once more.
She murmured, a pitiful protest that shamed her and was easily ignored as his tongue glided over her own. His taste was a banquet after a long fast. Though she kept her hands balled at her sides, she leaned into the kiss.
Kissing her was like walking through a mine field. Any moment he expected the bomb to go off and blow him to pieces. He should have stopped after the first shock, but danger had a thrill of its own.
And she was dangerous. As his fingers dived into her hair, he could feel the ground quiver and quake. It was her—the promise, the threat of titanic passion. He could taste it on her lips, even as she fought to hold it back. He could feel it in her taut, terrified stance. If she released it, she could make him a slave.
Needs such as he’d never known battered his system with heavy fists. Images, all fire and smoke, danced in his brain. Something struggled to break free, like a bird beating at the bars of a cage. He could feel it straining. Then Natasha was pulling away from him, standing apart and staring at him with wide, eloquent eyes.
She couldn’t breathe. For an instant she was genuinely afraid she would die on the spot with this unwanted, shameful desire on her conscience. In defiance she took a huge gulp of air.
“I could never hate anyone as much as I hate you.”
He shook his head to clear it. She had left him dizzy, dazed and utterly defenseless. For his own sake he waited until he was sure he could speak. “That’s a lofty position you put me in, Natasha.” He stepped down until they were at eye level. There were tears on her lashes, but they were offset by the condemnation in her eyes. “Let’s just be sure you’ve put me there for the right reasons. Is it because I kissed you, or because you liked it?”
She swung her hand out. He could have avoided the blow easily enough, but thought she deserved a hit. As the crack of the slap echoed, he decided they were even.
“Don’t come near me again,” she said, breathing hard. “I warn you, if you do, I won’t care what I say or who hears me. If it wasn’t for your little girl—” She broke off and bent to gather her things. Her pride was shattered, along with her self-esteem. “You don’t deserve such a beautiful child.”
He caught her arm again, but this time the expression on his face made her blood go cold. “You’re right. I never have and probably never will deserve Freddie, but I’m all she has. Her mother—my wife—died three years ago.”
He strode off, was caught in the beam of a street lamp, then disappeared into the dark beyond. Her notebook pressed against her chest, Natasha sank weakly onto the bottom step.
What in hell was she going to do now?
There was no choice. No matter how much she hated it, there was really only one course to take. Natasha rubbed the palms of her hands on the thighs of her khakis, then started up the freshly painted wooden steps.
It was a nice house, she thought, stalling. Of course she’d seen it so often that she rarely noticed it anymore. It was one of those sturdy old brick places tucked back from the street and shielded by trees and box hedges.
The summer flowers had yet to fade, but the fall blooms were already staking their claim. Showy delphiniums vied with spicy scented mums, vivid dahlias with starry asters. Someone was caring for them. She could see fresh mulch on the flower beds, damp with watering.
Wanting a little more time, she studied the house. There were curtains at the windows, thin ivory sheers that would let in the light. Higher up she caught a glimpse of a fanciful pattern of unicorns that identified a little girl’s room.
She gathered her courage and crossed the porch to the front door. It would be quick, she promised herself. Not painless, but quick. She rapped, released her breath and waited.
The woman who answered was short and wide with a face as brown and wrinkled as a raisin. Natasha found herself fixed by a pair of small, dark eyes while the housekeeper dried her hands on the skirt of a stained apron.
“May I help you?”
“I’d like to see Dr. Kimball if he’s in.” She smiled, pretending she didn’t feel as though she were stepping into the pillory. “I’m Natasha Stanislaski.” She saw the housekeeper’s little eyes narrow, so that they nearly disappeared into the folds of her face.
Vera had at first taken Natasha for one of the señor’s students, and had been prepared to nudge her on her way. “You own the toy store in town.”
“That’s right.”
“Ah.” With a nod, she opened the door wider to let Natasha in. “Freddie says you are a very nice lady, who gave her a blue ribbon for her doll. I promised to take her back, but just to look.” She gestured for Natasha to follow.
As they made their way down the hall, Natasha caught the hesitant notes of a piano. When she saw her reflection in an old oval mirror, it surprised her that she was smiling.
He was sitting at the piano with the child on his lap, looking over her head while she slowly tapped out “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” The sun streamed in through the windows behind them. At that moment she wished she could paint. How else could it be captured?
It was perfect. The light, the shadows, the pale pastels of the room all combined to make the perfect backdrop. The alignment of their heads, their bodies, was too natural and eloquent ever to be posed. The girl was in pink and white, the laces of one sneaker untied. He had taken off his jacket and tie, then rolled up the sleeves of the pale dress shirt to the elbows like a workman.
There was the fragile shine of the child’s hair, the deeper glow of his. The child leaned back against her father, her head resting just under his collarbone; the faintest smile of pleasure lighted her face. Over it all was the simple nursery rhyme music she was playing.
He had his hands on the knees of her jeans, his long, beautiful fingers tapping the time in tandem with the tick of the antique metronome. She could see it all, the love, the patience, the pride.
“No, please,” Natasha whispered, holding out a hand to Vera. “Don’t disturb them.”
“You play now, Daddy.” Freddie tilted her head toward his. Her hair wisped around her face where it had escaped from its clips. “Play something pretty.”
“Für Elise.” Natasha recognized it instantly, that soft, romantic, somehow lonely music. It went straight to her heart as she watched his fingers stroke, caress, seduce the keys.
What was he thinking? She could see that his thoughts had turned inward—to the music, to himself. There was an effortlessness in the way his fingers flowed over the keys, and yet she knew that kind of beauty was never achieved without the greatest effort.
The song swelled, note after note, unbearably sad, impossibly beautiful, like the vase of waxy calla lilies that rested on the glossy surface of the piano.
Too much emotion, Natasha thought. Too much pain, though the sun was still shining through the gauzy curtains and the child on his lap continued to smile. The urge to go to him, to put a comforting hand onto his shoulder, to hold them both against her heart, was so strong that she had to curl her fingers into her palms.
Then the music drifted away, the last note lingering like a sigh.
“I like that one,” Freddie told him. “Did you make it up?”
“No.” He looked at his fingers, spreading them, flexing them, then letting them rest on hers. “Beethoven did.” Then he was smiling again, pressing his lips to the soft curve of his daughter’s neck. “Had enough for today, funny face?”
“Can I play outside until dinner?”
“Well… What’ll you give me?”
It was an old game and a favorite one. Giggling, she swiveled on his lap and gave him a hard, smacking kiss. Still squealing from the bear hug, she spotted Natasha. “Hi!”
“Miss Stanislaski would like to see you, Dr. Kimball.” At his nod, Vera walked back to the kitchen.
“Hello.” Natasha managed to smile, even when Spence lifted his daughter and turned. She wasn’t over the music yet. It was still pouring through her like tears. “I hope I haven’t come at a bad time.”
“No.” After a last squeeze, he set Freddie down, and she immediately bounded to Natasha.
“We’re all finished with my lesson. Did you come to play?”
“No, not this time.” Unable to resist, Natasha bent to stroke Freddie’s cheek. “Actually I came to talk to your father.” But she was a coward, Natasha thought in disgust. Rather than look at him, she continued to address Freddie. “How do you like school? You have Mrs. Patterson, don’t you?”
“She’s nice. She didn’t even yell when Mikey Towers’s icky bug collection got loose in the classroom. And I can read all of Go, Dog, Go.”
Natasha crouched so that they were eye to eye. “Do you like my hat?”
Freddie laughed, recognizing the line from the Dr. Seuss classic. “I like the dog party part the best.”
“So do I.” Automatically she tied Freddie’s loose laces. “Will you come to the store and visit me soon?”
“Okay.” Delighted with herself, Freddie raced for the door. “Bye Miss Stanof—Stanif—”
“Tash.” She sent Freddie a wink. “All the kids call me Tash.”
“Tash.” Freddie grinned at the sound of the name, then streaked away.
She listened to Freddie’s sneakers squeak down the hall, then took a long breath. “I’m sorry to disturb you at home, but I felt it would be more…” What was the word? Appropriate, comfortable? “It would be better.”
“All right.” His eyes were very cool, not like those of the man who had played such sad and passionate music. “Would you like to sit down?”
