by Nora Roberts
“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 brow as 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,” Natash
a 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.
It wasn’t wise to get so involved with the little girl, she warned herself. Not when the little girl was attached so securely to a man who made Natasha long for things she had put behind her. Spence smiled at her. No, it wasn’t wise, she thought again. But it was irresistible.
CHAPTER SIX
“Chicken pox.” Spence said the two words again. He stood in the doorway and watched his little girl sleep. “It’s a hell of a birthday present, sweetie.”
In two days his daughter would be six, and by then, according to the doctor, she’d be covered with the itchy rash that was now confined to her belly and chest.
It was going around, the pediatrician had said. It would run its course. Easy for him to say, Spence thought. It wasn’t his daughter whose eyes were teary. It wasn’t his baby with a hundred-and-one-degree temperature.
She’d never been sick before, Spence realized as he rubbed his tired eyes. Oh, the sniffles now and again, but nothing a little TLC and baby aspirin hadn’t put right. He dragged a hand through his hair; Freddie moaned in her sleep and tried to find a cool spot on her pillow.
The call from Nina hadn’t helped. He’d had to come down hard to prevent her from catching the shuttle and arriving on his doorstep. That hadn’t stopped her telling him that Freddie had undoubtedly caught chicken pox because she was attending public school. That was nonsense, of course, but when he looked at his little girl, tossing in her bed, her face flushed with fever, the guilt was almost unbearable.
Logic told him that chicken pox was a normal part of childhood. His heart told him that he should be able to find a way to make it go away.
For the first time he realized how much he wanted someone beside him. Not to take things over, not to smooth over the downside of parenting. Just to be there. To understand what it felt like when your child was sick or hurt or unhappy. Someone to talk to in the middle of the night, when worries or pleasures kept you awake.
When he thought of that someone, he thought only of Natasha.
A big leap, he reminded himself and walked back to the bedside. One he wasn’t sure he could make again and land on both feet.
He cooled Freddie’s forehead with the damp cloth Vera had brought in. Her eyes opened.
“Daddy.”
“Yes, funny face. I’m right here.”
Her lower lip trembled. “I’m thirsty.”
“I’ll go get you a cold drink.”
Sick or not, she knew how to maneuver. “Can I have Kool Aid?”
He pressed a kiss on her cheek. “Sure. What kind?”
“The blue kind.”
“The blue kind.” He kissed her again. “I’ll be right back.” He was halfway down the stairs when the phone rang simultaneously with a knock on the door. “Damn it. Vera, get the phone, will you?” Out of patience, he yanked open the front door.
The smile Natasha had practiced all evening faded. “I’m sorry. I’ve come at a bad time.”
“Yeah.” But he reached out to pull her inside. “Hang on a minute. Vera—oh good,” he added when he saw the housekeeper hovering. “Freddie wants some Kool Aid, the blue kind.”
“I will make it.” Vera folded her hands in front of her apron. “Mrs. Barklay is on the phone.”
“Tell her—” Spence broke off, swearing as Vera’s mouth pruned. She didn’t like to tell Nina anything. “All right, I’ll get it.”
“I should go,” Natasha put in, feeling foolish. “I only came by because you weren’t at class tonight, and I wondered if you were well.”
“It’s Freddie.” Spence glanced at the phone and wondered if he could strangle his sister over it. “She has the chicken pox.”
“Oh. Poor thing.” She had to smother the automatic urge to go up and look in on the child herself. Not your child, Natasha reminded herself. Not your place. “I’ll get out of your way.”
“I’m sorry. Things are a little confused.”
“Don’t be. I hope she’s well soon. Let me know if I can do anything.”
At that moment Freddie called for her father in a voice that was half sniffle and half croak.
It was Spence’s quick helpless glance up the stairs that had Natasha ignoring what she thought was her better judgment. “Would you like me to go up for a minute? I could sit with her until you have things under control again.”
