Christmas In the Snow: Taming Natasha / Considering Kate

by Nora Roberts

  “I’m taking class because I’m a dancer, and dancers never really stop taking class—certainly not if they’re performing. And I’m taking it at seven in the morning because I have a dress rehearsal at eleven. Now go back to sleep.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “Nick and Freddie are going to take you around later, wherever. Maybe you can drop by the theater.”

  She waited for a response, then leaned down. “Well,” she muttered, “you didn’t have any trouble taking that particular order.”

  She left him sleeping and went to prepare for a very long day.

  “Are you sure it’s okay?” Brody looked dubiously at the motley crew approaching the stage door. Three adults, three kids and a small, mixed-breed puppy.

  “Absolutely,” Freddie assured him. “Kate cleared it.”

  He still wasn’t convinced, but he’d already discovered it was hard to argue with either Kimball sister.

  Especially on five hour’s sleep.

  The kids had bounded awake by the time Kate was taking her class. And they’d created enough noise to wake the entire island of Manhattan. Anyone deaf enough to sleep through it, would have been jolted awake by Mike’s high, ferociously joyful barking.

  They’d had breakfast in a deli, which had delighted Jack, then had proceeded to walk their feet off. The Empire State Building, souvenir shops. Times Square, souvenir shops. Grand Central Station. God help him, souvenir shops.

  Brody decided horning in on Kate’s rehearsal wasn’t such a bad idea after all. It was in a theater, and last time he checked a theater had chairs.

  “Lips zipped,” Nick warned. “Or they’ll kick us out. That goes for you, too, furball,” he added, scratching Mike behind the ears.

  “Nothing like backstage.” Freddie linked her hand with Nick as they entered.

  A woman behind a high counter glanced up over wire-rim glasses, scanned, then nodded. “Nice to see you, Ms. Kimball, Mr. LeBeck. See you brought the crew.”

  “Kate clear the way?” Freddie asked.

  “She did. Any of these kids understand Russian?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Davidov’s in rare form. You can leave the pup with me. I like dogs, and if he gets frisky out there, Davidov’s liable to eat him.”

  “That kind of day, huh?” Nick grinned, and the woman rolled her eyes.

  “You don’t know the half of it. What’s his name?”

  “His name is Mike,” Jack piped up. “He’s mine.”

  “I’ll take real good care of him.”

  “Okay.” Biting his lip, Jack passed Mike up to her. “But if he cries, you have to come get me.”

  “That’s a deal. Go on ahead, you know the way.”

  If they hadn’t, after a short twist through backstage, they could have followed the bellows.

  “Davidov.” Freddie gave a mock shudder. “We’ll just detour this way and go out front—where it’s safe.”

  “Does he really eat dogs?” Jack asked in a hissing whisper.

  “No.” Brody took a firm hold of his son’s hand. “She was just kidding.” He hoped.

  He didn’t eat dogs, but at the moment, Davidov would have cheerfully dined on dancers.

  He cut off the music again with a dramatic slice of his hand through the air. “You, you.” He pointed at the couple currently panting and dripping sweat. “Go. Off my stage. Soak your heads. Maybe you’ll come back in one hour, like dancers. Kimball!” he shouted. “Blackstone! Now!”

  He paced back and forth, a slim man in dull gray sweats and a dramatic mane of gold and silver hair. His face was carved and cold.

  “He’s scary,” Jack decided.

  “Shh.” Brody hitched Jack onto his lap after they’d slipped into a row of seats behind a lone woman.

  Then Kate came onstage, and his mouth simply dropped.

  “It’s Kate. Look, Dad, she’s all dressed up.”

  “Yeah, I see. Quiet now.”

  Her hair was loose, raining down the back of a flamboyant costume, boldly red with layers of skirt flowing out from a nipped waist. It stopped just below her knees and showed off long legs that ended in toe shoes.

  She sauntered, hands on hips, until she was toe to toe with Davidov. “You ordered me offstage. Don’t do that again.”

