by Nora Roberts
“Fine.” As if it belonged to someone else, his hand reached down for hers, drew her to her feet. The only light in the room came from the gooseneck lamp atop the piano. Its glow fell short of them, leaving them in soft shadow. “You shouldn’t have come back here tonight.”
“Why?”
“I’m thinking about you too much. It’s not the way I used to think about you.”
“Times change,” she said unsteadily. “So do people.”
“You don’t always want them to, and it’s not always for the best. This isn’t for the best,” he murmured as he lowered his mouth to hers.
It wasn’t frantic this time. She’d been prepared for that, but this time it was slow, and deep, and quietly desperate. Instead of revving for the storm, her body simply went limp, melting into his like candle wax left too long at the flame.
It was the innocence he felt, her innocence, fluttering helplessly against his own driving needs. The images that spun through his brain aroused him, amazed him, appalled him.
“I lied,” he murmured, and pulled back with difficulty. “I said I wouldn’t touch you again.”
“I want you to touch me.”
“I know.” He kept his hands firm on her shoulders when she would have swayed toward him. “What I want is for you to go home, back to your hotel, now. I’ll get in touch with you after I’ve seen Valentine.”
“You want me to stay,” she whispered. “You want to be with me.”
“No, I don’t.” That, at least, was the truth. He didn’t want it, even if he seemed so violently to need it. “We’re family, Fred, and it looks as though we may be collaborators. I’m not going to ruin that. Neither are you.” He set her aside, stepped away. “Now, I want you to go down and have Rio flag you a cab.”
Every nerve ending in her body was on full alert. But while she might have preferred to scream in frustration, she could see that his eyes were troubled. “All right, Nick, I’ll wait to hear from you.”
She started for the door, then stopped and turned. “But you’re still going to think about me, Nick. Too much. And it’s never going to be the way it used to be again.”
When the door closed behind her, he lowered himself to the piano stool. She was right, he acknowledged as he rubbed his hands over his face. Nothing was going to be quite the same again.
Chapter Five
Sunday dinner at the Stanislaski household was never a quiet, dignified affair. It began in the early afternoon, with the sounds of children shouting, adults arguing and dogs barking. Then there were always the scents of something wonderful streaming through the kitchen doorway.
As the family grew, the house in Brooklyn seemed to stretch at its joints to accommodate them all. Children tumbled over the floor or were welcomed into laps, and there were board games and toys scattered over the well-worn rugs. When it came time for the meal, leaves were added to the table and everyone sat elbow-to-elbow with everyone else in the chaos of conversation, bowls and platters being passed around.
Mikhail’s and Sydney’s home in Connecticut was much larger, Rachel’s and Zack’s apartment more accommodating, and Alex’s and Bess’s airy loft more spacious. No one ever considered changing the tradition from Yuri’s and Nadia’s overflowing home.
Because this was where the family began, Freddie mused as she squeezed between Sydney and Zack on the ancient sofa. This, no matter where any of them lived or worked or moved to, was home.
“Up,” Laurel demanded, and began the climb into Freddie’s lap. She had the flashing sunburst smile of her father and her mother’s cool, discerning eye.
“And up you go.” Freddie bounced Laurel as the toddler entertained herself with the glint of colored stones on Freddie’s necklace.
“You’re pleased with the apartment, then?” Sydney reached out to run a hand over her son’s hair as he darted past in pursuit of a cousin.
“More than pleased. I really appreciate you helping me out. It’s exactly what I was looking for—size, location.”
“Good.” With a mother’s instinct, Sydney kept a wary eye on her oldest. Just lately, he’d taken to torturing his sister. Not that she worried about Moira overmuch. The girl had a fast and wicked left jab. “Griff” she called out, and it took no more than that along with a steely maternal look, to have the boy reconsider yanking his sister’s curling ponytail, just to see what would happen.
“Are you looking for furniture?” Sydney asked as Laurel climbed determinedly from Freddie’s lap to hers.
