Christmas In the Snow: Taming Natasha / Considering Kate

by Nora Roberts

  She could imagine it very well, because, she thought, she’d always had just the opposite in terms of a family that was there for her. “They didn’t deserve her.”

  Brody lifted his eyes, met Kate’s. “Damn right they didn’t. The rougher it got, the more we dug in. We made it work. She made it work. A thousand times I panicked, and some of those thousand times I saw myself walking away. She’d go back to her parents, and everyone would be better off.”

  “But you didn’t. You stuck.”

  “She loved me,” he said simply. “The day Jack was born, I was in the delivery room, wanting to be pretty much anywhere else in the world. But she wanted me there, it was really important to her. So I pretended I wanted to be there, too. All I could think was get this over with, get this the hell over with because it’s too hard. Nobody should have to do this. Then…there was Jack. This little, squirmy person. Everything changed. Everything clicked. I never knew you could love like that, in an instant, in a heartbeat, so it was everything. Every damn thing. I wanted, had to be, whatever he needed me to be. They made a man out of me, right there, in that moment. Connie and Jack made me.”

  Tears were flooding her cheeks, continued to spill over. She couldn’t stop them, and didn’t try.

  “I’m sorry.” He lifted his hands, let them fall again. “I don’t know what got into me.”

  “No.” She shook her head, could say nothing else quite yet. You stupid idiot, she thought. You’ve gone and made me fall in love with you. Now what? “That was lovely,” she managed to say. “Just give me a minute.” She got to her feet, and dashed off to the bathroom to compose herself.

  As an alternative to banging his head on the table, Brody got up and paced. He’d come to the same conclusion as Kate—he was an idiot—but for different reasons. He’d taken her very nice gesture of a casual meal at home, one he imagined was supposed to be at least marginally romantic, and he’d turned it into a marathon on his troubles and his past.

  He’d made her cry.

  Great going, O’Connell, he thought in disgust. Maybe you can round on the evening by talking about how your dog died when you were ten. That would really jazz things up.

  He imagined she’d want to take off as soon as possible, so began to clear the table to give her a way out.

  “Sorry,” he began when he heard the light click of her footsteps. “I’m an imbecile, dumping all that on you. I’ll take care of this, and you can…”

  He trailed off, froze, when her arms slid lightly around him and her head rested on his back.

  “O’Connell, I come from strong Slavic blood. Strong and sentimental. We like to cry. Did you know my grandparents escaped from the Soviet Union when my mother was a child? My aunt Rachel is the only one who was born here in America. They went on foot, with three babies, over the mountains into Hungary.”

  “No, I didn’t know that.” He turned, cautiously, until he was facing her.

  “They were cold and hungry and frightened. And when they came to America, a strange country with a strange language and strange customs, they were poor and they were alone. But they wanted something enough to fight for it, to make it work. I’ve heard the story dozens of times. It always makes me cry. It always makes me proud.”

  She turned away to stack dishes.

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Courage comes in different forms, Brody. There’s strength—that’s the muscle. But love’s the heart. When you put them together, you can do anything. That’s worth a few sentimental tears.”

  “You know, I figured this was the kind of day you just crossed off your list, but you’ve changed that.”

  “Well, thank you. Tell you what. We’ll deal with these dishes, then you can dance with me.” Time to lighten things up, she decided. “The way a man dances tells me a lot, and I haven’t tested you out in that area yet.”

  He took the dishes out of her hands. “Let’s dance now.”

  “Can’t. Call it a character flaw, but if I don’t tidy up first, I’ll keep seeing unwashed dishes in my head.”

  He set them aside, took her hands to draw her out of the room. “That’s anal.”

  “No, it’s organized. Organized people get more done and have less headaches.” She looked over her shoulder as he tugged her toward the living room. “Really, it’ll only take a few minutes.”

  “It’ll only take a few minutes later, too.” Maybe he was rusty in the romance department, but he still remembered a few moves.