“No.” She said it too quickly, then reminded herself that it was better if they were both stiffly polite. “It won’t take long. I only want to apologize.”
“Oh? For something specific?”
Fire blazed in her eyes. He enjoyed seeing it, particularly since he’d spent most of the night cursing her. “When I make a mistake, I make a point of admitting it. But since you behaved so—” Oh, why did she always lose her English when she was angry?
“Unconscionably?” he suggested.
Her brow shot up into her fall of hair. “So you admit it.”
“I thought you were the one who was here to admit something.” Enjoying himself, he sat on the arm of a wing chair in pale blue damask. “Don’t let me interrupt.”
She was tempted, very tempted, to turn on her heel and stalk out. Pride was equally as strong as temper. She would do what she had come to do, then forget it.
“What I said about you—about you and your daughter was unfair and untrue. Even when I was…mistaken about other things, I knew it was untrue. And I’m very sorry I said it.”
“I can see that.” Out of the corner of his eye he caught a movement. He turned his head in time to see Freddie make her sprinter’s rush for the swings. “We’ll forget it.”
Natasha followed his gaze and softened. “She really is a beautiful child. I hope you let her come into the shop from time to time.”
The tone of her voice had him studying Natasha more carefully. Was it longing, sorrow? “I doubt I could keep her away. You’re very fond of children.”
Natasha brought her emotions under control with a quick jerk. “Yes, of course. In my business it’s a requirement. I won’t keep you, Dr. Kimball.”
He rose to accept the hand she had formally held out. “Spence,” he corrected, gently tightening his fingers on hers. “What else was it you were mistaken about?”
So it wasn’t going to be easy. Then again, Natasha thought she deserved a dose of humiliation. “I thought you were married, and was very angry and insulted when you asked me out.”
“You’re taking my word now that I’m not married.”
“No. I looked it up in the library in Who’s Who.”
He stared at her for a moment longer, then threw back his head and laughed. “God, what a trusting soul. Find anything else that interested you?”
“Only things that would fill your ego. You still have my hand.”
“I know. Tell me, Natasha, did you dislike me on general principles, or only because you thought I was a married man and had no business flirting with you?”
“Flirting?” She nearly choked on the word. “There was nothing so innocent in the way you looked at me. As if…”
“As if—?” he prompted.
As if we were already lovers, she thought, and felt her skin heat. “I didn’t like it,” she said shortly.
“Because you thought I was married?”
“Yes. No,” she said, correcting herself when she realized where that could lead. “I just didn’t like it.” He brought her hand to his lips. “Don’t,” she managed.
“How would you like me to look at you?”
“It isn’t necessary for you to look at all.”
“But it is.” He could feel it again, that high-strung passion, just waiting to burst free from whatever cell she had locked it in. “You’ll be sitting right in front of me tomorrow night in class.”
“I’m going to transfer.”
“No, you won’t.” He brushed a finger over the small gold hoop in her ear. “You enjoyed it too much. I could see the wheels turning in that fabulous head of yours. And if you did,” he continued before she could sputter out a response, “I’d just make a nuisance of myself in your shop.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re the first woman I’ve wanted in longer than I can remember.”
Excitement rippled up her spine like chain lightning. Before she could prevent it, the memory of that stormy kiss curved back to weaken her. Yes, that had been a man who had wanted. And had, no matter how she had resisted, made her want, too.
But that had only been one kiss, fueled by lust despite the moonlight and soft air. She knew heartbreakingly well where such desires could lead.
“That’s nonsense.”
“Simple honesty,” he murmured, fascinated by the emotions that came and went in her dark eyes. “I thought it best, since we’d gotten off to such a shaky beginning. Since you’ve determined for yourself that I’m not married, knowing I’m attracted to you shouldn’t insult you.”
“I’m not insulted,” she said carefully. “I’m just not interested.”
“Do you always kiss men you’re not interested in?”
“I didn’t kiss you.” She jerked her hand free. “You kissed me.”
“We can fix that.” He gathered her close. “This time kiss me back.”
She could have pulled away. His arms weren’t banding her as they had before, but were wrapped loosely, coaxingly around her. His lips were soft this time, soft, persuasive, patient. She could feel the warmth seep into her bloodstream like a drug. With a little moan, she slipped her hands up his back and held on.
It was like holding a candle and feeling the wax slowly melt as the fire burned at its center. He could feel her yield degree by degree until her lips parted for his own, accepting, inviting. But even as she gave, he could sense some strong, hard core that resisted, held back. She didn’t want to feel whatever he was making her feel.
Impatient, he dragged her closer. Though her body molded itself to his and her head fell back in erotic surrender, there was still a part of her standing just out of his reach. What she gave him only stirred his appetite for more.
She was breathless when he released her. It took an effort, too much of an effort, Natasha thought, to level herself. But once she had, her voice was steady.
“I don’t want to be involved.”
“With me, or with anyone?”
“With anyone.”
“Good.” He brushed a hand over her hair. “It’ll be simpler to change your mind.”
“I’m very stubborn,” she muttered.
“Yes, I’ve noticed. Why don’t you stay for dinner?”
“No.”
“All right. I’ll take you to dinner Saturday night.”
“No.”
“Seven-thirty. I’ll pick you up.”
“No.”
“You wouldn’t want me to come by the shop Saturday afternoon and embarrass you.”
Out of patience, she stalked to the door. “I can’t understand how a man that could play music with such sensitivity could be such a clod.”
Just lucky, I guess, he thought when the door slammed. Alone again, he caught himself whistling.
CHAPTER FOUR (#u64cc9cf6-f529-548f-8cd6-ae74e7915a54)
Saturdays in a toy store were noisy, crowded and chaotic. They were supposed to be. To a child even the word Saturday was magic—it meant a magic twenty-four hours when school was too faraway to be a problem. There were bikes to be ridden, games to be played, races to be won. For as long as Natasha had been running The Fun House, she had enjoyed Saturdays as much as her pint-size clientele.
It was one more black mark against Spence that he was the reason she couldn’t enjoy this one.
She’d told him no, she reminded herself as she rang up sales on a set of jacks, three plastic dinosaurs and a pint of blowing bubbles. And she’d meant no.
The man didn’t seem to understand plain English.
Why else would he have sent her the single red rose? And to the shop, of all places? she thought now, trying to scowl at it. Annie’s romantic enthusiasm had been impossible to hold off. Even when Natasha had ignored the flower, Annie had rescued it, running across the street to buy a plastic bud vase so that it could have a place of honor on the checkout counter.
Natasha did her best not to look at it, not to stroke the tightly closed petals, but it wasn’t as easy to ignore the fragile scent that wafted toward her every time she rang up a sale.
Why did men think they could soften up a woman with a flower?
Because they could, Natasha admitted, biting off a sigh as she glanced toward it.
That didn’t mean she was going out to dinner with him. Tossing back her hair, Natasha counted out the pile of sweaty pennies and nickels the young Hampston boy passed her for his monthly comic-book purchase. Life should be so simple, she thought as the boy rushed out with the latest adventures of Commander Zark. Damn it, it was that simple. On a deep breath she steeled her determination. Her life was exactly that simple, no matter how Spence tried to complicate it. To prove it, she intended to go home, soak in a hot tub, then spend the rest of her evening stretched out on the sofa, watching an old movie and eating popcorn.
He’d been clever. She left the counter to go into the next aisle to referee a huffy disagreement between the Freedmont brothers about how they should spend their pooled resources. She wondered if the esteemed professor looked at their relationship—their nonrelationship, she corrected—as a chess match. She’d always been too reckless to succeed at that particular game, but she had a feeling Spence would play it patiently and well. All the same, if he thought she would be easily checkmated, he had a surprise coming.
Spence had led her second class brilliantly, never looking at her any longer than he had looked at any of his other students, answering her questions in the same tone he used with others. Yes, a very patient player.
Then, just when she’d relaxed, he’d passed her that first red rose as she walked out of class. A very smart move to endanger her queen.
If she’d had any spine at all, Natasha thought now, she would have dropped it onto the floor and ground it under her heel. But she hadn’t, and now had to scramble to keep one play ahead of him. Because it had caught her off guard, Natasha told herself. Just like the one that had been delivered to the shop this morning.
