Taming Natasha (14 page)

Bringing herself back, she slipped the flower into the vase and shifted her concentration to her studies. Within five minutes the phone rang.

“Good morning, Fun House.”

“Good morning, businessperson.”

“Mama!”

“So, you are busy or you have a moment to talk to your mother?”

Natasha cradled the phone in both hands, loving the sound of her mother's voice. “Of course I have a moment. All the moments you like.”

“I wondered, since you have not called me in two weeks.”

“I'm sorry.” For two weeks a man had been the center of her life. But she could hardly tell that to her mother. “How are you and Papa and everyone?”

“Papa and me and everyone are good. Papa gets a raise.”

“Wonderful.”

“Mikhail doesn't see the Italian girl anymore.” Nadia gave thanks in Ukrainian and made Natasha laugh. “Alex, he sees all the girls. Smart boy, my Alex. And Rachel has time for nothing but her studies. What of Natasha?”

“Natasha is fine. I'm eating well and getting plenty of sleep,” she added before Nadia could ask.

“Good. And your store?”

“We're about to get ready for Christmas, and I expect a better year than last.”

“I want you to stop sending your money.”

“I want you to stop worrying about your children.”

Nadia's sigh made Natasha smile. It was an old argument. “You are a very stubborn woman.”

“Like my mama.”

That was true enough, and Nadia clearly didn't intend to concede. “We will talk about this when you come for Thanksgiving.”

Thanksgiving, Natasha thought. How could she have forgotten? Clamping the receiver between ear and shoulder, she flipped through her calendar. It was less than two weeks away. “I can't argue with my mother on Thanksgiving.” Natasha made a note for herself to call the train station. “I'll be up late Wednesday evening. I'll bring the wine.”

“You bring yourself.”

“Myself and the wine.” Natasha scribbled another note to herself.
It was a difficult time to take off, but she had never missed—and would never miss—a holiday at home. “I'll be so glad to see all of you again.”

“Maybe you bring a friend.”

It was another old routine, but this time, for the first time, Natasha hesitated. No, she told herself with a shake of her head. Why would Spence want to spend Thanksgiving in Brooklyn?

“Natasha?” Nadia's well-honed instincts had obviously picked up her daughter's mental debate. “You have friend?”

“Of course. I have a lot of friends.”

“Don't be smart with your mama. Who is he?”

“He's no one.” Then she rolled her eyes as Nadia began tossing out questions. “All right, all right. He's a professor at the college, a widower,” she added. “With a little girl. I was just thinking they might like company for the holiday, that's all.”

“Ah.”

“Don't give me that significant ah, Mama. He's a friend, and I'm very fond of the little girl.”

“How long you know him?”

“They just moved here late this summer. I'm taking one of his courses, and the little girl comes in the shop sometimes.” It was all true, she thought. Not all the truth, but all true. She hoped her tone was careless. “If I get around to it, I might ask him if he'd like to come up.”

“The little girl, she can sleep with you and Rachel.”

“Yes, if—”

“The professor, he can take Alex's room. Alex can sleep on the couch.”

“He may already have plans.”

“You ask.”

“All right. If it comes up.”

“You ask,” Nadia repeated. “Now go back to work.”

“Yes, Mama. I love you.”

Now she'd done it, Natasha thought as she hung up. She could almost see her mother standing beside the rickety telephone table and rubbing her hands together.

What would he think of her family, and they of him? Would he enjoy a big, rowdy meal? She thought of the first dinner they had shared, the elegant table, the quiet, discreet service. He probably has plans anyway, Natasha decided. It just wasn't something she was going to worry about.

Twenty minutes later the phone ran again. It was probably her mother, Natasha thought, calling with a dozen questions about this “friend.” Braced, Natasha picked up the receiver. “Good morning, Fun House.”

“Natasha.”

“Spence?” Automatically she checked her watch. “Why aren't you at the university? Are you sick?”

“No. No. I came home between classes. I've got about an hour. I need you to come.”