  “Here’s what we’ll do. You pick out the music while I clear up the dishes.”

  He laughed and pulled her into the living room. “You really are compulsive.” He switched the stereo to CD. “Funny, I was listening to this last night. And thinking about you.”

  “Oh?” The music flowed out, slow and sultry. A sexy little shuffle that spoke to the blood.

  “Must’ve been fate,” he said and slid her into his arms.

  Her heart jerked once. “I’m a strong believer in fate.” She ordered herself to relax, then realized she already was. Snugged up against him, moving with him, her heels making it easy—almost mandatory—to rest her cheek on his.

  “Very smooth, O’Connell,” she murmured. “Major points for smooth.”

  “Like you said, some things come back to you.” He spun her out, made her laugh. Spun her back and had her breath catching.

  “Nice move.” Oh-oh. Oh-oh. It was getting hard to think. She’d come to the conclusion when she’d dealt with her tears that she really needed to do some serious thinking about Brody, and where this was all going.

  She couldn’t drive this train if she didn’t have her wits about her.

  She hadn’t expected him to dance quite so well. If he’d fumbled a bit, she could have taken charge. Kept her balance. There were entirely too many things that were unexpected about him. And fascinating. And oh, it felt wonderful to glide around the room in his arms.

  Her hair smelled fabulous. He’d nearly forgotten all the mysterious and alluring facets there were to a woman. The shape, the softness, the scents. Nearly forgotten the sensation of moving with one, slow and close. The images it had winding through a man’s mind.

  His lips brushed over her hair, trailed along her cheek, found hers.

  She sighed into the kiss, wallowing in the sensation of her bones melting. So when the song ended and the next began, they just stood swaying together.

  “That was perfect.” Her mind was foggy, her heartbeat thick. And the needs she’d thought she had under control were tumbling in her belly. “I should go.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.” She lifted a hand to his cheek, eased away, just a little. “It’s bad timing. Tonight you needed a friend.”

  “You’re right.” His hands slid down her arms until their fingers lightly linked. “The timing’s probably off. The smart thing is to take this slow.”

  “I believe in doing the smart thing.”

  “Yeah.” He walked her toward the doorway. “I’ve been careful to try to do the smart thing for quite a while myself.”

  He paused, turned her back to face him. “I did need a friend tonight. Do need one,” he added, drawing her a little closer. “And I need you, Kate. Stay with me.”

  He lowered his head, kept his eyes on hers when their lips brushed. “Be with me.”

  Chapter Seven

  The walls of his room were unfinished. A coil of electrical wire sat on a drywall compound bucket that stood in the corner. There were no curtains at his windows. He’d removed the closet doors, and they were currently in his shop waiting to be planed and refinished.

  The floors were a wonderful random-width oak under years of dull, dark varnish. Sanding them down, sealing them clear, was down on the list of projects—far down.

  The bed had been an impulse buy. The old iron headboard with its slim, straight bars had appealed to him. But he’d yet to think about linens, and habitually tossed a mismatched quilt over the sheets and considered th
e job done.

  It wouldn’t be what she was used to. Trying to see it through her eyes, Brody winced. “Not exactly the Taj Mahal.”

  “Another work in progress.” She roamed the room, grateful to have a minute to settle the nerves she hadn’t expected to feel. “It’s a lovely space.” She ran her fingers over the low windowsill he’d stripped down to its natural pine. “I know potential when I see it,” she said, and turned back to him.

  “I wanted to finish Jack’s room first. Then it made more sense to work on the kitchen and the living areas. I don’t do anything but sleep here. Up till now.”

  A quick thrill spurted through her. She was the first woman he’d brought to this room, to this bed. “It’s going to be lovely.” She walked to him as she spoke, every pulse point hammering. “Will you use the fireplace in here?”

  “I use it now. It’s a good heat source. I thought about putting in an insert, for efficiency, but…” What the hell was he doing? Talking about heat sources and inserts when he had the most beautiful woman in the world in his bedroom?