If he kept it up, people were going to begin to talk. In a town this size, news items like red roses bounced from shop to pub, from pub to front stoop and from front stoop to backyard gossip sessions. She needed to find a way to stop it. At the moment, she couldn’t come up with anything better than ignoring it. Ignoring Spence, she added. How she wished she could.
Bringing herself back to the problem at hand, Natasha hooked an arm around each of the squabbling Freedmont boys in a mock headlock.
“Enough. If you keep calling each other names like nerd and…what was the other?”
“Dork,” the taller of the boys told her with relish.
“Yes, dork.” She couldn’t resist committing it to memory. “That’s a good one. If you keep it up, I’ll tell your mother not to let you come in for two weeks.”
“Aw, Tash.”
“That means everyone else will see all the creepy things I get in for Halloween before either of you.” She let that threat hang, giving the two little necks a quick squeeze. “So, I’ll make a suggestion. Flip a coin and decide whether to buy the football or the magic set. Whatever you don’t get now, you ask for for Christmas. Good idea?”
The boys grimaced at each other from either side of her. “Pretty good.”
“No, you have to say it’s very good, or I’ll knock your heads together.”
She left them arguing over which coin to use for the fatal flip.
“You missed your calling,” Annie commented when the brothers raced off with the football.
“How’s that?”
“You should be working for the UN.” She nodded out the front window; the boys were practicing passing on their way down the street. “There aren’t many tougher nuts than the Freedmont brothers.”
“I make them afraid of me first, then offer them a dignified way out.”
“See? Definitely UN material.”
With a laugh, Natasha shook her head. “Other people’s problems are the easiest to solve.” Weakening, she glanced toward the rose again. If she had one wish at the moment, it would be for someone to come along and solve her own.
An hour later she felt a tug on the hem of her skirt.
“Hi.”
“Freddie, hello.” She flicked her finger over a bow that was trying to hold back Freddie’s flyaway hair. It was tied from the blue ribbon Natasha had given her on her first visit. “Don’t you look pretty today.”
Freddie beamed, female to female. “Do you like my outfit?”
Natasha surveyed the obviously new blue denim overalls, parade stiff with sizing. “I like it very much. I have a pair just like them.”
“You do?” Nothing, since Freddie had decided to make Natasha her newest heroine, could have pleased her more. “My daddy got them for me.”
“That’s nice.” Despite her better judgment, Natasha scanned the shop for him. “Did he, ah, bring you in today?”
“No, Vera did. You said it was all right just to look.”
“Sure it is. I’m glad you came in.” And she was, Natasha realized. Just as she was stupidly disappointed that Freddie hadn’t brought her daddy.
“I’m not supposed to touch anything.” Freddie tucked her itchy fingers into her pockets. “Vera said I should look with my eyes and not with my hands.”
“That’s very good advice.” And some Natasha wouldn’t have minded others passing along to nimble-fingered children. “But some things are okay to touch. You just ask me.”
“Okay. I’m going to join the Brownies and get a uniform and everything.”
“That’s wonderful. You’ll come in and show it to me?”
Delight nearly split Freddie’s face in two. “Okay. It has a hat, and I’m going to learn how to make pillows and candle holders and all kinds of things. I’ll make you something.”
“I’d like that.” She tidied Freddie’s lopsided bow.
“Daddy said you were going to eat dinner with him in a restaurant tonight.”
“Well, I—”
“I don’t like restaurants very much, except for pizza, so I’m going to stay home, and Vera’s going to fix tortillas for me and JoBeth. We get to eat in the kitchen.”
“That sounds nice.”
“If you don’t like the restaurant, you can come back and have some. Vera always makes a lot.”
Uttering a helpless little sigh, Natasha bent to tie Freddie’s left shoelace. “Thank you.”
“Your hair smells pretty.”
Half in love, Natasha leaned closer to sniff Freddie’s. “So does yours.”
Fascinated by Natasha’s tangle of curls, Freddie reached out to touch. “I wish my hair was like yours,” she said. “It’s straight as a pin,” she added, quoting her Aunt Nina.
Smiling, Natasha brushed at the fragile wisps over Freddie’s brow. “When I was a little girl, we put an angel on top of the Christmas tree every year. She was very beautiful, and she had hair just like yours.”
Pleasure came flushing into Freddie’s cheeks.
“Ah, there you are.” Vera shuffled down the crowded aisle, straw carryall on one arm, a canvas bag on the other. “Come, come, we must get back home before your father thinks we are lost.” She held out a hand for Freddie and nodded to Natasha. “Good afternoon, miss.”
“Good afternoon.” Curious, Natasha raised a brow. She was being summed up again by the little dark eyes, and definitely being found wanting, Natasha thought. “I hope you’ll bring Freddie back to visit soon.”
“We will see. It is as hard for a child to resist a toy store as it is for a man to resist a beautiful woman.”
Vera led Freddie down the aisle, not looking back when the girl waved and grinned over her shoulder.
“Well,” Annie murmured as she stuck her head around the corner. “What brought that on?”
With a humorless smile, Natasha shoved a pin back into her hair. “At a guess, I would say the woman believes I have designs on her employer.”
Annie gave an unladylike snort. “If anything, the employer has designs on you. I should be so lucky.” Her sigh was only a little envious. “Now that we know the new hunk on the block isn’t married, all’s right with the world. Why didn’t you tell me you were going out with him?”
“Because I wasn’t.”
“But I heard Freddie say—”
“He asked me out,” Natasha clarified. “I said no.”
“I see.” After a brief pause, Annie tilted her head. “When did you have the accident?”
“Accident?”
“Yes, the one where you suffered brain damage.”
Natasha’s face cleared with a laugh, and she started toward the front of the shop.
“I’m serious,” Annie said as soon as they had five free minutes. “Dr. Spencer Kimball is gorgeous, unattached and…” She leaned over the counter to sniff at the rose. “Charming. Why aren’t you taking off early to work on real problems, like what to wear tonight?”
“I know what I’m wearing tonight. My bathrobe.”
Annie couldn’t resist the grin. “Aren’t you rushing things just a tad? I don’t think you should wear your robe until at least your third date.”
“There’s not going to be a first one.” Natasha smiled at her next customer and rang up a sale.
It took Annie forty minutes to work back to the subject at hand. “Just what are you afraid of?”
“The IRS.”
“Tash, I’m serious.”
“So am I.” When her pins worked loose again, she gave up and yanked them out. “Every American businessperson is afraid of the IRS.”
“We’re talking about Spence Kimball.”
“No,” Natasha corrected. “You’re talking about Spence Kimball.”
“I thought we were friends.”
Surprised by Annie’s tone, Natasha stopped tidying the racetrack display her Saturday visitors had wrecked. “We are. You know we are.”
“Friends talk to each other, Tash, confide in each other, ask advice.” Puffing out a breath, Annie stuffed her hands into the pockets of her baggy jeans. “Look, I know that things happened to you before you came here, things you’re still carrying around but never talk about. I figured I was being a better friend by not asking you about it.”
Had she been so obvious? Natasha wondered. All this time she’d been certain she had buried the past and all that went with it—deeply. Feeling a little helpless, she reached out to touch Annie’s hand. “Thank you.”
With a dismissive shrug, Annie turned to flick the lock on the front door. The shop was empty now, the bustle of the afternoon only an echo. “Remember when you let me cry on your shoulder after Don Newman dumped me?”
Natasha pressed her lips in to a thin line. “He wasn’t worth crying over.”
“I enjoyed crying over him,” Annie returned with a quick, amused smile. “I needed to cry and yell and moan and get a little drunk. You were right there for me, saying all those great, nasty things about him.”
“That was the easy part,” Natasha remembered. “He was a dork.” It pleased her tremendously to use the young Freedmont boy’s insult.
“Yeah, but he was a terrific-looking dork.” Annie allowed herself a brief reminiscence. “Anyway, you helped me over that rough spot until I convinced myself I was better off without him. You’ve never needed my shoulder, Tash, because you’ve never let a guy get past this.” She lifted a hand, pressing her palm against empty air.
Amused, Natasha leaned back against the counter. “And what is that?”
“The Great Stanislaski Force Field,” Annie told her. “Guaranteed to repel all males from the age of twenty-five to fifty.”
Natasha lifted a brow, not quite sure if she was amused any longer. “I’m not certain if you’re trying to flatter or insult me.”
