Taming Natasha (19 page)

Now the shadow had a name. “You loved him.”

“Oh yes. In a naive and idealistic kind of way. The only way a girl can love at seventeen. More, I thought he loved me. He told me he did, in words, in actions. He was very charming, romantic…and I wanted to believe him. He promised me marriage, a future, a part
nership in dance, all the things I wanted to hear. He broke all those promises, and my heart.”

“So now you don't want to hear promises from me.”

“You're not Anthony,” she murmured, then lifted a hand to his cheek. Her eyes were dark and beautiful, her voice only more exotic as emotions crowded. “Believe me, I know that. And I don't compare, not now. I'm not the same woman who built dreams on a few careless words.”

“What I've said to you hasn't been careless.”

“No.” She leaned closer to rest her cheek against his. “Over the past months I've come to see that, and to understand that what I feel for you is different from anything I've felt before.” There was more she wanted to tell him, but the words clogged her throat. “Please, let that be enough for now.”

“For now. It won't be enough forever.”

She turned her mouth to his. “Just for now.”

 

How could it be? Natasha asked herself. How could it be that when she was just beginning to trust herself, to trust her heart, that this should happen? How could she face it again?

It was like a play run backward and started again, when her life had changed so drastically and completely. She sat back on her bed, no longer concerned about dressing for work, about starting a normal day. How could things be normal now? How could she expect them to be normal ever again?

She held the little vial in her hand. She had followed the instructions exactly. Just a precaution, she had told herself. But she'd known in her heart. Since the visit to her parents two weeks before she'd known. And had avoided facing the reality.

It was not the flu that made her queasy in the mornings. It was not
overwork or stress that caused her to be so tired, or that brought on the occasional dizzy spells. The simple test that she'd bought over the counter in the drugstore had told her what she'd already known and feared.

She was carrying a child. Once again she was carrying a child. The rush of joy and wonder was totally eclipsed by the bone-deep fear that froze her.

How could it be? She was no longer a foolish girl and had taken precautions. Romance aside, she had been practical enough, responsible enough to visit her doctor and begin taking those tiny little pills, when she had realized where her relationship with Spence was bound to go. Yet she was pregnant. There was no denying it.

How could she tell him? Covering her face with her hands, Natasha rocked back and forth to give herself some small comfort. How could she go through all of it again, when that time years before was still so painfully etched on her memory?

She had known Anthony no longer loved her, if he had ever. But when she'd learned she was carrying his child, she had been thrilled. And so certain that he would share her delight. When she'd gone to him, almost bubbling over, glowing with the joy of it, his cruelty had all but cut her in two.

How grudgingly he'd let her into his apartment, Natasha remembered. How difficult it had been for her to continue to smile when she'd seen his table set for two, the candles lighted, the wine chilling—as he'd so often prepared the stage when he'd loved her. Now he'd set that stage for someone else. But she'd persuaded herself that it didn't matter. Once she'd told him, everything would change.

Everything had.

“What the hell are you talking about?” She remembered the fury in his eyes as he'd stared at her.

“I went to the doctor this afternoon. I'm pregnant, almost two months.” She reached out for him. “Anthony—”

“That's an old game, Tash.” He'd said it casually, but perhaps he'd been shaken. He'd stalked to the table to pour a glass of wine.

“It's not a game.”

“No? Then how could you be so stupid?” He'd grabbed her arm and given her a quick shake, his magnificent mane of hair flying. “If you've gotten yourself in trouble, don't expect to come running to me to fix it.”

Dazed, she'd lifted a hand to rub her arm where his fingers had bit in. It was only that he didn't understand, she'd told herself. “I'm having a child. Your child. The doctor says the baby will come in July.”

“Maybe you're pregnant.” He'd shrugged as he'd downed the wine. “It doesn't concern me.”

“It must.”

He'd looked at her then, his glass held aloft, his eyes cool. “How do I know it's mine?”

At that she'd paled. As she'd stood there, she'd remembered how it had felt when she'd almost stepped in front of a bus on her first trip to New York City. “You know. You have to know.”

“I don't have to know anything. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm expecting someone.”

In desperation she'd reached out for him. “Anthony, don't you understand? I'm carrying our baby.”