“No. Yes.” Spence blew out a long breath. If he didn’t deal with Nina now, she’d only call back. “I’d appreciate it.” Reaching the end of his rope, he yanked up the phone receiver. “Nina.”
Natasha followed the glow of the night-light into Freddie’s room. She found her sitting up in bed, surrounded by dolls. Two big tears were sliding down her cheeks. “I want my daddy,” she said obviously miserable.
“He’ll be right here.” Her heart lost, Natasha sat down on the bed and drew Freddie into her arms.
“I don’t feel good.”
“I know. Here, blow your nose.”
Freddie complied, then settled her head on Natasha’s breast. She sighed, finding it pleasantly different from her father’s hard chest or Vera’s cushy one. “I went to the doctor and got medicine, so I can’t go to my Brownie meeting tomorrow.”
“There’ll be other meetings, as soon as the medicine makes you well.”
“I have chicken pox,” Freddie announced, torn between discomfort and pride. “And I’m hot and itchy.”
“It’s a silly thing, the chicken pox,” Natasha said soothingly. She tucked Freddie’s tousled hair behind one ear. “I don’t think chickens get it at all.”
Freddie’s lips turned up, just a little. “JoBeth had it last week, and so did Mikey. Now I can’t have a birthday party.”
“You’ll have a party later, when everyone’s well again.”
“That’s what Daddy said.” A fresh tear trailed down her cheek. “It’s not the same.”
“No, but sometimes not the same is even better.”
Curious, Freddie watched the light glint off the gold hoop in Natasha’s ear. “How?”
“It gives you more time to think about how much fun you’ll have. Would you like to rock?”
“I’m too big to rock.”
“I’m not.” Wrapping Freddie in a blanket, Natasha carried her to the white wicker rocker. She cleared it of stuffed animals, then tucked one particularly worn rabbit in Freddie’s arms. “When I was a little girl and I was sick, my mother would always rock me in this big, squeaky chair we had by the window. She would sing me songs. No matter how bad I felt, when she rocked me I felt better.”
“My mother didn’t rock me.” Freddie’s head was aching, and she wanted badly to pop a comforting thumb into her mouth. She knew she was too old for that. “She didn’t like me.”
“That’s not true.” Natasha instinctively tightened her arms around the child. “I’m sure she loved you very much.”
“She wanted my daddy to send me away.”
At a loss, Natasha lowered her cheek to the top of Freddie’s head. What could she say now?
Freddie’s words had been too matter-of-fact to dismiss as a fantasy. “People sometimes say things they don’t mean, and that they regret very much. Did your daddy send you away?”
“No.”
“There, you see?”
“Do you like me?”
“Of course I do.” She rocked gently, to and fro. “I like you very much.”
The movement, the soft female scent and voice lulled Freddie. “Why don’t you have a little girl?”
The pain was there, deep and dull. Natasha closed her eyes against it. “Perhaps one day I will.”
Freddie tangled her fingers in Natasha’s hair, comforted. “Will you sing, like your mother did?”
“Yes. And you try to sleep.”
“Don’t go.”
“No, I’ll stay awhile.”
Spence watched them from the doorway. In the shadowed light they looked achingly beautiful, the tiny, flaxen-haired child in the arms of the dark, golden-skinned woman. The rocker whispered as it moved back and forth while Natasha sang some old Ukrainian folk song from her own childhood.
It moved him as completely, as uniquely as holding the woman in his own arms had moved him. And yet so differently, so quietly that he wanted to stand just as he was, watching through the night.
Natasha looked up and saw him. He looked so frazzled that she had to smile.
“She’s sleeping now.”
If his legs were weak, he hoped it was because he’d climbed up and down the stairs countless times in the last twenty-four hours. Giving in to them, he sat down on the edge of the bed.
He studied his daughter’s flushed face, nestled peacefully in the crook of Natasha’s arm. “It’s supposed to get worse before it gets better.”
“Yes, it does.” She stroked a hand down Freddie’s hair. “We all had it when we were children. Amazingly, we all survived.”
He 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.