Taming Natasha (18 page)

“Yes.”

“Mikhail,” Natasha interrupted. “Don't play big brother. I'm older than you.”

“But I'm bigger.” Then with a quick, flashing grin, he tossed an arm around her shoulder. “So what's to eat?”

 

Too much, Spence decided as the family gathered around the table late that afternoon. The huge turkey in the center of the hand-crocheted tablecloth was only the beginning. Faithful to her adopted
country's holiday, Nadia had prepared a meal that was an American tradition from the chestnut dressing to the pumpkin pies.

Wide-eyed, Freddie gawked, staring at platter after platter. The room was full of noise as everyone talked over and around everyone else. The china was mismatched. Old Sasha lay sprawled under the table near her feet, hoping for a few unobtrusive handouts. She was sitting on a wobbly chair and the New York Yellow Pages. As far as she was concerned, it was the best day of her life.

Alex and Rachel began to argue over some childhood infraction. Mikhail joined in to tell them they were both wrong. When her opinion was sought, Natasha just laughed and shook her head, then turned to Spence and murmured something into his ear that made him chuckle.

Nadia, her cheeks rosy with the pleasure of having her family together, slipped a hand into Yuri's as he lifted his glass.

“Enough,” he said, and effectively silenced the table. “You can argue later about who let white mice loose in science lab. Now we toast. We are thankful for this food that Nadia and my girls have fixed for us. And more thankful for the friends and family who are here together to enjoy it. We give thanks, as we did on our first Thanksgiving in our country, that we are free.”

“To freedom,” Mikhail said as he lifted his glass.

“To freedom,” Yuri agreed. His eyes misted and he looked around the table. “And to family.”

T
hat evening, with Freddie dozing in his lap, Spence listened to Yuri tell stories of the old country. While the meal had been a noisy competition for conversation, this hour was one of quiet and content. Across the room Rachel and Alex played a trivia game. They argued often, but without heat.

In the corner, Natasha and Mikhail sat close, dark heads together. Spence could hear their murmurs and noted that one often reached to touch the other's hand, to touch a cheek. Nadia sat smiling, interrupting Yuri occasionally to correct or comment as she worked another pillow cover.

“Woman.” Yuri pointed at his wife with the stem of his after-dinner pipe. “I remember like yesterday.”

“You remember as you like to remember.”

“Tak.”
He stuck the pipe back into his mouth. “And what I remember makes better story.”

When Freddie stirred, Spence shifted her. “I'd better put her to bed.”

“I will do it.” Nadia set her needlework aside and rose. “I would like to.” Making soothing noises, she lifted Freddie. Sleepy and agreeable, Freddie snuggled into her neck.

“Will you rock me?”

“Yes.” Touched, Nadia kissed her hair as she started toward the steps. “I will rock you in the chair where I rocked all my babies.”

“And sing?”

“I will sing you a song my mother sang to me. You would like that?”

Freddie gave a yawn and a drowsy nod.

“You have a beautiful daughter.” Like Spence, Yuri watched them turn up the steps. “You must bring her back often.”

“I think I'll have a hard time keeping her away.”

“She is always welcome, as you are.” Yuri took a puff on his pipe. “Even if you don't marry my daughter.”

That statement brought on ten seconds of humming silence until Alex and Rachel bent back over their game, smothering grins. Spence didn't bother to smother his own as Natasha rose.

“There isn't enough milk for the morning,” she decided on the spot. “Spence, why don't you walk with me to get some?”

“Sure.”

A few moments later they stepped outside, wrapped in coats and scarves. The air had a bite that Natasha welcomed. Overhead the sky was clear as black glass and icy with stars.

“He didn't mean to embarrass you,” Spence began.

“Yes, he did.”

Spence didn't bother to hold back the chuckle, and draped an arm over her shoulders. “I suppose he did. I like your family.”

“So do I. Most of the time.”

“You're lucky to have them. Watching Freddie here has made me realize how important family is. I don't suppose I've really tried to get closer to Nina or my parents.”

“They're still family. Perhaps we're as close as we are, because when we came here we only had each other.”

“It's true my family never crossed the mountains into Hungary in a wagon.”

That made her laugh. “Rachel was always jealous that she hadn't been born yet. When she was little, she would get back by saying she was more American, because she'd been born in New York. Then not long ago, someone said to her that if she wanted to be a lawyer, she should think of changing or shortening her name.” With a new laugh, Natasha looked up at him. “She became very insulted and very Ukrainian.”