“Neither. Just listen to me a minute, okay?” Annie took a deep breath to keep herself from rushing through something she thought should be taken step-by-step. “Tash, I’ve seen you brush off guys with less effort than you’d swat away a gnat. And just as automatically,” she added when Natasha remained silent. “You’re very pleasant about it, and also very definite. I’ve never seen you give any man a second’s thought once you’ve politely shown him the door. I’ve even admired you for it, for being so sure of yourself, so comfortable with yourself that you didn’t need a date on Saturday night to keep your ego out of the dirt.”
“Not sure of myself,” Natasha murmured. “Just apathetic about relationships.”
“All right.” Annie nodded slowly. “I’ll accept that. But this time it’s different.”
“What is?” Natasha skirted the counter and began to tally the day’s sales.
“You see? You know I’m going to mention his name, and you’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” Natasha lied.
“You’ve been nervous, moody and distracted since Kimball walked into the shop a couple of weeks ago. In over three years, I’ve never seen you give a man more than five minutes’ thought. Until now.”
“That’s only because this one is more annoying than most.” At Annie’s shrewd look, Natasha gave up. “All right, there is…something,” she admitted. “But I’m not interested.”
“You’re afraid to be interested.”
Natasha didn’t like the sound of that, but forced herself to shrug it off. “It’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s not.” Annie put a hand over Natasha’s and squeezed. “Look, I’m not pushing you toward this guy. For all I know, he could have murdered his wife and buried her in the rose garden. All I’m saying is, you’re not going to be comfortable with yourself until you stop being afraid.”
Annie was right, Natasha thought later as she sat on her bed with her chin on her hand. She was moody, she was distracted. And she was afraid. Not of Spence, Natasha assured herself. No man would ever frighten her again. But she was afraid of the feelings he stirred up. Forgotten, unwanted feelings.
Did that mean she was no longer in charge of her emotions? No. Did that mean she would act irrationally, impulsively, just because needs and desires had pried their way back into her life? No. Did that mean she would hide in her room, afraid to face a man? A most definite no.
She was only afraid because she had yet to test herself, Natasha thought, moving toward her closet. So tonight she would have dinner with the persistent Dr. Kimball, prove to herself that she was strong and perfectly capable of resisting a fleeting attraction, then get back to normal.
Natasha frowned at her wardrobe. With a restless move of her shoulders she pulled out a deep blue cocktail dress with a jeweled belt. Not that she was dressing for him. He was really irrelevant. It was one of her favorite dresses, Natasha thought as she stripped off her robe, and she rarely had the opportunity to wear anything but work clothes.
He knocked at precisely seven twenty-eight. Natasha detested herself for anxiously watching the clock. She had reapplied her lipstick twice, checked and rechecked the contents of her purse and fervently wished that she had delayed taking her stand.
She was acting like a teenager, Natasha told herself as she walked to the door. It was only dinner, the first and last dinner she intended to share with him. And he was only a man, she added, pulling the door open.
An outrageously attractive man.
He looked wonderful, was all she could think, with his hair swept back from his face, and that half smile in his eyes. It had never occurred to her that a man could be gut-wrenchingly sexy in a suit and a tie.
“Hi.” He held out another red rose.
Natasha nearly sighed. It was a pity the smoke-gray suit didn’t make him seem more professorial. Giving in a little, she tapped the blossom against her cheek. “It wasn’t the roses that changed my mind.”
“About what?”
“About having dinner with you.” She stepped back, deciding that she had no choice but to let him in while she put the flower into water.
He smiled then, fully, and exasperated her by looking charming and cocky at the same time. “What did?”
“I’m hungry.” She set her short velvet jacket on the arm of the sofa. “I’ll put this in water. You can sit if you like.”
She wasn’t going to give him an inch, Spence thought as he watched her walk away. Oddly enough, that only made her more interesting. He took a deep breath, shaking his head. Incredible. Just when he was convinced that nothing smelled sexier than soap, she put something on that made him think of midnight and weeping violins.
Deciding that he was safer thinking of something else, he studied the room. She preferred vivid colors, he mused, noting the emerald and teal slashes of the pillows on a sapphire-blue couch. There was a huge brass urn beside it, stuffed with silky peacock feathers. Candles of varying sizes and shades were set around the room so that it smelled, romantically, of vanilla and jasmine and gardenia. A shelf in the corner was crammed with books that ran the gamut from popular fiction to classic literature by way of home improvements for the novice.
The table surfaces were crowded with mementos, framed pictures, dried bouquets, fanciful statuettes inspired by fairy tales. There was a gingerbread house no bigger than his palm, a girl dressed as Red Riding Hood, a pig peeking out of the window of a tiny straw house, a beautiful woman holding a single glass slipper.
Practical tips on plumbing, passionate colors and fairy tales, he mused, touching a fingertip to the tiny crystal slipper. It was as curious and as intriguing a combination as the woman herself.
Hearing her come back into the room, Spence turned. “These are beautiful,” he said, gesturing to one of the figures. “Freddie’s eyes would pop out.”
“Thank you. My brother makes them.”
“Makes them?” Fascinated, Spence picked up the gingerbread house to study it more closely. It was carved from polished wood, then intricately painted so that each licorice whip and lollipop looked good enough to eat. “It’s incredible. You rarely see workmanship like this.”
Whatever her reservations, she warmed toward him and crossed the room to join him. “He’s been carving and sculpting since he was a child. One day his art will be in galleries and museums.”
“It should be already.”
The sincerity in his voice hit her most vulnerable spot, her love of family. “It’s not so easy. He’s young and hardheaded and proud, so he keeps his job, hammering wood, instead of carving it to bring in money for the family. But one day…” She smiled at the collection. “He makes these for me, because I struggled so hard to learn to read English from this book of fairy tales I found in the boxes of things the church gave us when we came to New York. The pictures were so pretty, and I wanted so badly to know the stories that went with them.”
She caught herself, embarrassed to have said anything. “We should go.”
He only nodded, having already decided to pry gently until she told him more. “You should wear your jacket.” He lifted it from the sofa. “It’s getting chilly.”
The restaurant he’d chosen was only a short drive away and sat on one of the wooded hills that overlooked the Potomac. If Natasha had been given a guess, she would have been on target with his preference for a quiet, elegant backdrop and discreetly speedy service. Over her first glass of wine, she told herself to relax and enjoy.
“Freddie was in the shop today.”
“So I heard.” Amused, Spence lifted his own glass. “She wants her hair curled.”
Natasha’s puzzled look became a smile; she lifted a hand to her own. “Oh. That’s sweet.”
“Easy for you to say. I’ve just gotten the hang of pigtails.”
To her surprise, Natasha could easily picture him patiently braiding the soft, flaxen tresses. “She’s beautiful.” The image of him holding the girl on his lap at the piano slipped back into her mind. “She has your eyes.”
“Don’t look now,” Spence murmured, “but I believe you’ve given me a compliment.”
Feeling awkward, Natasha lifted the menu. “To soften the blow,” she told him. “I’m about to make up for skipping lunch this afternoon.”
True to her word, she ordered generously. As long as she was eating, Natasha figured, the interlude would go smoothly. Over appetizers she was careful to steer the conversation toward subjects they had touched on in class. Comfortably they discussed late fifteenth-century music with its four-part harmonies and traveling musicians. Spence appreciated her genuine curiosity and interest, but was equally determined to explore more personal areas.
“Tell me about your family.”
Natasha slipped a hot, butter-drenched morsel of lobster into her mouth, enjoying the delicate, almost decadent flavor. “I’m the oldest of four,” she began, then became abruptly aware that his fingertips were playing casually with hers on the tablecloth. She slid her hand out of reach.
Her maneuver had him lifting his glass to hide a smile. “Are you all spies?”
A flicker of temper joined the lights that the candle brought to her eyes. “Certainly not.”
“I wondered, since you seem so reluctant to talk about them.” His face sober, he leaned toward her. “Say ‘Get moose and squirrel.’”
Her mouth quivered before she gave up and laughed. “No.” She dipped her lobster in melted butter again, coating it slowly, enjoying the scent, then the taste and texture. “I have two brothers and a sister. My parents still live in Brooklyn.”
“Why did you move here, to West Virginia?”
“I wanted a change.” She lifted a shoulder. “Didn’t you?”
