Taming Natasha (11 page)

“It throws it off.”

“That's the point.”

He grinned at her. “Want to collaborate?”

“You do better without me.”

“I don't think so.” His grin faded; he cupped her face in one hand. “I really don't think so.”

This wasn't what she had intended. She had wanted to lighten his
mood, to be his friend. She hadn't wanted to stir these feelings in both of them, feelings they would be wiser to ignore. But they were there, pulsing. No matter how strong her will, she couldn't deny them. Even the light touch of his fingers on her face made her ache, made her yearn, made her remember.

“The tea's getting cold.” But she didn't pull away, didn't try to stand. When he leaned over to touch his mouth to hers, she only shut her eyes. “This can't go anywhere,” she murmured.

“It already has.” His hand moved up her back, strong, possessive, in contrast with the light play of his lips. “I think about you all the time, about being with you, touching you. I've never wanted anyone the way I want you.” Slowly he ran a hand down her throat, over her shoulder, along her arm until their fingers linked over the piano keys. “It's like a thirst, Natasha, a constant thirst. And when I'm with you like this, I know it's the same for you.”

She wanted to deny it, but his mouth was roaming hungrily over her face, taunting hers to tremble with need. And she did need, to be held like this, wanted like this. It had been easy in the past to pretend that being desired wasn't necessary. No, she hadn't had to pretend. Until now, until him, it had been true.

Now, suddenly, like a door opening, like a light being switched on, everything had changed. She yearned for him, and her blood swam faster, just knowing he wanted her. Even for a moment, she told herself as her hands clutched at his hair to pull his mouth to hers. Even for this moment.

It was there again, that whirlwind of sensation that erupted the instant they came together. Too fast, too hot, too real to be borne. Too stunning to be resisted.

It was as though he were the first, though he was not. It was as
though he were the only one, though that could never be. As she poured herself into the kiss, she wished desperately that her life could begin again in that moment, with him.

There was more than passion here. The emotions that swirled inside her nearly swallowed him. There was desperation, fear and a bottomless generosity that left him dazed. Nothing would ever be simple again. Knowing it, a part of him tried to pull back, to think, to reason. But the taste of her, hot, potent, only drew him closer to the flame.

“Wait.” For the first time she admitted her own weakness and let her head rest against his shoulder. “This is too fast.”

“No.” He combed his fingers through her hair. “It's taken years already.”

“Spence.” Struggling for balance, she straightened. “I don't know what to do,” she said slowly, watching him. “It's important for me to know what to do.”

“I think we can figure it out.” But when he reached for her again, she rose quickly and stepped away.

“This isn't simple for me.” Unnerved, she pushed back her hair with both hands. “I know it might seem so, because of the way I respond to you. I know that it's easier for men, less personal somehow.”

He rose very carefully, very deliberately. “Why don't you explain that?”

“I only mean that I know that men find things like this less difficult to justify.”

“Justify,” he repeated, rocking back on his heels. How could he be angry so quickly, after being so bewitched? “You make this sound like some kind of crime.”

“I don't always find the right words,” she snapped. “I'm not a college professor. I didn't speak English until I was eight, couldn't read it for longer than that.”

He checked his temper as he studied her. Her eyes were dark with something more than anger. She was standing stiffly, head up, but he couldn't tell if her stand was one of pride or self-defense. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Nothing. And everything.” Frustrated, she whirled back into the hallway to snatch up her coat. “I hate feeling stupid—hate being stupid. I don't belong here. I shouldn't have come.”

“But you did.” He grabbed her by her shoulders, so that her coat flew out to fall onto the bottom step. “Why did you?”

“I don't know. It doesn't matter why.”

He gave her an impatient squeeze. “Why do I feel as if I'm having two conversations at the same time? What's going on in that head of yours, Natasha?”

“I want you,” she said passionately. “And I don't want to.”