  “It wouldn’t be as charming,” she finished, and with her eyes on his began unbuttoning his shirt.

  “No. Do you want me to start a fire?”

  “Later. Yes, I think that would be lovely, later. But for now, I have a feeling we can generate enough heat on our own.”

  “Kate.” He curled his fingers around her wrists, and wondered that the need pumping through him didn’t burn through the tips and singe her flesh. “If I fumble a little, blame it on this, okay?” He turned his injured hand.

  He was nervous, too, she realized. Good. That put them back on even ground. “I bet a man as clever with his hands as you can manage a zipper, no matter what the handicap.” She turned, lifted her hair. “Why don’t we see?”

  “Yeah. Why don’t we?”

  He drew it down slowly, exposing pale gold skin inch by inch. The curve of her neck and shoulder enticed him, so he lowered his head, brushed his lips just there. When she shivered, arched, he indulged himself, nibbling along her spine, her shoulder blades.

  When he turned her to face him, her breath had already quickened.

  His mouth cruised over hers, a long, luxurious savoring that liquefied the bones. And while he savored, his hands roamed lightly over her face, into her hair, down her back as if she were some exotic delicacy to be enjoyed slowly. Thoroughly.

  She’d expected a repeat of the blast of passion that had exploded between them in her mother’s kitchen. And was undone by the tenderness.

  “Tell me…” He nibbled his way across her jaw. “If there’s something you don’t like.”

  Her head fell back, inviting him to explore the exposed line of her throat. “I don’t think that’s going to be an issue.”

  His hands, strong, patient, skimmed up her sides to the shoulders of her dress. “I’ve imagined touching you. Driven myself crazy imagining it.”

  “You’re doing a pretty good job of driving me crazy now.” She pushed the flannel shirt aside, reached out to tug the thermal shirt he wore beneath it out of the waistband of his jeans, sliding over the hard muscles of his stomach.

  But he eased her back. It had been a long time since he’d been with a woman. He had no intention of rushing it.

  He brought her hands to his lips, kissed her fingers, her palms. And felt her pulse leap, then go thick.

  “Let me do this,” he murmured. He nudged the dress from her shoulders, watched it slide down her body to the floor.

  She was so slender, so finely built a man could forget those tensile muscles beneath all that silky gold-dust skin. Her curves were subtle—a sleek female elegance that fascinated and demanded his touch.

  Her breath snagged in her throat when he skimmed his fingertips along the curve of her breast, along the lace edging of her bra, then under it as if memorizing shape and texture. The hard pad of callus brushed her nipple and turned her knees to jelly.

  Intrigued by her tremble, he shifted his gaze back to her face, watched her as his hands roamed down her torso, along her hips, stroked up her thighs.

  “I think about your legs a lot,” he told her, and flirted his fingertips along the top of her stocking. “Ballerina legs, you know?”

  “Just don’t pay any attention to my feet. Dancers have incredibly unattractive feet.”

  “Strong,” he corrected. “Strong’s really sexy to me. Maybe you can show me some of the things you can do later, like you did for Rod that day. I nearly swallowed my tongue.”

  Though she laughed, her hands were far from steady when she drew the shirt over his head, let her own fingers explore that tough wall of muscle.

  “Sure. I can do even more interesting things.”

  They both quivered when he lifted her and laid her on the bed.

  If it had been a dance, she’d have called it a waltz. Slow, circling steps in a match rhythm. The kiss was long and deep, warming the body from the inside out. She sighed into it, into him, and her arms encircled.

  This, she thought, dreaming, this was something—someone—she wanted to hold. Love was a quiet miracle that bloomed in her like a rose. And loving, she would give.

  Then his mouth was on the curve of her breast, rubbing along that edge of lace. Arousing, inciting, and bringing the first licks of heat toward the warmth. She moaned as his tongue slid over that swell of flesh, teasing the point then tugging on it through the thin barrier of lace. Her hips arched, and her fingers dug into his.