“Yes.” A faint line appeared between his brows as he studied her. “You said you were about Freddie’s age when you came to the States. Do you remember much about your life before that?”
“Of course.” For some reason she sensed he was thinking more of his daughter than of her own memories of the Ukraine. “I’ve always believed impressions made on us in those first few years stay the longest. Good or bad, they help form what we are.” Concerned, she leaned closer, smiling. “Tell me, when you think about being five, what do you remember?”
“Sitting at the piano, doing scales.” It came so clearly that he nearly laughed. “Smelling hothouse roses and watching the snow outside the window. Being torn between finishing my practice and getting to the park to throw snowballs at my nanny.”
“Your nanny,” Natasha repeated, but with a chuckle rather than a sneer he noted. She cupped her chin in her hands, leaning closer, alluring him with the play of light and shadow over her face. “And what did you do?”
“Both.”
“A responsible child.”
He ran a fingertip down her wrist and surprised a shiver out of her. Before she moved her hand away, he felt her pulse scramble. “What do you remember about being five?”
Because her reaction annoyed her, she was determined to show him nothing. She only shrugged. “My father bringing in wood for the fire, his hair and coat all covered with snow. The baby crying—my youngest brother. The smell of the bread my mother had baked. Pretending to be asleep while I listened to Papa talk to her about escape.”
“Were you afraid?”
“Yes.” Her eyes blurred with the memory. She didn’t often look back, didn’t often need to. But when she did, it came not with the watery look of old dreams, but clear as glass. “Oh, yes. Very afraid. More than I will ever be again.”
“Will you tell me?”
“Why?”
His eyes were dark, and fixed on her face. “Because I’d like to understand.”
She started to pass it off, even had the words in her mind. But the memory remained too vivid. “We waited until spring and took only what we could carry. We told no one, no one at all, and set off in the wagon. Papa said we were going to visit my mother’s sister who lived in the west. But I think there were some who knew, who watched us go with tired faces and big eyes. Papa had papers, badly forged, but he had a map and hoped we would avoid the border guards.”
“And you were only five?”
“Nearly six by then.” Thinking, she ran a fingertip around and around the rim of her glass. “Mikhail was between four and five, Alex just two. At night, if we could risk a fire, we would sit around it and Papa would tell stories. Those were good nights. We would fall asleep listening to his voice and smelling the smoke from the fire. We went over the mountains and into Hungary. It took us ninety-three days.”
He couldn’t imagine it, not even when he could see it reflected so clearly in her eyes. Her voice was low, but the emotions were all there, bringing it richness. Thinking of the little girl, he took her hand and waited for her to go on.
“My father had planned for years. Perhaps he had dreamed it all of his life. He had names, people who would help defectors. There was war, the cold one, but I was too young to understand. I understood the fear, in my parents, in the others who helped us. We were smuggled out of Hungary into Austria. The church sponsored us, brought us to America. It was a long time before I stopped waiting for the police to come and take my father away.”
She brought herself back, embarrassed to have spoken of it, surprised to find her hand caught firmly in his.
“That’s a lot for a child to deal with.”
“I also remember eating my first hot dog.” She smiled and picked up her wine again. She never spoke of that time, never. Not even with family. Now that she had, with him, she felt a desperate need to change the subject. “And the day my father brought home our first television. No childhood, even one with nannies, is ever completely secure. But we grow up. I’m a businesswoman, and you’re a respected composer. Why don’t you write?” She felt his fingers tense on hers. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I had no business asking that.”
“It’s all right.” His fingers relaxed again. “I don’t write because I can’t.”
She hesitated, then went on impulse. “I know your music. Something that intense doesn’t fade.”
“It hasn’t mattered a great deal in the past couple of years. Just lately it’s begun to matter again.”
“Don’t be patient.”
When he smiled, she shook her head, at once impatient and regal. Her hand was gripping his now, hard and strong.
“No, I mean it. People always say when the time is right, when the mood is right, when the place is right. Years are wasted that way. If my father had waited until we were older, until the trip was safer, we might still be in the Ukraine. There are some things that should be grabbed with both hands and taken. Life can be very, very short.”
He could feel the urgency in the way her hands gripped his. And he could see the shadow of regret in her eyes. The reason for both intrigued him as much as her words.
“You may be right,” he said slowly, then brought the palm of her hand to his lips. “Waiting isn’t always the best answer.”
“It’s getting late.” Natasha pulled her hand free, then balled it into a fist on her lap. But that didn’t stop the heat from spearing her arm. “We should go.”
She was relaxed again when he walked her to her door. During the short drive home he had made her laugh with stories of Freddie’s ploys to interest him in a kitten.
“I think cutting pictures of cats from a magazine to make you a poster was very clever.” She turned to lean back against her front door. “You are going to let her have one?”
“I’m trying not to be a pushover.”
Natasha only smiled. “Big old houses like yours tend to get mice in the winter. In fact, in a house of that size, you’d be wise to take two of JoBeth’s kittens.”
“If Freddie pulls that one on me, I’ll know exactly where she got it.” He twirled one of Natasha’s curls around his fingers. “And you have a quiz coming up next week.”
Natasha lifted both brows. “Blackmail, Dr. Kimball?”
“You bet.”
“I intend to ace your quiz, and I have a strong feeling that Freddie could talk you into taking the entire litter all by herself, if she put her mind to it.”
“Just the little gray one.”
“You’ve already been to see them.”
“A couple of times. You’re not going to ask me in?”
“No.”
“All right.” He slipped his arms around her waist.
“Spence—”
“I’m just taking your advice,” he murmured as he skimmed his lips over her jaw. “Not being patient.” He brought her closer; his mouth brushed her earlobe. “Taking what I want.” His teeth scraped over her bottom lip. “Not wasting time.”
Then he was crushing his mouth against hers. He could taste the faintest tang of wine on her lips and knew he could get drunk on that alone. Her flavors were rich, exotic, intoxicating. Like the hint of autumn in the air, she made him think of smoking fires, drifting fog. And her body was already pressed eagerly against his in an instantaneous acknowledgment.
Passion didn’t bloom, it didn’t whisper. It exploded so that even the air around them seemed to shudder with it.
She made him feel reckless. Unaware of what he murmured to her, he raced his lips over her face, coming back, always coming back to her heated, hungry mouth. In one rough stroke he took his hands over her.
Her head was spinning. If only she could believe it was the wine. But she knew it was he, only he who made her dizzy and dazed and desperate. She wanted to be touched. By him. On a breathless moan, she let her head fall back, and the urgent trail of his lips streaked down her throat.
Feeling this way had to be wrong. Old fears and doubts swirled inside her, leaving empty holes that begged to be filled. And when they were filled, with liquid, shimmering pleasure, the fear only grew.
“Spence.” Her fingers dug into his shoulders; she fought a war between the need to stop him and the impossible desire to go on. “Please.”
He was as shaken as she and took a moment, burying his face in her hair. “Something happens to me every time I’m with you. I can’t explain it.”
She wanted badly to hold him against herself, but forced her arms to drop to her sides. “It can’t continue to happen.”
He drew away, just far enough to be able to take her face into both hands. The chill of the evening and the heat of passion had brought color to her cheeks. “If I wanted to stop it, which I don’t, I couldn’t.”
She kept her eyes level with his and tried not to be moved by the gentle way he cradled her face. “You want to go to bed with me.”
“Yes.” He wasn’t certain if he wanted to laugh or curse her for being so matter-of-fact. “But it’s not quite that simple.”
“Sex is never simple.”
His eyes narrowed. “I’m not interested in having sex with you.”
“You just said—”
“I want to make love with you. There’s a difference.”
“I don’t choose to romanticize it.”
The annoyance in his eyes vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Then I’m sorry I’ll have to disappoint you. When we make love, whenever, wherever, it’s going to be very romantic.” Before she could evade, he closed his mouth over hers. “That’s a promise I intend to keep.”
CHAPTER FIVE (#u64cc9cf6-f529-548f-8cd6-ae74e7915a54)
“Natasha! Hey, ah, Natasha!”
Broken out of thoughts that weren’t particularly productive, Natasha glanced over and spied Terry. He was wearing a long yellow-and white-striped scarf in defense against a sudden plunge in temperature that had sprinkled frost on the ground. As he raced after her, it flapped awkwardly behind him. By the time he reached her, his glasses had slipped crookedly down to the tip of his reddening nose.