“You want me.” Before she could jerk away, he pulled her against himself. There was no patience in this kiss, no persuasion. It took and took, until she was certain she could have nothing left to give. “Why does that bother you?” he murmured against her lips.

Unable to resist, she ran her hands over his face, memorizing the shape. “There are reasons.”

“Tell me about them.”

She shook her head, and this time when she pulled back, he released her. “I don't want my life to change. If something happened between us, yours would not, but mine might. I want to be sure it doesn't.”

“Does this lead back to that business about men and women thinking differently?”

“Yes.”

That made him wonder who had broken her heart, and he didn't
smile. “You look more intelligent than that. What I feel for you has already changed my life.”

That frightened her, because it made her want to believe it. “Feelings come and go.”

“Yes, they do. Some of them. What if I told you I was falling in love with you?”

“I wouldn't believe you.” Her voice shook, and she bent to pick up her coat. “And I would be angry with you for saying it.”

Maybe it was best to wait until he could make her believe. “And if I told you that until I met you, I didn't know I was lonely?”

She lowered her eyes, much more moved by this than she would have been by any words of love. “I would have to think.”

He touched her again, just a hand to her hair. “Do you think everything through?”

Her eyes were eloquent when she looked at him. “Yes.”

“Then think about this. It wasn't my intention to seduce you—not that I haven't given that a great deal of thought on my own, but I didn't see it happening with my daughter sick upstairs.”

“You didn't seduce me.”

“Now she's taking potshots at my ego.”

That made her smile. “There was no seduction. That implies planned persuasion. I don't want to be seduced.”

“I'll keep that in mind. All the same, I don't think I want to dissect all this like a Music major with a Beethoven concerto. It ruins the romance in much the same way.”

She smiled again. “I don't want romance.”

“That's a pity.” And a lie, he thought, remembering the way she'd looked when he'd given her a rose. “Since chicken pox is going to be
keeping me busy for the next week or two, you'll have some time. Will you come back?”

“To see Freddie.” She shrugged into her coat, then relented. “And to see you.”

 

She did. What began as just a quick call to bring Freddie a get-well present turned into the better part of an evening, soothing a miserable, rash-ridden child and an exhausted, frantic father. Surprisingly she enjoyed it, and made a habit over the next ten days of dropping in over her lunch break to spell a still-suspicious Vera, or after work to give Spence a much-needed hour of peace and quiet.

As far as romance went, bathing an itchy girl in corn starch left a lot to be desired. Despite it, Natasha found herself only more attracted to Spence and more in love with his daughter.

She watched him do his best to cheer the miserably uncomfortable patient on her birthday, then helped him deal with the pair of kittens that were Freddie's favored birthday gift. As the rash faded and boredom set in, Natasha pumped up Spence's rapidly fading imagination with stories of her own.

“Just one more story.”

Natasha smoothed Freddie's covers under her chin. “That's what you said three stories ago.”

“You tell good ones.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere. It's past my bedtime.” Natasha lifted a brow at the big red alarm clock. “And yours.”

“The doctor said I could go back to school on Monday. I'm not 'fectious.”

“Infectious,” Natasha corrected. “You'll be glad to see your friends again.”

“Mostly.” Stalling, Freddie played with the edge of her blanket. “Will you come and see me when I'm not sick?”

“I think I might.” She leaned over to make a grab and came up with a mewing kitten. “And to see Lucy and Desi.”

“And Daddy.”

Cautious, Natasha scratched the kitten's ears. “Yes, I suppose.”

“You like him, don't you?”

“Yes. He's a very good teacher.”

“He likes you, too.” Freddie didn't add that she had seen her father kiss Natasha at the foot of her bed just the night before, when they'd thought she was asleep. Watching them had given her a funny feeling in her stomach. But after a minute it had been a good funny feeling. “Will you marry him and come and live with us?”

“Well, is that a proposal?” Natasha managed to smile. “I think it's nice that you'd want me to, but I'm only friends with your daddy. Like I'm friends with you.”