“Your baby,” he corrected. “Your problem. If you want some advice, get rid of it.”

“Get—” She hadn't been so young or so naive that she hadn't understood his meaning. “You can't mean it.”

“You want to dance, Tash? Try picking classes back up after taking
off nine months to give birth to some brat you're going to end up giving away in any case. Grow up.”

“I have grown up.” She'd laid a hand on her stomach, in protection and defense. “And I will have this child.”

“Your choice.” He'd gestured with his wineglass. “Don't expect to pull me into it. I've got a career to think of. You're probably better off,” he decided. “Talk some loser into marrying you and set up housekeeping. You'd never be any better than mediocre at dance anyway.”

So she had had the child and loved it—for a brief, brief time. Now there was another. She couldn't bear to love it, couldn't bear to want it. Not when she knew what it was like to lose.

Frantic, she threw the vial across the room and began pulling clothes out of her closet. She had to get away. She had to think. She would get away, Natasha promised herself, then pressed her fingers against her eyes until she calmed. But she had to tell him.

This time she drove to his house, struggling for calm as the car brought her closer. Because it was Saturday, children were playing in yards and on the sidewalk. Some called out to her as she passed, and she managed to lift a hand in a wave. She spotted Freddie wrestling with her kittens on the grass.

“Tash! Tash!” Lucy and Desi darted for cover, but Freddie raced to the car. “Did you come to play?”

“Not today.” Summoning a smile, Natasha kissed her cheeks. “Is your daddy home?”

“He's playing music. He plays music a lot since we came here. I drew a picture. I'm going to send it to Papa and Nana.”

Natasha struggled to keep the smile in place at Freddie's names for her parents. “They will like that very much.”

“Come on, I'll show you.”

“In a little while. I need to speak to your father first. By myself.”

Freddie's bottom lip threatened. “Are you mad at him?”

“No.” She pressed a finger to Freddie's nose. “Go find your kittens. I'll talk to you before I go.”

“Okay.” Reassured, Freddie raced off, sending out whoops that would have the kittens cowering in the bushes, Natasha reflected.

It was better to keep her mind a blank, she decided as she knocked on the front door. Then she would take it slowly, logically, like an adult.

“Miss.” Vera opened the door, her expression less remote than usual. Freddie's description of the Thanksgiving holiday in Brooklyn had done a great deal to win her over.

“I'd like to see Dr. Kimball if he's not busy.”

“Come in.” She found herself frowning a bit as she studied Natasha. “Are you all right, miss? You're very pale.”

“Yes, I'm fine. Thank you.”

“Would you like tea?”

“No—no, I can't stay long.”

Though Vera privately thought Natasha looked like a cornered rabbit, she nodded. “You'll find him in the music room. He's been up half the night working.”

“Thank you.” Clutching her bag, Natasha started down the hall. She could hear the music he was playing, something weepy. Or perhaps it was her own mood, she thought; she blinked back tears.

When she saw him, she remembered the first time she had walked into that room. Perhaps she had started to fall in love with him that day, when he had sat there with a child on his lap, surrounded by sunlight.

She pulled off her gloves, running them through her nervous hands as she watched him. He was lost in it, both captor and captive of the
music. Now she would change his life. He hadn't asked for this, and they both knew that loving wasn't always enough.

“Spence.” She murmured his name when the music stopped, but he didn't hear. She could see the intensity was still on him as he scribbled on staff paper. He hadn't shaved. It made her want to smile, but instead her eyes filled. His shirt was rumpled and open at the collar. His hair was tousled. As she watched, he ran a hand through it. “Spence,” she repeated.

He looked up—annoyed at first. Then he focused and smiled at her. “Hi. I didn't expect to see you today.”

“Annie's watching the shop.” She knit her hands. “I needed to see you.”

“I'm glad you did.” He rose, though the music was still filling his head. “What time is it anyway?” Absently he glanced at his watch. “Too early to ask you for lunch. How about some coffee?”

“No.” Even the thought of coffee made her stomach roll. “I don't want anything. I needed to tell you….” Her fingers knotted. “I don't know how. I want you to know I never intended—this isn't intended to put you under obligation….”

The words trailed off again, he shook his head and started toward her. “If something's wrong, why don't you tell me?”