“To your house?” There was an urgency in his voice, but it had nothing to do with disaster and everything to do with excitement. “Why? What is it?”

“Just come, will you? It's nothing I can explain. I have to show you. Please.”

“Yes, all right. Are you sure you're not sick?”

“No.” She heard his laugh and relaxed. “No, I'm not sick. I've never felt better. Hurry up, will you?”

“Ten minutes.” Natasha snatched up her coat. He'd sounded different. Happy? No, elated, ecstatic. What did a man have to be ecstatic about in the middle of the morning? Perhaps he was sick. Pulling on her gloves, she dashed into the shop.

“Annie, I have to—” She stopped, blinked, then stared at the image of Annie being kissed, soundly, by Terry Maynard. “I…excuse me.”

“Oh, Tash, Terry just… Well, he…” Annie blew the hair out of her eyes and grinned foolishly. “Are you going out?”

“Yes, I have to see someone.” She bit her lip to keep from grinning back. “I won't be more than an hour. Can you manage?”

“Sure.” Annie smoothed down her hair, while Terry stood beside her, turning various shades of red. “It has been a quiet morning. Take your time.”

Perhaps the world had decided to go crazy today, Natasha thought as she rushed down the street. First her mother calling, already preparing to kick Alex out of his bed for a stranger. Spence demanding she come to his house and see…something in the middle of the day. And now Annie and Terry, kissing each other beside the cash register. Well, she could only deal with one at a time. It looked as though Spence was first on the list.

She took his steps two at time, convinced he was suffering from some sort of fever. When he pulled open the door before she reached it, she was certain of it. His eyes were bright, his color up. His sweater was rumpled and his tie unknotted.

“Spence, are you—?”

Before she could get the words out, he was snatching her up, crushing his mouth to hers as he swung her around and around. “I thought you'd never get here.”

“I came as quickly as I could.” Instinctively she put a hand to his cheek. Then the look in his eyes had her narrowing her own. No, it wasn't a fever, she decided. At least it wasn't the kind that required medical attention. “If you had me run all the way over here for that, I'm going to hit you very hard.”

“For—no,” he answered on a laugh. “Though it's a wonderful idea. A really wonderful idea.” He kissed her again until she thoroughly agreed with him. “I feel like I could make love with you for hours, days, weeks.”

“They might miss you in class,” she murmured. Steadying herself, she stepped back. “You sounded excited. Did you win the lottery?”

“Better. Come here.” Remembering the door, he slammed it shut, then pulled her into the music room. “Don't say anything. Just sit.”

She obliged, but when he went to the piano, she started to stand again. “Spence, I'd enjoy a concert, but—”

“Don't talk,” he said impatiently. “Just listen.”

And he began to play.

It took only moments for her to realize it was nothing she'd heard before. Nothing that had been written before. A tremor ran through her body. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap.

Passion. Each note swelled with it, soared with it, wept with it. She could only stare, seeing the intensity in his eyes and the fluid grace of his fingers on the keys. The beauty of it ripped at her, digging deep into heart and into soul. How could it be that her feelings, her most intimate feelings could be put to music?

As the tempo built, her pulse beat thickly. She couldn't have spoken, could hardly breathe. Then the music flowed into something sad and strong. And alive. She closed her eyes as it crashed over her, unaware that tears had begun to spill onto her cheeks.

When it ended, she sat very still.

“I don't have to ask you what you think,” Spence murmured. “I can see it.”

She only shook her head. She didn't have the words to tell him. There were no words. “When?”

“Over the last few days.” The emotion the song had wrenched from him came flooding back. Rising, he went to her to take her hands and pulled her to her feet. As their fingers met, she could feel the intensity he'd poured into his music. “It came back.” He pressed her hands to his lips. “At first it was terrifying. I could hear it in my head, the way I used to. It's like being plugged into heaven, Natasha. I can't explain it.”

“No. You don't have to. I heard it.”

She understood, he thought. Somehow he'd been sure she would. “I thought it was just wishful thinking, or that when I sat down there…” He looked back at the piano. “That it would vanish. But it didn't. It flowed. God, it's like being given back your hands or your eyes.”