“If you came to live with us, we'd still be friends.”

The child, Natasha reflected, was as clever as her father. “Won't we be friends if I live in my own house?”

“I guess.” The pouty lower lip poked out. “But I'd like it better if you lived here, like JoBeth's mom does. She makes cookies.”

Natasha leaned toward her, nose to nose. “So, you want me for my cookies.”

“I love you.” Freddie threw her arms around Natasha's neck and clung. “I'd be a good girl if you came.”

Stunned, Natasha hugged the girl tight and rocked. “Oh, baby, I love you, too.”

“So you'll marry us.”

Put like that, Natasha wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. “I don't
think getting married right now is the answer for any of us. But I'll still be your friend, and come visit and tell you stories.”

Freddie gave a long sigh. She knew when an adult was evading, and realized that it would be smart to retreat a step. Particularly when she had already made up her mind. Natasha was exactly what she wanted for a mother. And there was the added bonus that Natasha made her daddy laugh. Freddie decided then and there that her most secret and solemn Christmas wish would be for Natasha to marry her father and bring home a baby sister.

“Promise?” Freddie demanded.

“Cross my heart.” Natasha gave her a kiss on each cheek. “Now you go to sleep. I'll find your daddy so he can come up and kiss you good-night.”

Freddie closed her eyes, her lips curved with her own secret smile.

Carrying the kitten, Natasha made her way downstairs. She'd put off her monthly books and an inventory to visit tonight. More than a little midnight oil would be burned, she decided, rubbing the kitten against her cheek.

She would have to be careful with Freddie now, and with herself. It was one thing for her to have fallen in love with the youngster, but quite another for the girl to love her enough to want her for a mother. How could she expect a child of six to understand that adults often had problems and fears that made it impossible for them to take the simple route?

The house was quiet, but a light was shining from the music room. She set down the kitten, knowing he would unerringly race to the kitchen.

She found Spence in the music room, spread on the two-cushion sofa so that his legs hung over one end. In sloppy sweats and bare feet
he looked very little like the brilliant composer and full professor of music. Nor had he shaved. Natasha was forced to admit that the shadow of stubble only made him more attractive, especially when combined with tousled hair a week or two late for the barber.

He was sleeping deeply, a throw pillow crunched under his head. Natasha knew, because Vera had unbent long enough to tell her that Spence had stayed up throughout two nights during the worst of his daughter's fever and discomfort.

She was aware, too, that he had juggled his schedule at the college with trips home during the day. More than once during her visits she'd found him up to his ears in paperwork.

Once she had thought him pampered, a man who'd come by his talents and his position almost by birth. Perhaps he had been born with his talent, she thought now, but he worked hard, for himself and for his child. There was nothing she could admire more in a man.

I'm falling in love with him, she admitted. With his smile and his temper, his devotion and his drive. Perhaps, just perhaps they could give something to each other. Cautiously, carefully, with no promises between them.

She wanted to be his lover. She had never wanted such a thing before. With Anthony it had just happened, overwhelming her, sweeping her up and away, then leaving her shattered. It wouldn't be that way with Spence. Nothing would ever hurt her that deeply again. And with him there was a chance, just a chance of happiness.

Shouldn't she take it? Moving quietly, she unfolded the throw of soft blue wool that was draped along the back of the couch to spread it over him. It had been a long time since she'd taken a risk. Perhaps the time was here. She bent to brush her lips over his brow. And the man.

T
he black cat screeched a warning. A rushing gust of wind blew open the door with an echoing slam and maniacal laughter rolled in. What sounded like ooze dripped down the walls, plunking dully onto the bare concrete floor as the prisoners rattled their chains. There was a piercing scream followed by a long, desperate moan.

“Great tunes,” Annie commented and popped a gum ball into her mouth.

“I should have ordered more of those records.” Natasha took an orange fright wig and turned a harmless stuffed bear into a Halloween ghoul. “That's the last one.”