  “I order you on, I order you off. That is what I do. What you do is dance. You.” He flicked a finger at the tall, gilt haired man in white who’d come out with Kate. “Step back. Wait. Red Rose,” he told the orchestra. “Opening solo. Kimball. You are Carlotta,” he said to Kate. “Be Carlotta. Lights!”

  Kate sucked in a breath. Took her position. Left leg back, foot turned and straight as a ruler. Arms lifted, curved into fluid lines. Head up and defiant. When the music began, the strings, she felt the beats. The single spotlight hit her like a torch. She danced.

  It was a viciously demanding solo. Fast, lightning fast and wildly flamboyant. Her muscles responded, her feet flew. She ended with a snap, in precisely the same spot and in the same position where she’d begun.

  Heart pounding from the effort, she shot Davidov a defiant, and unscripted look, then pirouetted offstage as her partner leaped into his cue.

  He’d never seen anything like it. Hadn’t known there could be anything like it. She’d been…magic, Brody thought and was still trying to process this new aspect of her when she flew back onstage.

  They danced together now, Kate and the man in white. He hadn’t realized ballet could be…sexy. But this was, almost raw, certainly edgy, a kind of classic mating dance with arrogant male, defiant female.

  He didn’t see the small balancing steps, the sets, the releases. Didn’t see how she helped her partner lift her by springing with her knees, or how the muscles in her legs trembled with the effort to keep them extended in midair.

  He only saw the speed, the dazzle. The magic. And was jerked rudely out of the moment by the shout.

  “Stop! Stop! Stop!” Davidov threw up his hands. “What is this, what is it? Do you have hot blood, do you have passion or are you strolling through the park on Sunday? Where is the fire?”

  “I’ll give you fire.” Kate whirled on him.

  “Good.” He grabbed her at the waist. “With me. Show me.” He hoisted her up even as she cursed him.

  She came down like a thunderbolt, hearing the music only in her head now, soaring into a series of jetés. He caught her again, spun her into a triple pirouette, then lifted her, lowering her until her head nearly brushed the stage. Sharp moves, challenges, and she was back en pointe, her eyes firing darts into his.

  “There, now. Do again. Stay angry.”

  “I hate you.”

  “Not me. Him.” He flicked a hand and brought the music back.

  “What the hell does he want?” Brody demanded, forgetting himself. “Blood?”

  The woman in the row ahead turned, gave him a dazzling smile. “Yes. Exactly. He always has. A difficult man, Davidov.”

  “Daddy says he ought to be shot,” Jack added, helpfully.

  “Your father isn’t alone in thinking that.” She laughed, turning farther in her seat as the dancing, and the cursing continued onstage. “He’s harder, much harder, on the dancers who are the best. I used to dance with him myself, so I know.”

  “Did he yell at you?”

  “Yes. And I yelled right back. But I was a better dancer for it, and for him. He still made me very, very angry, though.”

  “What did you do?” Jack’s eyes were big as saucers. “Did you punch him in the nose?”

  “No. I married him.” She grinned at Brody. “I’m Ruth Bannion. You must be a friend of Kate’s.”

  “Excuse me, I’d like to get my foot out of my mouth.”

  “No, no.” She let out a low, delighted laugh. “Davidov brings out the best, and the worst. That’s what makes him what he is. He adores Kate, and is still mourning she’s left the company.” Ruth glanced back toward the stage. “Look at her, and you can see why.”

 
“All right, all right. Enough.” Onstage, Davidov let out a windy sigh. “Go rest. Perhaps tonight you will find me some energy.”

  The blood was pounding in Kate’s ears. Her feet were screaming. But she had enough energy, right now, for a short tirade.

  When she was done, and simply panting, Davidov lifted his eyebrow. “You think because I’m Russian I don’t know when a Ukrainian calls me a man with the heart of a pig?”

  Her chin shot up. “I believe I said the face of a pig.”

  She stalked offstage and left him grinning after her.

  “See?” Ruth smiled. “He adores her.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Kate was busy kissing the Russian when Brody came to her dressing room door after the evening performance. She was wearing a robe—short and red—and full stage makeup. Her hair was still pinned up in some sleek and sophisticated knot, the way it had been during her second dance—the Spanish one, in the sexy little tutu.