“I'm trying to.”

He took her hand to lead her to the couch. “The best way's often straight out.”

“Yes.” She put her hand to her spinning head. “You see, I…” She saw the concern in his eyes, then everything went black….

She was lying on the sofa, and Spence was kneeling beside her, chafing her wrists. “Take it easy,” he murmured. “Just lie still. I'll call a doctor.”

“No. There's no need.” Carefully she pushed herself up. “I'm all right.”

“The hell you are.” Her skin was clammy under his hand. “You're
like ice, and pale as a ghost. Damn it, Natasha, why didn't you tell me you weren't well? I'll take you to the hospital.”

“I don't need the hospital or the doctor.” Hysteria was bubbling under her heart. She fought it back and forced herself to speak. “I'm not sick, Spence. I'm pregnant.”

“W
hat?” It was the best he could do; he sank back onto his heels and stared at her. “What did you say?”

She wanted to be strong, had to be. He looked as though she'd hit him with a blunt instrument. “I'm pregnant,” she repeated, then made a helpless gesture. “I'm sorry.”

He only shook his head, waiting for it to sink in. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” It was best to be matter-of-fact, Natasha told herself. He was a civilized man. There would be no accusations, no cruelty. “This morning I took a test. I suspected before, for a couple of weeks, but…”

“Suspected.” His hand curled into a fist on the cushion. She didn't look furious, as Angela had. She looked destroyed. “And you didn't mention it.”

“I saw no need until I knew. There was no point in upsetting you.”

“I see. Is that what you are, Natasha? Upset?”

“What I am is pregnant,” she said briskly. “And I felt it was only right to tell you. I'm going away for a few days.” Though she still felt shaky, she managed to stand.

“Away?” Confused, afraid she would faint again, furious, he caught her. “Now just a damn minute. You drop in, tell me you're pregnant,
and now you calmly tell me you're going away?” He felt something sharp punch into his gut. Its name was fear. “Where?”

“Just away.” She heard her own voice, snappish and rude, and pressed a hand to her head. “I'm sorry, I'm not handling this well. I need some time. I need to go away.”

“What you need to do is sit down until we talk this out.”

“I can't talk about it.” She felt the pressure inside her build like floodwaters against a dam. “Not yet—not until I…I only wanted to tell you before I left.”

“You're not going anywhere.” He grabbed her arm to pull her back. “And you damn well will talk about it. What do you want from me? Am I supposed to say, ‘Well, that's interesting news, Natasha. See you when you get back'?”

“I don't want anything.” When her voice rose this time, she couldn't control it. Passions, griefs, fears, poured out even as the tears began. “I never wanted anything from you. I didn't want to fall in love with you, I didn't want to need you in my life. I didn't want your child inside me.”

“That's clear enough.” His grip tightened, and he let his own temper free. “That's crystal clear. But you do have my child inside you, and now we're going to sit down and talk about what we're going to do about it.”

“I tell you I need time.”

“I've already given you more than enough time, Natasha. Apparently fate's taken a hand again, and you're going to have to face it.”

“I can't go through this again. I won't.”

“Again? What are you talking about?”

“I had a child.” She jerked away to cover her face with her hands. Her whole body began to quake. “I had a child. Oh, God.”

Stunned, he put a gentle hand upon her shoulder. “You have a child?”

“Had.” The tears seemed to be shooting up, hot and painful, from the center of her body. “She's gone.”

“Come sit down, Natasha. Talk to me.”

“I can't. You don't understand. I lost her. My baby. I can't bear the thought of going through it all again.” She tore herself away. “You don't know, you can't know, how much it hurts.”

“No, but I can see it.” He reached for her again. “I want you to tell me about this, so I can understand.”

“What would that change?”

“We'll have to see. It isn't good for you to get so upset now.”

“No.” She swiped a hand over her cheek. “It doesn't do any good to be upset. I'm sorry I'm behaving like this.”

“Don't apologize. Sit down. I'll get you some tea. We'll talk.” He led her to a chair and she went unresistingly. “I'll only be a minute.”

He was away for less than that, he was sure, but when he came back, she was gone.