  Waltz became tango, slow and hotly sexual.

  His mind was full of her, the scents, the textures, the sounds. All of it, all of her seemed to whirl inside his brain, making him dizzy and drunk. She was carved clean as a statue, the long, hot length of her beautifully erotic. He wanted to touch, to taste everything. All of her.

  Absorbed with her, he did as he pleased while she rose and rolled and shuddered with him. And when he took her up the first time, when that lovely body tensed and her breath came and went on a sob, the thrill of it coursed through him like a drug.

  More and still more. A little greedier, a little faster. He tugged away those barriers of lace. Now he wanted only flesh. Hot and wet and soft.

  She matched him, step for step, rising to him, opening herself. Her mouth found his as they rolled over the quilt, diving heedlessly into the kiss while her hands pleased them both.

  As desperation increased, she tugged open the button of his jeans, dragged them impatiently down his hips. “Oh, I love your body. I love what you do to mine. Hurry, hurry. I want—”

  Her system erupted; her mind blanked. Even as she went limp, his fingers continued to stroke her. “I want to do more.”

  He used his mouth. Sliding down her, breast, torso, belly. She began to move again. And then to writhe while pleasure and need pounded together inside her. Her eyes were blind, her body quaking when he rose over her.

  With his heart hammering, and his mind crowded with her, he filled her with one long stroke. With a low sound of pleasure he held himself there, sustaining the moment, letting the thrill of it batter his system.

  Her hips lifted, then fell away to draw him with her. Beat for beat they moved together, eyes locked, breath tangled and ragged. Her hands groped for his, gripped. The slide of flesh to flesh, slow and silky, the pulse of heart to heart, solid and real.

  And when the wave rose up to swamp them both, he lowered his mouth to hers and completed the joining.

  She lay limp as melted wax, eyes closed, lips curved and enjoyed the sensation of Brody collapsed on top of her. His heart continued to knock—hard, fast raps—that told her his system had been as delightfully assaulted as hers.

  It had been a wonderful way to discover they were compatible in bed.

  It was so fascinating to be in love. Really in love. Not like the couple of times she’d been enchanted with the idea of love. This was so unexpected. So intense.

  She drew a long, satisfied breath and told herself she’d give the matter—and the consequen
ces of it—a great deal of careful thought later. For the moment, she was going to enjoy it. And him.

  No one had ever made her feel quite like this. No one had ever opened her up to so many feelings. Fate, she thought. He was hers. She’d known in some secret place inside her, the first instant she’d seen him.

  And she was going to make certain he understood, when the time was right, that she was his.

  She’d found him, she thought, utterly content as she stroked his back. And she was keeping him.

  “For a man who claims to be out of practice, you certainly held your own.”

  He was trying to decide if he had any brain cells left, and if so, when they would begin to work again. He managed a grunt. That response seemed to amuse her, as she laughed and locked her arms around him.

  He managed to find the energy to turn his head, found his face buried in her hair and decided that was a fine place to be. “Want me to move?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Just give me an elbow if I start to snore.”

  “O’Connell.”

  “Just kidding.” He lifted his head, levered some of his weight off her and onto his elbows. The green of his eyes was blurry with satisfaction. “You’re incredible to look at.”

  “So are you.” She lifted a hand to play with his hair. Not really blond, she thought idly. Not really brown. But a wonderful mix of tones and textures. Like the man himself.

  “You know, I wanted you here from the first time I saw you.” She lifted her head just enough to bite lightly at his jaw. “Total lust at first sight—that’s not usual for me.”

  “I had pretty much the same reaction. You jump-started parts of my system that had been on idle for a long time. Ticked me off.”

  “I know.” She grinned. “I kind of liked it—the way you’d get all scowly and turned on at the same time. Very sexy. Very challenging.”