“After tonight you'll have to start thinking Christmas, anyway.” Annie pushed back her pointed black hat, then grinned, showing blackened teeth. “Here come the Freedmont boys.” She rubbed her hands together and tried out a cackle. “If this costume's worth anything, I should be able to turn them into frogs.”

She didn't quite manage that, but sold them fake blood and latex scars.

“I wonder what those little dears have in store for the neighborhood tonight,” Natasha mused.

“Nothing good.” Annie ducked under a hanging bat. “Shouldn't you get going?”

“Yes, in a minute.” Stalling, Natasha fiddled with her dwindling supply of masks and fake noses. “The pig snouts sold better than I'd imagined. I didn't realize so many people would want to dress up as livestock.” She picked one up to hold it over her nose. “Maybe we should keep them out year round.”

Recognizing her friend's tactics, Annie ran her tongue over her teeth to keep from grinning. “It was awfully nice of you to volunteer to help decorate for Freddie's party tonight.”

“It's a little thing,” Natasha said and hated herself for being nervous. She replaced the snout, then ran her finger over a wrinkled elephant trunk attached to oversize glasses. “Since I suggested the idea of her having a Halloween party to make up for her missed birthday, I thought I should help.”

“Uh-huh. I wonder if her daddy's going to come as Prince Charming.”

“He is not Prince Charming.”

“The Big Bad Wolf?” On a laugh, Annie held up her hands in a gesture of peace. “Sorry. It's just such a kick to see you unnerved.”

“I'm not unnerved.” That was a big lie, Natasha admitted while she packed up some of her contributions to the party. “You know, you're welcome to come.”

“And I appreciate it. I'd rather stay home and guard my house from preadolescent felons. And don't worry,” she added before Natasha could speak again. “I'll lock up.”

“All right. Maybe I'll just—” Natasha broke off as the door jingled open. Another customer, she thought, would give her a little more time. When she spotted Terry, there was no way of saying who was more surprised. “Hello.”

He swallowed over the huge lump in his throat and tried to look beyond her costume. “Tash?”

“Yes.” Hoping he'd forgiven her by now, she smiled and held out a hand. He'd changed his seat in class, and every time she had tried to approach him, he'd darted off. Now he stood trapped, embarrassed and uncertain. He touched her outstretched hand, then stuck his own into his pocket.

“I didn't expect to see you here.”

“No?” She tilted her head. “This is my shop.” She wondered if it would strike him that she had been right when she'd said how little he knew her, and her voice softened. “I own it.”

“You own it?” He looked around, unable to hide the impression it made on him. “Wow. That's something.”

“Thank you. Did you come to buy something or just to look?”

Instantly he colored. It was one thing to go into a store, and another to go into one where the owner was a woman he'd professed to love. “I just…ah…”

“Something for Halloween?” she prompted. “They have parties at the college.”

“Yeah, well, I kind of thought I might slip into a couple. I guess it's silly really, but…”

“Halloween is very serious business here at The Fun House,” Natasha told him solemnly. As she spoke, another scream ripped from the speakers. “You see?”

Embarrassed that he'd jumped, Terry managed a weak smile. “Yeah. Well, I was thinking, maybe a mask or something. You know.” His big, bony hands waved in space, then retreated to his pockets.

“Would you like to be scary or funny?”

“I don't, ah, I haven't thought about it.”

Understanding, Natasha resisted the urge to pat his cheek. “You might get some ideas when you look at what we have left. Annie, this is my friend, Terry Maynard. He's a violinist.”

“Hi.” Annie watched his glasses slide down his nose after his nervous nod of greeting and thought him adorable. “We're running low, but we've still got some pretty good stuff. Why don't you come over and take a look? I'll help you pick one out.”

“I have to run.” Natasha began gathering up her two shopping bags, hoping that the visit had put them back on more solid ground. “Have a good time at your party, Terry.”

“Thanks.”

