Taming Natasha (9 page)

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 bro was 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.