“It's a good name. You could always keep it professionally after you marry me.”

“Don't start.”

“Must be your father's influence.” He glanced at the dark shop, where a Closed sign hung on the door. “The store's closed.”

“I know.” She turned into his arms. “I just wanted to walk. Now that we're standing here in a dark doorway, alone, I can kiss you.”

“Good point.” Spence lowered his mouth to hers.

 

Natasha was annoyed with herself for dozing off and on during the drive home. She felt as though she'd spent a week mountain climbing, rather than less than forty-eight hours in her family home. By the time she shook herself awake for the last time, they were crossing the Maryland border into West Virginia.

“Already.” She straightened in her seat and cast an apologetic glance at Spence. “I didn't help you drive.”

“It's all right. You looked like you needed the rest.”

“Too much food, too little sleep.” She looked back at Freddie, who was sleeping soundly. “We've been poor company for you.”

“You can make up for it. Come home with me for a while.”

“All right.” It was the least she could do, Natasha thought. With Vera away until Sunday, she could help him tuck Freddie into bed and fix him a light meal.

When they pulled up in front of the house, they managed the suitcases and the sleeping child between them. “I'll take her up,” he murmured. “It won't take long.”

Natasha waited in the kitchen, brewing tea and making sandwiches. It was ridiculous, she thought. She not only was exhausted but starving. By the time Spence came down again, she had Vera's worktable set.

“She's sleeping like a rock.” He scanned the table. “You read my mind.”

“With two unconscious passengers you couldn't stop and eat.”

“What have we got?”

“Old Ukrainian tradition.” She pulled back her chair. “Tuna fish.”

“Wonderful,” Spence decided after the first bite.

It was more than the sandwich. He liked having her there, sitting across from him in the glare of the kitchen light with the house quiet around them. “I guess you'll open the shop tomorrow.”

“Absolutely. It'll be a madhouse from now until Christmas. I've hired a college student part-time, and he starts tomorrow.” She lifted her cup and grinned at him over the rim. “Guess who it is.”

“Melony Trainor,” he said, naming one of his most attractive students and earning a punch on the shoulder.

“No. She's too busy flirting with men to work. Terry Maynard.”

“Maynard? Really?”

“Yes. He can use the money to buy a new muffler for his car. And…” She paused dramatically. “He and Annie are an item.”

“No kidding?” He was grinning as he sat back. “Well, he certainly got over having his life shattered quickly.”

Natasha lifted a brow. “It wasn't shattered, only shaken. They've been seeing each other almost every night for three weeks.”

“Sounds serious.”

“I think it is. But Annie's worried she's too old for him.”

“How much older is she?”

Natasha leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Oh, very much older. Nearly an entire year.”

“Cradle robber.”

With a laugh she leaned back again. “It's nice to see them together. I only hope they don't forget to wait on customers because they're mooning at each other.” She shrugged, and went back to her tea. “I think I'll go in early and start on the decorations.”

“You'll be tired at the end of the day. Why don't you come here for dinner?”

Curious, she tilted her head. “You cook?”

“No.” He grinned and polished off his sandwich. “But I do great takeout. You can get a whole box of chicken or pizza with the works. I've even been known to come up with oriental seafood.”

“I'll leave the menu to you.” She rose to clear the table, but he took her hand.

“Natasha.” He stood, using his free hand to stroke her hair. “I want to thank you for sharing the last couple of days with me. It meant a lot.”

“To me too.”

“Still, I've missed being alone with you.” He bent to brush his lips over hers. “Come upstairs with me. I want very much to make love with you in my bed.”

She didn't answer. Nor did she hesitate. Slipping an arm around his waist, she went with him.

He left the bedside light on low. She could just see the dark, mas
culine colors he'd chosen for his room. Midnight blue, forest green. An oil painting in a heavy, ornate frame dominated one wall. She could see the silhouettes of exquisite antiques. The bed was big, a generous private space covered by a thick, soft quilt. A special space, Natasha realized, knowing he had never brought another woman to this bed, to this room.

In the mirror over the bureau she caught their reflections as they stood side by side and saw herself smile when he touched a hand to her cheek.

There was time, time to savor. The fatigue she had felt earlier had vanished. Now she felt only the glow that came from loving and being loved. Words were too difficult, but when she kissed him, her heart spoke for her.

Slowly they undressed each other.