  The audience had gone wild for her, and so, Brody thought, had he.

  Now, he’d come back to tell her only to find her wrapped around the Russian she’d cursed only that afternoon.

  He wondered which one of them he should kill first.

  “Sorry to interrupt.”

  Kate merely turned her head, eyes brilliant, and beamed at him. “Brody.”

  She held out a hand, but Davidov merely shifted his arm around her shoulders and eyed the intruder coolly.

  “This is the carpenter? The one who wants to shoot me? Now, I think, he wants to shoot me more. He doesn’t like that I kiss you.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly.”

  Brody cut his eyes back to hers. “I don’t like that he kisses you.”

  “That’s absurd. This is Davidov.”

  “I know who it is.” Brody shut the door behind him. He preferred spilling blood in relative privacy. “I met your wife today.”

  “Yes, she likes you, and your little boy. I have a son, and two daughters.” Because he rarely resisted impulses, and it was delightful to watch the man’s fury heat, Davidov kissed Kate’s hair. “She knows, my wife, that I’ve come back to kiss this one. Who was,” he continued drawing back, his hands sliding down her arms to link with hers, “magnificent. Who was perfect. Who I don’t forgive for leaving me.”

  “I felt magnificent. I felt perfect.” Still so perfect none of the aches could push through. “And I’m happy.”

  “Happy.” He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “As your director, what do I care if you’re happy as long as you dance? As your friend.” He heaved a sigh and kissed her hands. “I’m glad you have what you want.”

  “We’ll all end up a lot happier if you step back,” Brody commented.

  Kate frowned. “Jealousy isn’t attractive—and in this case certainly misplaced.”

  “Murder isn’t attractive. But it really seems to fit.”

  “One minute,” Davidov said, dismissively, to both of them. “You want to snarl at each other, wait until I finish. I wrote The Red Rose for my Ruth,” he said to Kate. “My heart. There’s no one but you who has been Carlotta as she was Carlotta.”

  “Oh.” Tears swirled into her eyes, spilled out. “Damn it.”

  “You are missed. So I insist you be very, very happy, or I will come to your West Virginia and drag you back.” Now he cupped her face, spoke quietly in Russian. “You want this man?”

  She nodded. “Da.”

  “Well, then.” He pressed his lips to her forehead, then turned to study Brody. “Me, I’m a man who loves his wife. You met her, so you should see that she is all I treasure. I kiss this one because she is also a treasure. If you had eyes in your head to watch her tonight, this you should also know.”

  His eyes gleamed now in amused challenge. “Still, if I find another man kissing what’s mine, I break his legs. But I’m Russian.”

  “I usually start with the arms. I’m Irish.”

  Davidov’s laugh was rich, and his face went brilliant. “I like him. Good.” Satisfied, he slapped Brody on the shoulder on his way out the door.

  “Isn’t he wonderful?”

  “A few hours ago, you hated him.”

  “Oh.” She waved a hand and sat down to cream off her makeup. “That was rehearsal. I always hate him during rehearsals.”

  “Do you always kiss him after a performance?”

  “If it goes particularly well. He’s a bully, a genius. He’s Davidov,” she said simply. “I wouldn’t be the dancer I am, maybe not even the woman I am without having worked with him. We’re intimate, Brody, but not sexually. Not ever. He adores his wife. All right?”

  “You’re saying it’s an art thing.”

  “In a nutshell. Not that removed from ballplayers hugging each other and patting each other’s butts after a really good game.”

  “I don’t remember ever seeing your brother kiss his shortstop after a double play, but okay. I get it.”

  “Good. It went beautifully, didn’t it?” She spun around on her stool. “Did you like it?”

  “You were incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it. Never seen anything like you.”

  “Oh.” She leaped off the stool, threw her arms around him. “I’m so glad! Oh.” She laughed and rubbed at the smear she’d transferred to his cheek. “Sorry. I wanted it to be incredible. I got so nervous when I realized the family was here. Mama and Dad sneaking up from home, and Grandma and Grandpa. All the aunts and uncles and cousins. And Brandon sent flowers.”

