The Stanislaskis: Taming Natasha. Нора Робертс
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blew out a long breath. “I guess I’m being an idiot.”
“No, you’re very sweet.” She watched him as she continued to rock, wondering how difficult it had been for him to raise a baby without a mother’s love. Difficult enough, she decided, that he deserved credit for seeing that his daughter was happy, secure and unafraid to love. She smiled again.
“Whenever one of us was sick as children, and still today, my father would badger the doctor, then he would go to church to light candles. After that he would say this old gypsy chant he’d learned from his grandmother. It’s covering all the bases.”
“So far I’ve badgered the doctor.” Spence managed a smile of his own. “You wouldn’t happen to remember that chant?”
“I’ll say it for you.” Carefully she rose, lifting Freddie in her arms. “Should I lay her down?”
“Thanks.” Together they tucked in the blankets. “I mean it.”
“You’re welcome.” She looked over the sleeping child, and though her smile was easy, she was beginning to feel awkward. “I should go. Parents of sick children need their rest.”
“At least I can offer you a drink.” He held up the glass. “How about some Kool Aid? It’s the blue kind.”
“I think I’ll pass.” She moved around the bed toward the door. “When the fever breaks, she’ll be bored. Then you’ll really have your work cut out for you.”
“How about some pointers?” He took Natasha’s hand as they started down the steps.
“Crayons. New ones. The best is usually the simplest.”
“How is it someone like you doesn’t have a horde of children of her own?” He didn’t have to feel her stiffen to know he’d said the wrong thing. He could see the sorrow come and go in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“No need.” Recovered, she picked up her coat from where she’d laid it on the newel post. “I’d like to come and see Freddie again, if it’s all right.”
He took her coat and set it down again. “If you won’t take the blue stuff, how about some tea? I could use the company.”
“All right.”
“I’ll just—” He turned and nearly collided with Vera.
“I will fix the tea,” she said after a last look at Natasha.
“Your housekeeper thinks I have designs on you.”
“I hope you won’t disappoint her,” Spence said as he led Natasha into the music room.
“I’m afraid I must disappoint both of you.” Then she laughed and wandered to the piano. “But you should be very busy. All the young women in college talk about Dr. Kimball.” She tucked her tongue into her cheek. “You’re a hunk, Spence. Popular opinion is equally divided between you and the captain of the football team.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m not joking. But it’s fun to embarrass you.” She sat and ran her fingers over the keys. “Do you compose here?”
“I did once.”
“It’s wrong of you not to write.” She played a series of chords. “Art’s more than a privilege. It’s a responsibility.” She searched for the melody, then with a sound of impatience shook her head. “I can’t play. I was too old when I tried to learn.”
He liked the way she looked sitting there, her hair falling over her shoulders, half curtaining her face, her fingers resting lightly on the keys of the piano he had played since childhood.
“If you want to learn, I’ll teach you.”
“I’d rather you write a song.” It was more than impulse, she thought. Tonight he looked as though he needed a friend. She smiled and held out a hand. “Here, with me.”
He glanced up as Vera carried in a tray. “Just set it there, Vera. Thank you.”
“You will want something else?”
He looked back at Natasha. Yes, he would want something else. He wanted it very much. “No. Good night.” He listened to the housekeeper’s shuffling steps. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because you need to laugh. Come, write a song for me. It doesn’t have to be good.”
He did laugh. “You want me to write a bad song for you?”
“It can be a terrible song. When you play it for Freddie, she’ll hold her ears and giggle.”
“A bad song’s about all I can do these days.” But he was amused enough to sit down beside her. “If I do this, I have to have your solemn oath that it won’t be repeated for any of my students.”
“Cross my heart.”
He began to noodle with the keys, Natasha breaking in now and then to add her inspiration. It wasn’t as bad as it might have been, Spence considered as he ran through some chords. No one would call it brilliant, but it had a certain primitive charm.
“Let me try.” Tossing back her hair, Natasha struggled to repeat the notes.
“Here.” As he sometimes did with his daughter, he put his hands over Natasha’s to guide them. The feeling, he realized, was entirely different. “Relax.” His murmur whispered beside her ear.
She only wished she could. “I hate to do poorly at anything,” she managed. With his palms firmly over her hands, she struggled to concentrate on the music.
“You’re doing fine.” Her hair, soft and fragrant, brushed his cheek.
As they bent over the keys, it didn’t occur to him that he hadn’t played with the piano in years. Oh, he had played—Beethoven, Gershwin, Mozart and Bernstein, but hardly for fun…. It had been much too long since he had sat before the keys for entertainment.
“No, no, an A minor maybe.”
Natasha stubbornly hit a B major again. “I like this better.”
“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