 

Mikhail carved from a block of cherrywood and listened to the blast of rock and roll through his earphones. It suited the mood he could feel from the wood. Whatever was inside—and he wasn't sure just what that was yet—was young and full of energy. Whenever he carved, he listened, whether it was to blues or Bach or simply the rush and whoosh of traffic four floors below his window. It left his mind free to explore whatever medium his hands were working in.

Tonight his mind was too cluttered, and he knew he was stalling. He glanced over his worktable and across his cramped and cluttered two-room apartment. Natasha was curled in the overstuffed, badly sprung chair he'd salvaged off the street the previous summer. She had
a book in her hands, but Mikhail didn't think she'd turned a page in more than twenty minutes. She, too, was stalling.

As annoyed with himself as with her, he pulled off the headphones. He only had to turn to be in the kitchen. Saying nothing, he put a pot onto one of the two temperamental gas burners and brewed tea. Natasha made no comment. When he brought over two cups, setting hers on the scarred surface of a nearby table, she glanced up blankly.

“Oh.
Dyakuyu.
”

“It's time to tell me what's going on.”

“Mikhail—”

“I mean it.” He dropped onto the mismatched hassock at her feet. “You've been here nearly a week, Tash.”

She managed a small smile. “Ready to kick me out?”

“Maybe.” But he put a hand over hers, rubbing lightly. “I haven't asked any questions, because that was what you wanted. I haven't told Mama and Papa that you arrived at my door one evening, looking pale and frightened, because you asked me to say nothing.”

“And I appreciate it.”

“Well, stop appreciating it.” He made one of his characteristically abrupt gestures. “Talk to me.”

“I told you I needed to get away for a little while, and I didn't want Mama and Papa to fuss over me.” She moved her shoulders, then reached for her tea. “You don't fuss.”

“I'm about to. Tell me what's wrong.” He leaned over and cupped her chin in one hand. “Tash, tell me.”

“I'm pregnant,” she blurted out, then shakily set the tea down again.

He opened his mouth, but when the words didn't come, he simply wrapped his arms around her. Taking along, labored breath, she held on.

“You're all right? You're well?”

“Yes. I went to the doctor a couple days ago. He says I'm fine. We're fine.”

He drew back to study her face. “The college professor?”

“Yes. There hasn't been anyone but Spence.”

Mikhail's dark eyes kindled. “If the bastard's treated you badly—”

“No.” She found it odd that she was able to smile and caught Mikhail's fisted hands in hers. “No, he's never treated me badly.”

“So he doesn't want the child.” When Natasha merely looked down at their joined hands, Mikhail narrowed his eyes. “Natasha?”

“I don't know.” She pulled away to stand and pace through Mikhail's collection of beat-up furniture and blocks of wood and stone.

“You haven't told him?”

“Of course I told him.” As she moved, her hands clasped and unclasped. To calm herself, she stopped by Mikhail's Christmas tree—a one-foot evergreen in a pot that she'd decorated with bits of colored paper. “I just didn't give him much of a chance to say anything when I did. I was too upset.”

“You don't want the child.”

She turned at that, her eyes wide. “How can you say that? How could you think that?”

“Because you're here, instead of working things out with the college professor.”

“I needed time to think.”

“You think too much.”

It wasn't anything he hadn't said before. Natasha's jaw set. “This isn't a matter of deciding between a blue dress and a red one. I'm having a child.”

“
Tak.
Why don't you sit down and relax before you give it wrinkles.”

“I don't want to sit down.” She began to prowl again, shoving a box
out of her way with one foot. “I didn't want to get involved with him in the first place. Even when I did, when he made it impossible for me to do otherwise, I knew it was important to keep some distance. I wanted to make sure I didn't make the same mistakes again. And now…” She made a helpless gesture.

“He isn't Anthony. This baby isn't Lily.” When she turned around, her eyes were so drenched with emotion that he rose to go to her. “I loved her, too.”

“I know.”

“You can't judge by what's gone, Tash.” Gently he kissed her cheeks. “It isn't fair to you, your professor or the child.”

“I don't know what to do.”

“Do you love him?”

“Yes, I love him.”

“Does he love you?”

“He says—”

He caught her restless hands in his own. “Don't tell me what he says, tell me what you know.”