“Halfheartedly,” Freddie admitted. There was a bloodcurdling war whoop from upstairs, followed by a loud thump. No one so much as blinked. “I picked up a few things over the last couple of days. I think I’ll get more in the swing when I move in next week.”
“Well, there’s a shop downtown with good prices on rugs. I’ll give you the name. Ah, Zack?”
“Hmm?” He tore his eyes from the ball game currently on the television and glanced in the direction Sydney indicated. His youngest had dragged a chair over to Nadia’s breakfront and had both greedy eyes on a bag of Yuri’s gumdrops, on the top shelf.
“Forget it, Gideon.”
Gideon beamed, all innocence. “Just one, Daddy. Papa said.”
“I’ll just bet he did.” Zack rose, caught his son around the waist and tossed him in the air to distract him. “Hey, Mom. Catch.”
Experience and reflex had Rachel scooping her son out of the air on the fly. The new criminal court judge held her giggling child upside down as she turned to Freddie. “So, where’s our temperamental Nick?”
Exactly the question Freddie had been asking herself. “I’m sure he’ll be here shortly. He’d never miss a meal. I talked to him yesterday.”
And he hadn’t been able, or hadn’t been willing, to give her an opinion on the producers’ reaction to their collaboration. The wait, Freddie thought, was like sitting on one of Nadia’s pin cushions.
Waiting was something she should excel at by now, she thought with a little sigh. She’d been waiting for Nick for ten years.
She let the conversation and noise flow around her before rising. Maneuvering with practiced skill around the various sprawled bodies and abandoned toys, she wandered into the kitchen.
Bess sat contentedly at the kitchen table, putting the finishing touches on an enormous salad while Nadia guarded the stove.
It was a good room, Freddie mused, looking around. A nurturing room, with its cluttered counters and its refrigerator door totally covered with wildly colorful drawings, courtesy of the grandchildren. Always there was something simmering on the stove, and the cookie jar was never empty.
Such things, she thought, such small things, made a home. One day, she promised herself, she would make such a room.
“Grandma.” Freddie pressed a kiss to Nadia’s warm cheek. She caught the scent of lavender weaving through the aromas of roasting meat. “Can I help?”
“No. You sit, have some wine. Too many cooks in my kitchen these days.”
Bess winked at Freddie. “I’m only allowed because I’m getting lessons. Nadia thinks I should stop doing all my meals with the phone as my only cooking utensil.”
“All my children cook,” Nadia said with some pride.
“Nick doesn’t,” Freddie pointed out, and snatched a radish while Nadia’s back was turned.
“I did not say they all cooked well.” Nadia continued to mix the dough for her biscuits. She was a small, sturdy woman, her hair now iron gray, around a serene and timelessly lovely face. The smoothness, Freddie realized now, came from happiness. Age had scored a few lines, to be sure, but none came from discontent.
“When you learn,” Nadia said, turning to wag a wooden spoon in Bess’s direction, “you teach your children.”
Bess gave a mock shudder. “Horrible thought. Just last week Carmen emptied an entire bag of flour over her head, then added eggs.”
“You teach her right.” Nadia smiled. “Your sons, too. I give you recipes my mama gave to me. Freddie, you make the c
hicken Kiev like I taught you?”
“Yes, Grandma.” Unable to resist, Freddie gave Bess a smug smile. “When I’m settled in my new apartment, I’ll cook it for you and Papa.”
“Show-off,” Bess muttered.
There were shouts from the other room, of greeting, of demands, of questions. As the noise level rose dramatically, Nadia opened her oven to check her roast.
“Nick is here,” she announced. “Soon we eat.”
In a move she hoped was casual, Freddie rose and reached for the jug wine on the counter. “Want something cold, Aunt Bess?”
“I wouldn’t mind some juice.” With her tongue caught between her teeth, Bess sliced cucumbers with concentration and intensity. “How’s the game going?”
“I was wondering about the same myself,” Freddie murmured as the door of the kitchen swung open.
And there was Nick, a huge bouquet of daisies in one hand, a toddler in his other arm, and another child clinging to his leg.
“Sorry I’m late.” He presented the bouquet to Nadia with a kiss.