“Hi, Terry.”
The hundred-yard dash had winded him. He dearly hoped it wouldn’t aggravate his asthma. “Hi. I was—I saw you heading in.” He’d been waiting hopefully for her for twenty minutes.
Feeling a bit like a mother with a clumsy child, she straightened his glasses, then wrapped the scarf more securely around his skinny neck. His rapid breathing fogged his lenses. “You should be wearing gloves,” she told him, then patting his chilled hand, led him up the steps.
Overwhelmed, he tried to speak and only made a strangled sound in his throat.
“Are you catching a cold?” Searching through her purse, she found a tissue and offered it.
He cleared his throat loudly. “No.” But he took the tissue and vowed to keep it until the day he died. “I was just wondering if tonight—after class—you know, if you don’t have anything to do… You’ve probably got plans, but if you don’t, then maybe…we could have a cup of coffee. Two cups,” he amended desperately. “I mean you could have your own cup, and I’d have one.” So saying, he turned a thin shade of green.
The poor boy was lonely, Natasha thought, giving him an absent smile. “Sure.” It wouldn’t hurt to keep him company for an hour or so, she decided as she walked into class. And it would help her keep her mind off…
Off the man standing in front of the class, Natasha reflected with a scowl; the man who had kissed the breath out of her two weeks before and who was currently laughing with a sassy little blonde who couldn’t have been a day over twenty.
Her mood grim, she plopped down at her desk and poked her nose into a textbook.
Spence knew the moment she walked into the room. He was more than a little gratified to have seen the huffy jealousy on her face before she stuck a book in front of it. Apparently fate hadn’t been dealing him such a bad hand when it kept him up to his ears in professional and personal problems for the last couple of weeks. Between leaky plumbing, PTA and Brownie meetings and a faculty conference, he hadn’t had an hour free. But now things were running smoothly again. He studied the top of Natasha’s head. He intended to make up for lost time.
Sitting on the edge of his desk, he opened a discussion of the distinctions between sacred and secular music during the baroque period.
She didn’t want to be interested. Natasha was sure he knew it. Why else would he deliberately call on her for an opinion—twice?
Oh, he was clever, she thought. Not by a flicker, not by the slightest intonation did he reveal a more personal relationship with her. No one in class would possibly suspect that this smooth, even brilliant lecturer had kissed her senseless, not once, not twice, but three times. Now he calmly talked of early seventeenth-century operatic developments.
In his black turtleneck and gray tweed jacket he looked casually elegant and totally in charge. And of course, as always, he had the class in the palms of those beautiful hands he eloquently used to make a point. When he smiled over a student’s comment, Natasha heard the little blonde two seats behind her sigh. Because she’d nearly done so herself, Natasha stiffened her spine.
He probably had a whole string of eager women. A man who looked like him, talked like him, kissed like him was bound to. He was the type that made promises to one woman at midnight and snuggled up to another over breakfast in bed.
Wasn’t it fortunate she no longer believed in promises?
Something was going on inside that fabulous head of hers, Spence mused. One moment she was listening to him as if he had the answers to the mysteries of the universe on the tip of his tongue. The next, she was sitting rigidly and staring off into space, as though she wished herself somewhere else. He would swear that she was angry, and that the anger was directed squarely at him. Why was an entirely different matter.
Whenever he’d tried to have a word with her after class over the last couple of weeks, she’d been out of the building like a bullet. Tonight he would have to outmaneuver her.
She stood the moment class was over. Spence watched her smile at the man sitting across from her. Then she bent down to pick up the books and pencils the man scattered as he rose.
What was his name? Spence wondered. Maynard. That was it. Mr. Maynard was in several of his classes, and managed to fade into the background in each one. Yet at the moment the unobtrusive Mr. Maynard was crouched knee to knee with Natasha.
“I think we’ve got them all.” Natasha gave Terry’s glasses a friendly shove back up his nose.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t forget your scarf—” she began, then looked up. A hand closed over her arm and helped her to her feet. “Thank you, Dr. Kimball.”
“I’d like to talk to you, Natasha.”
“Would you?” She gave the hand on her arm a brief look, then snatched up her coat and books. Feeling as though she were on a chessboard again, she decided to aggressively counter his move. “I’m sorry, it’ll have to wait. I have a date.”
“A date?” he managed, getting an immediate picture of someone dark, dashing and muscle-bound.
“Yes. Excuse me.” She shook off his hand and stuck an arm into the sleeve of her coat. Since the men on either side of her seemed equally paralyzed, she shifted the books to her other arm and struggled to find the second sleeve. “Are you ready, Terry?”
“Well, yeah, sure. Yeah.” He was staring at Spence with a mixture of awe and trepidation. “But I can wait if you want to talk to Dr. Kimball first.”
“There’s no need.” She scooped up his arm and pulled him to the door.
Women, Spence thought as he sat down at a desk. He’d already accepted the fact that he had never understood them. Apparently he never would.
“Jeez, Tash, don’t you think you should have seen what Dr. Kimball wanted?”
“I know what he wanted,” she said between her teeth as she pushed open the main doors. The rush of autumn air cooled her cheeks. “I wasn’t in the mood to discuss it tonight.” When Terry tripped over the uneven sidewalk, she realized she was still dragging him and slowed her pace. “Besides, I thought we were going to have some coffee.”
“Right.” When she smiled at him, he tugged on his scarf as if to keep from strangling.
They walked into a small lounge where half the little square tables were empty. At the antique bar two men were muttering over their beers. A couple in the corner were all but sitting on each other’s laps and ignoring their drinks.
She’d always liked this room with its dim lighting and old black-and-white posters of James Dean and Marilyn Monroe. It smelled of cigarettes and jug wine. There was a big portable stereo on a shelf above the bar that played an old Chuck Berry number loudly enough to make up for the lack of patrons. Natasha felt the bass vibrate through her chair as she sat down.
“Just coffee, Joe,” she called to the man behind the bar before she leaned her elbows on the table. “So,” she said to Terry, “how’s everything going?”
“Okay.” He couldn’t believe it. He was here, sitting with her. On a date. She’d called it a date herself.
It would take a little prodding. Patient, she shrugged out of her coat. The overheated room had her pushing the sleeves of her sweater past her elbows. “It must be different for you here. Did you ever tell me where you were going to college before?”
“I graduated from Michigan State.” Because his lenses were fogged again, Natasha seemed to be shrouded by a thin, mysterious mist. “When I, ah, heard that Dr. Kimball would be teaching here, I decided to take a couple years of graduate study.”
“You came here because of Spence—Dr. Kimball?”
“I didn’t want to miss the opportunity. I went to New York last year to hear him lecture.” Terry lifted a hand and nearly knocked over a bowl of sugar. “He’s incredible.”
“I suppose,” she murmured as their coffee was served.
“Where you been hiding?” the bartender asked, giving her shoulder a casual squeeze. “I haven’t seen you in here all month.”
“Business is good. How’s Darla?”
“History.” Joe gave her a quick, friendly wink. “I’m all yours, Tash.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.” With a laugh, she turned back to Terry. “Is something wrong?” she asked when she saw him dragging at his collar.
“Yes. No. That is… Is he your boyfriend?”
“My…” To keep herself from laughing in Terry’s face, she took a sip of coffee. “You mean Joe? No.” She cleared her throat and sipped again. “No, he’s not. We’re just…” She searched for a word. “Pals.”
“Oh.” Relief and in security warred. “I just thought, since he…Well.”
“He was only joking.” Wanting to put Terry at ease again, she squeezed his hand. “What about you? Do you have a girl back in Michigan?”
“No. There’s nobody. Nobody at all.” He turned his hand over, gripping hers.
Oh, my God. As realization hit, Natasha felt her mouth drop open. Only a fool would have missed it, she thought as she stared into Terry’s adoring, myopic eyes. A fool, she added, who was so tied up with her own problems that she missed what was happening under her nose. She was going to have to be careful, Natasha decided. Very careful.
“Terry,” she began. “You’re very sweet—”
That was all it took to make his hand shake. Coffee spilled down his shirt. Moving quickly, Natasha shifted chairs so that she was beside him. Snatching paper napkins from the dispenser, she began to blot the stain.