“Annie, I'll see you in the morning.”

“Right. Don't bob for too many apples.” Pushing her pointed hat out of her eyes again, Annie grinned at Terry. “So, you're a violinist.”

“Yeah.” He gave Natasha's retreating back one last look. When the door closed behind her he felt a pang, but only a small one. “I'm taking some graduate classes at the college.”

“Great. Hey, can you play ‘Turkey in the Straw'?”

Outside Natasha debated running home to get her car. The cool, clear air changed her mind. The trees had turned. The patchwork glory of a week before, with its scarlets and vivid oranges and yellows, had blended into a dull russet. Dry, curling leaves spun from the branches to crowd against the curbs and scatter on the sidewalks. They crackled under her feet as she began the short walk.

The hardiest flowers remained, adding a spicy scent so different from the heavy fragrances of summer. Cooler, cleaner, crisper, Natasha thought as she drew it in.

She turned off the main street to where hedges and big trees shielded the houses. Jack-o'-lanterns sat on stoops and porches,
grinning as they waited to be lighted at dusk. Here and there effigies in flannel shirts and torn jeans hung from denuded branches. Witches and ghosts stuffed with straw sat on steps, waiting to scare and delight the wandering trick-or-treaters.

If anyone had asked her why she had chosen a small town in which to settle, this would have been one of her answers. People here took the time—the time to carve a pumpkin, the time to take a bundle of old clothes and fashion it into a headless horseman. Tonight, before the moon rose, children could race along the streets, dressed as fairies or goblins. Their goody bags would swell with store-bought candy and homemade cookies, while adults pretended not to recognize the miniature hoboes, clowns and demons. The only thing the children would have to fear was make-believe.

Her child would have been seven.

Natasha paused for a moment, pressing a hand to her stomach until the grief and the memory could be blocked. How many times had she told herself the past was past? And how many times would that past sneak up and slice at her?

True, it came less often now, but still so sharply and always unexpectedly. Days could go by, even months, then it surfaced, crashing over her, leaving her a little dazed, a little tender, like a woman who had walked into a wall.

A car engine was gunned. A horn blasted. “Hey, Tash.”

She blinked and managed to lift a hand in passing salute, though she couldn't identify the driver, who continued on his way.

This was now, she told herself, blinking to focus again on the swirl of leaves. This was here. There was never any going back. Years before she had convinced herself that the only direction was forward. Deliberately she took a long, deep breath, relieved when she felt her
system level. Tonight wasn't the time for sorrows. She had promised another child a party, and she intended to deliver.

She had to smile when she started up the steps of Spence's home. He had already been working, she noted. Two enormous jack-o'-lanterns flanked the porch. Like Comedy and Tragedy, one grinned and the other scowled. Across the railing a white sheet had been shaped and spread so that the ghost it became seemed to be in full flight. Cardboard bats with red eyes swooped down from the eaves. In an old rocker beside the door sat a hideous monster who held his laughing head in his hand. On the door was a full-size cutout of a witch stirring a steaming cauldron.

Natasha knocked under the hag's warty nose. She was laughing when Spence opened the door. “Trick or treat,” she said.

He couldn't speak at all. For a moment he thought he was imagining things, had to be. The music-box gypsy was standing before him, gold dripping from her ears and her wrists. Her wild mane of hair was banded by a sapphire scarf that flowed almost to her waist with the corkscrew curls. More gold hung around her neck, thick, ornate chains that only accented her slenderness. The red dress was snug, scooped at the bodice and full in the skirt, with richly colored scarfs tied at the waist.

Her eyes were huge and dark, made mysterious by some womanly art. Her lips were full and red, turned up now as she spun in a saucy circle. It took him only seconds to see it all, down to the hints of black lace at the hem. He felt as though he'd been standing in the doorway for hours.

“I have a crystal ball,” she told him, reaching into her pocket to pull out a small, clear orb. “If you cross my palm with silver, I'll gaze into it for you.”