  She grabbed more tissue, sniffling as she sat again. “I thought I might be sick, my stomach was churning so.” She pressed a hand to it now. “But then all I felt was the music. When that happens you know. You just know.”

  He glanced around the room. It was crowded with flowers, literally hundreds of roses. Bottles of champagne, her exotic costumes. All of those glamorous things filled it, and were pale next to her excitement.

  How could she leave all this? he wondered. Why should she?

  He started to ask, then her door burst open. Her family poured in and the moment was lost.

  She seemed to be just as much in her element the next day in the house in Brooklyn where her grandparents lived. The exotic siren who’d flamed across the stage the night before had been replaced by a lovely woman comfortable in jeans and bare feet.

  It was a puzzle, Brody decided, trying to fit the two of them together into a whole. He intended to take the time to do so.

  But for now, the best he could do was experience. The house was crammed with people—so many of them, he wondered if there was enough oxygen to go around. The noise level was a wonder.

  A piano stood against one wall and was played by various fingers at various times. Everything from rock to Bach. The scents of cooking wafted through the air. Wine was poured with generous hands, and nobody seemed to stay still for more than five minutes.

  His son was wallowing in it. He could see him, if he angled his head through other bodies, sprawled on the worn rug with Max, bashing cars together. The last time he’d been able to spot Jack he’d been sitting on Yuri’s lap having what appeared to have been a serious conversation that had involved a number of gumdrops.

  And before that, he’d raced down the stairs in the wake of a couple of young teenagers. Since Brody hadn’t seen him go up the stairs in the first place, he was trying to keep a closer eye on his son.

  “He’s fine.” A woman with the trademark Stanislaski looks—wild, bold, beautiful—dropped onto the couch beside him. “Rachel,” she said with a quick grin. “Kate’s aunt. Hard to keep us straight, isn’t it?”

  “There are a lot of you.” Rachel, he thought, trying desperately to remember the details. Kate’s mother’s sister. A judge. That’s right. Married to…the guy who owned the bar. And the guy who owned the bar was Nick’s half brother.

  Was it any wonder a man couldn’t keep them lined up?

  “You’ll get the hang of it. That’s my guy there.” She gestured toward a tall man who had his arm ho
oked around the throat of a gangly boy with dark hair. “Currently choking our son Gideon while he talks to Sydney—the exceptional redhead who’s married to my brother Mik—and Laurel, Mik and Sydney’s youngest. Mik’s over there, arguing with my other brother Alex, while Alex’s wife Bess—the other exceptional redhead—appears to be discussing something of great importance with her daughter, Carmen, and Nick and Freddie’s Kelsey. The tall, handsome young man just coming out of the kitchen is Mik’s oldest, Griff, who seems to have charmed some food out of my mother, Nadia. Got that?”

  “Ah…”

  “You absorb that awhile.” She laughed and patted his knee. “Because there are so many more of us. Meanwhile, your son’s fine—and you don’t have a drink. Wine?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “No, I’ll get it.” She patted him again and dashed off. Almost immediately, Griff plopped down and began to talk carpentry.

  That, at least, Brody had a handle on.

  Kate wound her way through the bodies, sat on the arm of the couch and offered him one of two glasses of wine. “Okay over here?”

  “Yeah, fine. I figure it’s kind of like the Boy Scout rule—when you’re lost sit down in one spot, and they’ll find you. People drop down here, talk for a couple minutes, then move off. I’m starting to be able to keep them straight working it that way.”

  Even as he spoke, Alex settled on the couch, propped his feet on the coffee table. “So, Bess and I are thinking about adding a couple of rooms onto our weekend place.”

  “See,” Brody said to Kate, then shifted. “What did you have in mind?”

  Kate left him to it and wandered into the kitchen. Her mother was at the table, putting the finishing touches on an enormous salad. Nadia was at the stove, supervising as Mik’s youngest son Adam stirred something in a pot. “Need some more hands?”

  “Always too many hands in my kitchen,” Nadia said. Her hair was snow-white now—a soft wave around a strong face lined with years. But her eyes danced with amusement as she patted Adam. “There, you have done well. Go.”