She slipped his sweater over his head. He undid the buttons of her cardigan, then pushed it from her shoulders. Keeping her eyes on his, she unfastened his shirt. He slid up the cotton sweater, letting his fingers trail until she was free of it. She unhooked his trousers. He flipped the three snaps that held her slacks at the waist. Keeping his hands light, he drew the teddy down her body as she tugged away the last barrier between them.

Quietly they moved together, her palms pressing against his back, his skimming up her sides. Heads tilting first this way, then that, they experimented with long, lingering kisses. Enjoyment. Their bodies warming, their mouths seeking, it seemed so easy here.

They drew back in unspoken agreement. Spence pulled down the quilt. They slipped under it together.

Intimacy had no rival, Natasha thought. There was nothing to compare with this. Their bodies rubbed against each other, so that the
sheets whispered with each movement. Her sigh answered his murmurs. The flavor and fragrance of his skin was familiar, personal. His touch, gentle, then persuasive, then demanding, was everything she wanted.

She was simply beautiful. Not just her body, not just that exquisite face, but her spirit. When she moved with him, there was a harmony more intense than any he could create with music. She was his music—her laugh, her voice, her gestures. He knew of no way to tell her. Only to show her.

He made love with her as though it were the first and the only time. Never had she felt so elegant, so graceful. Never had she felt so strong or so sure.

When he rose over her, when she rose to meet him, it was perfect.

 

“I'd like you to stay.”

Natasha turned her face into his throat. “I can't. Freddie would ask questions in the morning I don't know how to answer.”

“I have a very simple answer. I'll tell her the truth. I'm in love with you.”

“That's not simple.”

“It is the truth.” He shifted so that he could look at her. Her eyes were shadowed in the dim light. “I do love you, Natasha.”

“Spence—”

“No. No logic or excuses. We're past that. Tell me if you believe me.”

She looked into his eyes and saw what she already knew. “Yes, I believe you.”

“Then tell me what you feel. I need to know.”

He had a right to know, she thought, though she could all but taste the panic on her tongue. “I love you. And I'm afraid.”

He brought her hand to his lips to press a kiss firmly against her fingers. “Why?”

“Because I was in love before, and nothing, nothing could have ended as badly.”

There was that shadow again, he thought impatiently. The shadow from her past that he could neither fight nor conquer because it was nameless.

“Neither of us have come into this without a few bruises, Natasha. But we have a chance to make something new, something important.”

She knew he was right, felt he was right, yet still held back. “I wish I were so sure. Spence, there are things you don't know about me.”

“That you were a dancer.”

She shifted then, to gather the sheets to her breast and sit up. “Yes. Once.”

“Why haven't you mentioned it?”

“Because it was over.”

He drew the hair away from her face. “Why did you stop?”

“I had a choice to make.” The ache came back, but briefly. She turned to him and smiled. “I was not so good. Oh, I was adequate, and perhaps in time I would have been good enough to have been a principal dancer. Perhaps… It was something I wanted very badly once. But wanting something doesn't always make it happen.”

“Will you tell me about it?”

It was a beginning, one she knew she had to make. “It's not very exciting.” She lifted her hands, then let them fall on to the sheet. “I started late, after we came here. Through the church my parents met Martina Latovia. Many years ago she was an important Soviet dancer who defected. She became friends with my mother and offered to give me
classes. It was good for me, the dance. I didn't speak English well, so it was hard to make friends. Everything was so different here, you see.”

“Yes, I can imagine.”

“I was nearly eight by that time. It becomes difficult to teach the body, the joints, to move as they weren't meant to move. But I worked very hard.
Madame
was kind and encouraging. My parents were so proud.” She laughed a little, but warmly. “Papa was sure I would be the next Pavlova. The first time I danced
en pointe
, Mama cried. Dance is obsession and pain and joy. It's a different world, Spence. I can't explain. You have to know it, be a part of it.”

“You don't have to explain.”

She looked over at him. “No, not to you,” she murmured. “Because of the music. I joined the corps de ballet when I was almost sixteen. It was wonderful. Perhaps I didn't know there were other worlds, but I was happy.”

“What happened?”

“There was another dancer.” She shut her eyes. It was important to take this slowly, carefully. “You've heard of him, I imagine. Anthony Marshall.”

“Yes.” Spence had an immediate picture of a tall, blond man with a slender build and incredible grace. “I've seen him dance many times.”

“He was magnificent. Is,” she corrected. “Though it's been years since I've seen him dance. We became involved. I was young. Too young. And it was a very big mistake.”