“My God,” he managed. “You're beautiful.”

She only laughed and stepped inside. “Illusions. Tonight is meant for them.” With a quick glance around, she slipped the crystal back
into her pocket. But the image of the gypsy and the mystery remained. “Where's Freddie?”

His hand had gone damp on the knob. “She's…” It took a moment for his brain to kick back into gear. “She's at JoBeth's. I wanted to put things together when she wasn't around.”

“A good idea.” She studied his gray sweats and dusty sneakers. “Is this your costume?”

“No. I've been hanging cobwebs.”

“I'll give you a hand.” Smiling, she held up her bags. “I have some tricks and I have some treats. Which would you like first?”

“You have to ask?” he said quietly, then hooking an arm around her waist, brought her up hard against himself. She threw her head back, words of anger and defiance in her eyes and on the tip of her tongue. Then his mouth found hers. The bags slipped out of her hands. Freed, her fingers dived into his hair.

This wasn't what she wanted. But it was what she needed. Without hesitation her lips parted, inviting intimacy. She heard his quiet moan of pleasure merge with her own. It seemed right, somehow it seemed perfectly right to be holding him like this, just inside his front door, with the scents of fall flowers and fresh polish in the air, and the sharp-edged breeze of autumn rushing over them.

It was right. He could taste and feel the rightness with her body pressed against his own, her lips warm and agile. No illusion this. No fantasy was she, despite the colorful scarfs and glittering gold. She was real, she was here, and she was his. Before the night was over, he would prove it to both of them.

“I hear violins,” he murmured as he trailed his lips down her throat.

“Spence.” She could only hear her heartbeat, like thunder in her head. Struggling for sanity, she pushed away. “You make me do things
I tell myself I won't.” After a deep breath she gave him a steady look. “I came to help you with Freddie's party.”

“And I appreciate it.” Quietly he closed the door. “Just like I appreciate the way you look, the way you taste, the way you feel.”

She shouldn't have been so aroused by only a look. Couldn't be, not when the look told her that whatever the crystal in her pocket promised, he already knew their destiny. “This is a very inappropriate time.”

He loved the way her voice could take on that regal tone, czarina to peasant. “Then we'll find a better one.”

Exasperated, she hefted the bags again. “I'll help you hang your cobwebs, if you promise to be Freddie's father—and only Freddie's father while we do.”

“Okay.” He didn't see any other way he'd survive an evening with twenty costumed first-graders. And the party, he thought, wouldn't last forever. “We'll be pals for the duration.”

She liked the sound of it. Choosing a bag, she reached inside. She held up a rubber mask of a bruised, bloodied and scarred face. Competently she slipped it over Spence's head. “There. You look wonderful.”

He adjusted it until he could see her through both eyeholes, and had a foolish and irresistible urge to look at himself in the hall mirror. Behind the mask he grinned. “I'll suffocate.”

“Not for a couple of hours yet.” She handed him the second bag. “Come on. It takes time to build a haunted house.”

 

It took them two hours to transform Spence's elegantly decorated living room into a spooky dungeon, fit for rats and screams of torture. Black and orange crepe paper hung on the walls and ceiling. Angel-hair cobwebs draped the corners. A mummy, arms folded across its chest leaned in a corner. A black-caped witch hung in the air, sus
pended on her broom. Thirsty and waiting for dusk, an evil-eyed Dracula lurked in the shadows, ready to pounce.

“You don't think it's too scary?” Spence asked as he hung up a Pin-the-Nose-on-the-Pumpkin game. “They're first-graders.”

Natasha flicked a finger over a rubber spider that hung by a thread and sent him spinning. “Very mild. My brothers made a haunted house once. They blindfolded Rachel and me to take us through. Mikhail put my hand in a bowl of grapes and told me it was eyes.”

“Now that's disgusting,” Spence decided.

“Yes.” It delighted her to remember it. “Then there was this spaghetti—”