“It was always there.” She lifted her hands to his face. “It was just resting.”

“No,
you
brought it back. I told you once, my life had changed when I met you. I didn't know how much. It's for you, Natasha.”

“No, it's for you. Very much for you.” Wrapping her arms around him, she pressed her mouth to his. “It's just the beginning.”

“Yes.” He dragged his hands through her hair so that her face was tilted to his. “It is.” His grip only tightened when she would have pulled away. “If you heard that, if you understood that, you know what I mean. And you know what I feel.”

“Spence, it would be wrong for you to say anything now. Your emotions are all on the surface. What you feel about your music is easily confused with other things.”

“That's nonsense. You don't want to hear me tell you that I love you.”

“No.” Panic skidded up her spine. “No, I don't. If you care for me at all, you won't.”

“It's a hell of a position you put me in.”

“I'm sorry. I want you to be happy. As long as things go on as they are—”

“And how long can things go on as they are?”

“I don't know. I can't give you back the words you want to give to me. Even feeling them, I can't.” Her eyes lifted again to meet his. “I wish I could.”

“Am I still competing against someone else?”

“No.” Quickly she reached out to take his hands. “No. What I felt for—before,” she corrected, “was a fantasy. A girl's make-believe. This is real. I'm just not strong enough to hold onto it.”

Or too strong to give in to it, he thought. And it was hurting her. Perhaps because he wanted her so badly, his impatience was adding pressure that would break them apart instead of bring them together.

“Then I won't tell you that I love you.” He kissed her brow. “And that I need you in my life.” He kissed her lips, lightly. “Not yet.” His fingers curled tightly over hers. “But there'll come a time, Natasha, when I will tell you. When you'll listen. When you'll answer me.”

“You make it sound like a threat.”

“No, it's one of those promises you don't want to hear.” He kissed her on both cheeks, casually enough to confuse her. “I have to get back.”

“Yes, so do I.” She picked up her gloves, only to run them restlessly through her hands. “Spence, it meant a very great deal that you wanted to share this with me. I know what it's like to lose part of yourself. I'm very proud of you and for you. And I'm glad that you celebrated this with me.”

“Come back, have dinner with me. I haven't begun to celebrate.”

She smiled again. “I'd like that.”

 

She didn't often buy champagne, but it seemed appropriate. Even necessary. A bottle of wine was little enough to offer for what he had given her that morning. The music itself was a gift she would always treasure. With it, he'd given her time and a glimpse of hope.

Perhaps he did love her. If she believed it, she could allow herself time to let it strengthen. If she believed it, she would have to tell him everything. It was that, even more than her own fears that still held her back.

She needed time for that, as he did.

But tonight was for celebrating.

She knocked and tried a sober smile for Vera. “Good evening.”

“Miss.” With this noncommital greeting, Vera opened the door wider. She kept her thoughts on Natasha very much to herself. True, the woman made the
señor
happy and seemed very fond of Freddie. But after more than three years of having them to herself, Vera was very cautious of sharing. “Dr. Kimball is in the music room with Freddie.”

“Thank you. I brought some wine.”

“I will take it.”

With only a little sigh, Natasha watched Vera walk away. The more the housekeeper held firm, the more determined Natasha was to win her over.

She heard Freddie's giggles as she approached the music room. And others, she realized. When she reached the door, she spotted Freddie and JoBeth clinging to each other and squealing. And why not? Natasha thought with a grin. Spence was wearing a ridiculous helmet and aiming a cardboard spool like a weapon.

“Stowaways aboard my ship are fed to the Beta Monster,” he warned them. “He has six-foot teeth and bad breath.”

“No!” Eyes wide, heart pounding with delight and dread, Freddie scrambled for cover. “Not the Beta Monster.”

“He likes little girls best.” With an evil laugh, he scooped the squealing JoBeth under one arm. “He swallows little boys whole, but he chews and chews and chews when I feed him girls.”