“You bring me flowers so I don’t scold you.”
He grinned at her. “Did they work?”
She only laughed. “You’re a bad boy, Nicholas. Put these in water. Use the good vase.”
Unhampered by the children hanging on him, Nick opened a cabinet. “Pot roast,” he said, and turned his head to nip at Laurel, on his hip. “Almost as tasty as little girls.”
Laurel squealed happily and snuggled closer.
“Pick me up, Nick. Pick me up, too.”
Nick looked down at the boy tugging on his jeans. “Wait until I have a hand free, Kyle.”
“Kyle, let Nick finish what he’s doing.” Bess took the glass of juice Freddie offered.
“But, Mom, he picked Laurel up.”
“Wait your turn.” Nick dumped daisies into the vase, then bent to scoop the boy up. With his arms full again, he turned to look at Freddie. “Hi, kid. How’s it going?”
“You tell me.” She eyed him over the rim of her glass. And damned him for looking so casually beautiful, his hands full of children, his eyes impersonally friendly as they studied her. “Have you heard back from Reed?”
“It’s Sunday,” Nick reminded her. “He and his family are at the Hamptons, or Bar Harbor, or someplace. We’ll hear something in a few days.”
In a few days she would explode. “He must have had a reaction.”
“Not really.”
“Did he listen to the tape?”
Nick accommodated Kyle, who was squirming for attention, by tickling the boy’s ribs. “Sure he listened.”
In a lightning mood swing, Kyle shifted his affections and held out his arms and wailed for Freddie. The pass was completed with the fluidity of long practice, and she set him on her hip. “Well, then, what did he say when he heard it?”
“Not a lot.”
She hissed through her teeth. “He must have said something. Indicated something.”
Nick merely shrugged. He reached down, aiming for a slice of carrot from Bess’s salad and got his hand slapped. “Jeez, Bess, who’s going to notice?”
“I am. I’m working on presentation here. Color, texture, shape. Take this instead.” She held out a carrot she had yet to slice.
“Thanks. Anyway, Fred, why don’t you just play house for a couple days?” He bit into the carrot and chewed thoughtfully. He liked watching the way her eyes went from lake calm to stormy and the way her bottom lip seemed to grow fuller as temper took hold. “Buy your knickknacks and whatever for the new place. I’ll be in touch when I hear anything.”
“You just want me to wait?”
As if in sympathy, Kyle rested his head on Freddie’s shoulder and scowled at Nick. “You just want me to wait?” he mimicked, and had Nick grinning.
“That’s the idea. And don’t get that devious brain of yours working on the idea of calling Valentine yourself. Old family friend or not, that’s not how I work.”
She could only steam in silence, as that was exactly what she’d been considering. “I don’t see how it would hurt—”
“No,” he said simply, and, handing her what was left of his carrot, walked out with Laurel.
“Stubborn, hardheaded know-it-all,” Freddie grumbled.
“Know-it-all,” Kyle echoed gleefully.
“Aunt Bess, when you have connections, you use them, don’t you?”
Bess took a sudden, intense interest in the proper way to slice a mushroom. “You know, I think I’m getting the hang of this. It’s all in the wrist.”
“Temperamental jerk,” Freddie said under her breath.
“Jerk,” Kyle agreed, as she strode out with him on her hip.
“They are children one minute, men and women the next,” Nadia commented.
“It’s rough, being a grown-up.”
Thoughtfully, Nadia rolled out her biscuit dough. “He looks at her.”
Bess raised her head. She hadn’t been certain Nadia would notice what she had. Of course, Bess mused, she should have known better. When it came to family, Nadia missed nothing.
“She looks back,” Bess said, and the two women were suddenly grinning at each other.
“She would push him to be his best.”
Bess nodded. “And he’d keep her from being too driven.”
“He has such kindness in him. Such a need for family.”
“They both do.”
“It’s good.”
With a chuckle, Bess lifted her glass of juice. “It’s great.”
That was just the first of a number of conversations that night that both Freddie and Nick would have been stupefied to hear.