“It’s a good thing they never serve it hot in this place. If you soak this in cold water right away, you should be all right.”
Overcome, Terry grabbed both of her hands. Her head was bent close, and the scent of her hair was making him dizzy. “I love you,” he blurted, and took aim with his mouth; his glasses slid down his nose.
Natasha felt his lips hit her cheekbone, cold and trembly. Because her heart went out to him, she decided that being careful wasn’t the right approach. Firmness was called for, quickly.
“No, you don’t.” Her voice was brisk, she pulled back far enough to dab at the spill on the table.
“I don’t?” Her response threw him off. It was nothing like any of the fantasies he’d woven. There was the one where he’d saved her from a runaway truck. And another where he’d played the song he was writing for her and she had collapsed in a passionate, weeping puddle into his arms. His imagination hadn’t stretched far enough to see her wiping up coffee and calmly telling him he wasn’t in love at all.
“Yes, I do.” He snatched at her hand again.
“That’s ridiculous,” she said, and smiled to take the sting out of the words. “You like me, and I like you, too.”
“No, it’s more than that. I—”
“All right. Why do you love me?”
“Because you’re beautiful,” he managed, losing his grip as he stared into her face again. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
“And that’s enough?” Disengaging her hand from his, she linked her fingers to rest her chin on them. “What if I told you I was a thief—or that I liked to run down small, furry animals with my car? Maybe I’ve been married three times and have murdered all my husbands in their sleep.”
“Tash—”
She laughed, but resisted the temptation to pet his cheek. “I mean, you don’t know me enough to love me. If you did, what I looked like wouldn’t matter.”
“But—but I think about you all the time.”
“Because you’ve told yourself it would be nice to be in love with me.” He looked so forlorn that she took a chance and laid one hand upon his. “I’m very flattered.”
“Does this mean you won’t go out with me?”
“I’m out with you now.” She pushed her cup of coffee in front of him. “As friends,” she said before the light could dawn again in his eyes. “I’m too old to be anything but your friend.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Oh, yes.” Suddenly she felt a hundred. “Yes, I am.”
“You think I’m stupid,” he muttered. In place of confused excitement came a crushing wave of humiliation. He could feel his cheeks sting with it.
“No, I don’t.” Her voice softened, and she reached once more for his hands. “Terry, listen—”
Before she could stop him, he pushed back his chair. “I’ve got to go.”
Cursing herself, Natasha picked up his striped scarf. There was no use in following him now. He needed time, she decided. And she needed air.
The leaves were beginning to turn, and a few that had fallen early scraped along the sidewalk ahead of the wind. It was the kind of evening Natasha liked best, but now she barely noticed it. She’d left her coffee untouched to take a long, circular walk through town.
Heading home, she thought of a dozen ways she could have handled Terry’s infatuation better. Through her clumsiness she had wounded a sensitive, vulnerable boy. It could have been avoided, all of it, if she had been paying attention to what was happening in front of her face.
Instead she’d been blinded by her own unwelcome feelings for someone else.
She knew too well what it was to believe yourself in love, desperately, hopelessly in love. And she knew how it hurt to discover that the one you loved didn’t return those feelings. Cruel or kind, the rejection of love left the heart bruised.
Uttering a sigh, she ran a hand over the scarf in her pocket. Had she ever been so trusting and defenseless? Yes, she answered herself. That and much, much more.
It was about damn time, Spence thought as he watched her start up the walk. Obviously her mind was a million miles away. On her date, he decided and tried not to grind his teeth. Well, he was going to see to it that she had a lot more to think about in very short order.
“Didn’t he walk you home?”
Natasha stopped dead with an involuntary gasp. In the beam of her porch light she saw Spence sitting on her stoop. That was all she needed, she thought while she dragged a hand through her hair. With Terry she’d felt as though she’d kicked a puppy. Now she was going to have to face down a large, hungry wolf.
“What are you doing here?”
“Freezing.”
She nearly laughed. His breath was puffing out in white steam. With the wind chill, she imagined that the effective temperature was hovering around twenty-five degrees Fahrenheit. After a moment, Natasha decided she must be a very poor sport to be amused at the thought of Spence sitting on cold concrete for the past hour.
He rose as she continued down the walk. How could she have forgotten how tall he was? “Didn’t you invite your friend back for a drink?”
“No.” She reached out and twisted the knob. Like most of the doors in town, it was unlocked. “If I had, you’d be very embarrassed.”
“That’s not the word for it.”
“I’m suppose I’m lucky I didn’t find you waiting up for me inside.”
“You would have,” he muttered, “if it had occurred to me to try the door.”
“Good night.”
“Wait a damn minute.” He slapped his palm on the door before she could close it in his face. “I didn’t sit out here in the cold for my health. I want to talk to you.”
There was something satisfying in the brief, fruitless push-push they played with the door. “It’s late.”
“And getting later by the second. If you close the door, I’m just going to beat on it until all your neighbors poke their heads out their windows.”
“Five minutes,” she said graciously, because she had planned to grant him that in any case. “I’ll give you a brandy, then you’ll go.”
“You’re all heart, Natasha.”
“No.” She laid her coat over the back of the couch. “I’m not.”
She disappeared into the kitchen without another word. When she returned with two snifters of brandy, he was standing in the center of the room, running Terry’s scarf through his fingers.
“What kind of game are you playing?”
She set down his brandy, then sipped calmly at her own. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“What are you doing, going out on dates with some college kid who’s still wet behind the ears?”
Both her back and her voice stiffened. “It’s none of your business whom I go out with.”
“It is now,” Spence replied, realizing it now mattered to him.
“No, it’s not. And Terry’s a very nice young man.”
“Young’s the operative word.” Spence tossed the scarf aside. “He’s certainly too young for you.”
“Is that so?” It was one thing for her to say it, and quite another to have Spence throw it at her like an accusation. “I believe that’s for me to decide.”
“Hit a nerve that time,” Spence muttered to himself. There had been a time—hadn’t there?—when he had been considered fairly smooth with women. “Maybe I should have said you’re too old for him.”
“Oh, yes.” Despite herself, she began to see the humor of it. “That’s a great deal better. Would you like to drink this brandy or wear it?”
“I’ll drink it, thanks.” He lifted the glass, but instead of bringing it to his lips, took another turn around the room. He was jealous, Spence realized. It was rather pathetic, but he was jealous of an awkward, tongue-tied grad student. And while he was about it, he was making a very big fool of himself. “Listen, maybe I should start over.”
“I don’t know why you would want to start something over you should never have begun.”
But like a dog with a bone, he couldn’t stop gnawing. “It’s just that he’s obviously not your type.”
Fire blazed again. “Oh, and you’d know about my type?”
Spence held up his free hand. “All right, one straight question before my foot is permanently lodged in my mouth. Are you interested in him?”
“Of course I am.” Then she cursed herself; it was impossible to use Terry and his feelings as a barricade against Spence. “He’s a very nice boy.”
Spence almost relaxed, then spotted the scarf again, still spread over the back of her couch. “What are you doing with that?”
“I picked it up for him.” The sight of it, bright and a little foolish on the jewel colors of her couch, made her feel like the most vicious kind of femme fatale. “He left it behind after I broke his heart. He thinks he’s in love with me.” Miserable, she dropped into a chair. “Oh, go away. I don’t know why I’m talking to you.”
The look on her face made him want to smile and stroke her hair. He thought better of it and kept his tone brisk. “Because you’re upset, and I’m the only one here.”
“I guess that’ll do.” She didn’t object when Spence sat down across from her. “He was very sweet and nervous, and I had no idea what he was feeling—or what he thought he was feeling. I should have realized, but I didn’t until he spilled his coffee all over his shirt, and… Don’t laugh at him.”
Spence continued to smile as he shook his head. “I’m not. Believe me, I know exactly how he must have felt. There are some women who make you clumsy.”
Their eyes met and held. “Don’t flirt with me.”
“I’m past flirting with you, Natasha.”
Restless, she rose to pace the room. “You’re changing the subject.”
“Am I?”
She waved an impatient hand as she paced. “I hurt his feelings. If I had known what was happening, I might have stopped it. There is nothing,” she said passionately, “nothing worse than loving someone and being turned away.”
“No.” He understood that. And he could see by the shadows haunting her eyes that she did, too. “But you don’t really believe he’s in love with you.”