“Yes, he loves me.”

“Then stop hiding and go home. You should be having this conversation with him, not with your brother.”

 

He was slowly going out of his mind. Every day Spence went by Natasha's apartment, certain that this time she would answer the door. When she didn't, he stalked over to harass Annie in the shop. He barely noticed the Christmas decorations in shop windows, the fat, cheerful Santas, the glittery angels, the colored lights strung around the houses. When he did, it was to scowl at them.

It had taken all of his efforts to make a show of holiday spirit for
Freddie. He'd taken her to pick out a tree, spent hours decorating it with her and complimenting her crumbling popcorn strings. Dutifully he'd listened to her ever-growing Christmas list, and had taken her to the mall to sit in Santa's lap. But his heart wasn't in it.

It had to stop, he told himself and he stared out the window at the first snowfall. Whatever crisis he was facing, whatever chaos his life was in, he wouldn't see Freddie's Christmas spoiled.

She asked about Natasha every day. It only made it more difficult because he had no answers. He'd watched Freddie play an angel in her school's Christmas pageant and wished Natasha had been with him.

And what of their child? He could hardly think of anything else. Even now Natasha might be carrying the baby sister Freddie so coveted. The baby, Spence had already realized, that he desperately wanted. Unless… He didn't want to think of where she had gone, what she had done. How could he think of anything else?

There had to be a way to find her. When he did, he would beg, plead, browbeat and threaten until she came back to him.

She'd had a child. The fact left him dazed. A child she had lost, Spence remembered. But how, and when? Questions that needed answering crowded his mind. She had said she loved him, and he knew that saying it had been difficult for her. Even so, she had yet to trust him.

“Daddy.” Freddie bounced into the room, her mind full of the Christmas that was only six days away. “We're making cookies.”

He glanced over his shoulder to see Freddie grinning, her mouth smeared with red and green sugar. Spence swooped her up to hold her close. “I love you, Freddie.”

She giggled, then kissed him. “I love you, too. Can you come make cookies with us?”

“In a little while. I have to go out first.” He was going to go to the
shop, corner Annie and find out where Natasha had gone. No matter what the redhead said, Spence didn't believe that Natasha would have left her assistant without a number where she could be reached.

Freddie's lip poked out while she fiddled with Spence's top button. “When will you come back?”

“Soon.” He kissed her again before he set her down. “When I come back, I'll help you bake cookies. I promise.”

Content, Freddie rushed back to Vera. She knew her father always kept his promises.

 

Natasha stood outside the front door as the snow fell. There were lights strung along the roof and around the posts. She wondered how they would look when they were lighted. There was a full-size Santa on the door, his load of presents making him bend from the waist. She remembered the witch that had stood there on Halloween. On that first night she and Spence had made love. On that night, she was certain, their child had been conceived.

For a moment she almost turned back, telling herself she should go to her apartment, unpack, catch her breath. But that would only be hiding again. She'd hidden long enough. Gathering her courage, she knocked.

The moment Freddie opened the door, the little girl's eyes shone. She let out a squeal and all but jumped into Natasha's arms. “You're back, you're back! I've been waiting for you forever.”

Natasha held her close, swaying back and forth. This was what she wanted, needed, she realized as she buried her face in Freddie's hair. How could she have been such a fool? “It's only been a little while.”

“It's been days and days. We got a tree and lights, and I already wrapped your present. I bought it myself at the mall. Don't go away again.”

“No,” Natasha murmured. “I won't.” She set Freddie down to step inside and close out the cold and snow.

“You missed my play. I was an angel.”

“I'm sorry.”

“We made the halos in school and got to keep them, so I can show you how I looked.”

“I'd like that.”

Certain everything was back to normal, Freddie took her hand. “I tripped once, but I remembered all my lines. Mikey forgot his. I said ‘A child is born in Bethlehem,' and ‘Peace on Earth,' and sang ‘Gloria in selfish Deo.'”

Natasha laughed for the first time in days. “I wish I had heard that. You will sing it for me later?”

“Okay. We're baking cookies.” Still holding Natasha's hand, she began to drag her toward the kitchen.

“Is your daddy helping you?”

“No, he had to go out. He said he'd come back soon and bake some. He promised.”