In their loft, Bess cuddled against Alex, sleepy-eyed and yawning. The first trimester of her pregnancies always left her as lazy as a cat in a moonbeam at night.
“Alexi.”
“Hmmm?” He stroked her hair, half listening to the news on the bedroom television, half musing about his caseload. “Need something?”
It amused them both that she was the clichéd expectant mother in her early weeks, with all the accompanying strange cravings. “I think there are still some strawberries and peanut butter in the fridge.”
“Well…” She thought it over, then shook her head. “No, we seem to be holding our own tonight.” She smiled as his hand skimmed lightly over her still-flat belly. “Actually, I was thinking about Freddie and Nick.”
Cautious, his promise to his niece weighing heavily on him, Alex shifted. “What about them?”
“Do you think they know they’re crazy about each other, or are they still at that ‘I don’t know what’s going on around here’ stage?”
“What?” He sat straight up in bed, gaping down at his sleepy-eyed, tousled-haired wife. “What?”
“I can’t decide myself.” With ease, she slithered, accommodating herself to his new position. “It’s probably a little weird for both of them, under the circumstances.”
Alex let out a long breath. Why did he continue to delude himself that Bess’s freewheeling manner made her oblivious of nuances?
“Weird,” he muttered. “How do you know they’re crazy about each other?”
She drummed up the energy to open one eye. “How many times do I have to tell you, writers are every bit as observant as cops? You noticed it, didn’t you? The way they’ve started to look at each other, circle around?”
“Maybe.” He wasn’t certain he was entirely comfortable with the idea yet. “Somebody ought to clue Natasha in.”
Bess gave a lazy snort. “Alexi, compared to a mother, cops and writers are deaf, dumb and blind.” She snuggled closer. “Strawberries, huh?”
Across town, Rachel and Zack made a final check on their kids. Rachel eased the headset off her daughter’s ears while Zack tucked a stuffed rabbit more securely under her limp arm—a tribute, Rachel often thought, to the contrasts of a growing girl.
“She looks more like you every day,” Zack murmured as they stood for a moment,
watching their firstborn sleep.
“Except for that Muldoon chin,” Rachel agreed. “Stubborn as stone.”
Arm in arm, they walked out and across the hall, into the room shared by their sons. They both let out a long, helpless sigh. You could, if you were a parent and had particularly sharp eyes, just make out the two sprawled bodies amid the debris. Clothes, toys, models, sports equipment, were scattered, piled or precariously perched on nearly every surface on the top bunk, Jake’s arm and leg draped over the mattress. A devoted guardian angel or pure good luck kept him from rolling over and falling into a heap on a tumble of possessions. Below, Gideon was no more than a lump beneath the tangled sheets.
“Are you sure they’re ours?” Rachel wondered as she gave her older son a nudge that had him muttering in his sleep and rolling to safety.
“I ask myself that same question every day. I caught Gideon telling one of Mik’s kids that if they tied on bed sheets like a cape, then jumped off Yuri’s roof, they’d fly back to Manhattan.”
Rachel closed her eyes and shuddered. “Don’t tell me. Some things I’m better off not knowing.” She uncovered Gideon’s head on the pillow, discovered it was his feet, and tried the other side.
“I meant to ask you, how do you feel about Nick and Fred?”
“Working together? I think it’s great.” Zack swore as his stockinged foot stepped hard on an airplane propeller. “Damn it.”
“I’ve told you to wear hip boots in here. And that’s not what I meant. I meant how do you feel about the romance.”
One hand massaging his wounded instep, Zack stopped dead. “What romance? Whose romance?”
“Nick and Fred. Keep up with the tour, Muldoon.”
He straightened, very slowly. “What are you talking about?”
“About the fact that Freddie is head over heels in love with Nick. And the fact that he keeps shoving his hands into his pockets whenever she gets within arm’s reach. Like he’s afraid if he touches her he’ll—”
“Hold on. Just hold on.” Because his voice rose, she shushed him, and he grabbed her arm to pull her into the hall. “Are you telling me that the two of them are interested in—”