“He believes it. I ask him why he thinks it, and do you know what he says?” She whirled back, her hair swirling around her shoulders with the movement. “He says because he thinks I’m beautiful. That’s it.” She threw up her hands and started to pace again. Spence only watched, caught up in her movements and by the musical cadence that agitation brought to her voice. “When he says it, I want to slap him and say—what’s wrong with you? A face is nothing but a face. You don’t know my mind or my heart. But he has big, sad eyes, so I can’t yell at him.”
“You never had a problem yelling at me.”
“You don’t have big, sad eyes, and you’re not a boy who thinks he’s in love.”
“I’m not a boy,” he agreed, catching her by the shoulders from behind. Even as she stiffened, he turned her around. “And I like more than your face, Natasha. Though I like that very much.”
“You don’t know anything about me, either.”
“Yes, I do. I know you lived through experiences I can hardly imagine. I know you love and miss your family, that you understand children and have a natural affection for them. You’re organized, stubborn and passionate.” He ran his hands down her arms, then back to her shoulders. “I know you’ve been in love before.” He tightened his grip before she could pull away. “And you’re not ready to talk about it. You have a sharp, curious mind and caring heart, and you wish you weren’t attracted to me. But you are.”
She lowered her lashes briefly to veil her eyes. “Then it would seem you know more of me than I of you.”
“That’s easy to fix.”
“I don’t know if I want to. Or why I should.”
His lips brushed hers, then retreated before she could respond or reject. “There’s something there,” he murmured. “That’s reason enough.”
“Maybe there is,” she began. “No.” She drew back when he would have kissed her again. “Don’t. I’m not very strong tonight.”
“A good way to make me feel guilty if I press my advantage.”
She felt twin rushes of disappointment and relief when he released her. “I’ll make you dinner,” she said on impulse.
“Now?”
“Tomorrow. Just dinner,” she added, wondering if she should already be regretting the invitation. “If you bring Freddie.”
“She’d like that. So would I.”
“Good. Seven o’clock.” Natasha picked up his coat and held it out. “Now you have to go.”
“You should learn to say what’s on your mind.” With a half laugh, Spence took the coat from her. “One more thing.”
“Only one?”
“Yeah.” He swung her back into his arms for one long, hard, mind-numbing kiss. He had the satisfaction of seeing her sink weakly onto the arm of the sofa when he released her.
“Good night,” he said, then stepping outside, gulped in a deep breath of cold air.
It was the first time Freddie had been asked out to a grown-up dinner, and she waited impatiently while her father shaved. Usually she enjoyed watching him slide the razor through the white foam on his face. There were even times when she secretly wished she were a boy, so that she could look forward to the ritual. But tonight she thought her father was awfully slow.
“Can we go now?”
Standing in his bathrobe, Spence rinsed off the traces of lather. “It might be a better idea if I put some pants on.”
Freddie only rolled her eyes. “When are you going to?”
Spence scooped her up to bite gently at her neck. “As soon as you beat it.”
Taking him at his word, she raced downstairs to prowl the foyer and count to sixty. Around the fifth round, she sat on the bottom step to play with the buckle of her left shoe.
Freddie had it all figured out. Her father was going to marry either Tash or Mrs. Patterson, because they were both pretty and had nice smiles. Afterward, the one he married would come and live in their new house. Soon she would have a new baby sister. A baby brother would do in a pinch, but it was definitely a second choice. Everybody would be happy, because everybody would like each other a lot. And her daddy would play his music late at night again.
When she heard Spence start down, Freddie jumped up and whirled around to face him. “Daddy, I counted to sixty a jillion times.”
“I bet you left out the thirties again.” He took her coat from the hall closet and helped bundle her into it.
“No, I didn’t.” At least she didn’t think she had. “You took forever.” With a sigh, she pulled him to the door.
“We’re still going to be early.”
“She won’t mind.”
At that moment, Natasha was pulling a sweater over her head and wondering why she had invited anyone to dinner, particularly a man every instinct told her to avoid. She’d been distracted all day, worrying if the food would be right, if she’d chosen the most complimentary wine. And now she was changing for the third time.
Totally out of character, she told herself as she frowned at her reflection in the mirror. The casual blue sweater and leggings calmed her. If she looked at ease, Natasha decided she would be at ease. She fastened long silver columns at her ears, gave her hair a quick toss, then hurried back to the kitchen. She had hardly checked her sauce when she heard the knock.
They were early, she thought, allowing herself one mild oath before going to the door.
They looked wonderful. Agitation vanished in a smile. The sight of the little girl with her hand caught firmly in her father’s went straight to her heart. Because it came naturally, she bent to kiss Freddie on both cheeks. “Hello.”
“Thank you for asking me to dinner.” Freddie recited the sentence, then looked at her father for approval.
“You’re welcome.”
“Aren’t you going to kiss Daddy, too?”
Natasha hesitated, then caught Spence’s quick, challenging grin. “Of course.” She brushed her lips formally against his cheeks. “That is a traditional Ukrainian greeting.”
“I’m very grateful for glasnost.” Still smiling, he took her hand and brought it to his lips.
“Are we going to have borscht?” Freddie wanted to know.
“Borscht?” Natasha lifted a brow as she helped Freddie out of her coat.
“When I told Mrs. Patterson that me and Daddy were going to have dinner at your house, she said that borscht was Russian for beet soup.” Freddie managed not to say she thought it sounded gross, but Natasha got the idea.
“I’m sorry I didn’t make any,” she said, straight faced. “I made another traditional dish instead. Spaghetti and meatballs.”
It was easy, surprisingly so. They ate at the old gateleg table by the window, and their talk ranged from Freddie’s struggles with arithmetic to Neapolitan opera. It took only a little prodding for Natasha to talk of her family. Freddie wanted to know everything there was about being a big sister.
“We didn’t fight very much,” Natasha reflected as she drank after-dinner coffee and balanced Freddie on her knee. “But when we did, I won, because I was the oldest. And the meanest.”
“You’re not mean.”
“Sometimes when I’m angry I am.” She looked at Spence, remembering—and regretting—telling him he didn’t deserve Freddie. “Then I’m sorry.”
“When people fight, it doesn’t always mean they don’t like each other,” Spence murmured. He was doing his best not to think how perfect, how perfectly right his daughter looked cuddled on Natasha’s lap. Too far, too fast, he warned himself. For everyone involved.
Freddie wasn’t sure she understood, but she was only five. Then she remembered happily that she would soon be six. “I’m going to have a birthday.”
“Are you?” Natasha looked appropriately impressed. “When?”
“In two weeks. Will you come to my party?”
“I’d love to.” Natasha looked at Spence as Freddie recited all the wonderful treats that were in store.
It wasn’t wise to get so involved with the little girl, she warned herself. Not when the little girl was attached so securely to a man who made Natasha long for things she had put behind her. Spence smiled at her. No, it wasn’t wise, she thought again. But it was irresistible.
CHAPTER SIX (#u64cc9cf6-f529-548f-8cd6-ae74e7915a54)
“Chicken pox.” Spence said the two words again. He stood in the doorway and watched his little girl sleep. “It’s a hell of a birthday present, sweetie.”
In two days his daughter would be six, and by then, according to the doctor, she’d be covered with the itchy rash that was now confined to her belly and chest.
It was going around, the pediatrician had said. It would run its course. Easy for him to say, Spence thought. It wasn’t his daughter whose eyes were teary. It wasn’t his baby with a hundred-and-one-degree temperature.
She’d never been sick before, Spence realized as he rubbed his tired eyes. Oh, the sniffles now and again, but nothing a little TLC and baby aspirin hadn’t put right. He dragged a hand through his hair; Freddie moaned in her sleep and tried to find a cool spot on her pillow.
The call from Nina hadn’t helped. He’d had to come down hard to prevent her from catching the shuttle and arriving on his doorstep. That hadn’t stopped her telling him that Freddie had undoubtedly caught chicken pox because she was attending public school. That was nonsense, of course, but when he looked at his little girl, tossing in her bed, her face flushed with fever, the guilt was almost unbearable.
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Нора Робертс
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Christmas In The Snow: Taming Natasha / Considering Kate, электронная книга автора Нора Робертс на английском языке, в жанре современные любовные романы