by Nora Roberts
She couldn’t prevent the overwhelming sense of glee, but she did manage to conceal it. Humming a little, she picked up a chair, upended it onto a table in the area Nick had already mopped.
He swabbed a bit closer. Since she was being so easy about things, he thought it was time to clear the decks.
“Fred, I wanted to talk to you about this afternoon.”
“All right. You know, if we clean up any more, Zack will think we don’t need him. I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”
But she wandered over to the jukebox, loitered over the choices. Inspired, she pushed buttons, turned. “You didn’t dance with me tonight, Nick.”
“Didn’t I?” He knew very well he hadn’t, and why.
“No.” She walked to him as the slow, shuffling notes seeped out. “If I Didn’t Care,” she thought. The Platters.
Perfect.
“You don’t want to hurt my feelings, do you, Nicholas?”
“No, but—”
But she was already slipping her arms around him. He laid his hand on the small of her back and led her into the dance.
His movements were smooth and surprisingly stylish. Always had been, she remembered as she rested her head on his shoulder. The first time she danced with him, she’d thrilled to them.
But there was a different kind of thrill now, for the woman, rather than the adolescent girl.
She fit so well, he thought. Always had, he remembered as he drew her closer. But she’d never smelled like this before, and he couldn’t remember her hair teasing him into brushing his lips over it.
They were alone, and the music was right. He’d always been susceptible to music. It tempted him now to rub his lips over her temple, nibble lightly at her ear.
Catching himself, he swung her out in a slow spin that made her laugh. Her eyes were glowing when she turned back into his arms.
She followed his every move as though she’d been born in his arms. Seemed to anticipate him as he walked her, circled her, twirled her again. In a move as gracefully choreographed as the dance, she lifted her head.
And his mouth was waiting.
He simply slid into her. Into the kiss, the warmth, the simplicity of it. Her arms came up, encircled his neck, her fingers skimming up threading into his hair.
He didn’t hear the music end, for it was playing in his head. Their own intimate symphony. He thought he could absorb her if she would let him. Her skin, her scent, that wonderfully generous mouth.
As the kiss deepened, lengthened, he imagined how perfectly simple it would be to pick her up, carry her upstairs. To his bed.
The clarity of the vision shocked him enough to have him pulling her back. “Fred—”
“No, don’t talk.” Her eyes were clouded, dreamily. “Just kiss me, Nick. Just kiss me.”
Her mouth was on his again, making him long to forget all the reasons why it shouldn’t be. However confused those reasons were becoming, he put his hands firmly on her shoulders and stepped back.
“We’re not doing this.”
“Why?”
“You’re on dangerous ground here,” he warned her. “Now get your things, your purse, whatever. I’m taking you home.”
“I want to stay here, with you.” Her voice was calm, even if her pulse rate wasn’t. “I want to go upstairs with you, to bed.”
The knot in his stomach tightened like a noose. “I said get your purse. It’s late.”
Her experience might be limited, but she thought she knew when to advance and when to retreat. On legs that weren’t quite steady, she walked behind the bar to get her purse.
“Fine. We’ll play it your way. But you don’t know what you’re missing.”
Afraid he did, he dragged a hand through his hair. “Where did you learn this stuff?”
“I pick it up as I go along,” she said over her shoulder as she yanked open the door. “Coming?”
It had just occurred to him that it might be a better—safer—idea to get her a cab. But she was already outside.
“Just hold on.” He slammed the bar door behind him and locked it.
Freddie began to stroll down the street. “Beautiful night.”
Nick muffled his muttering and methodical cursing. “Yeah, just dandy. Give me your purse.”
“What?”
“Just give it to me.” He snatched the glittery fancy and shoved it into his jacket pocket. For the first time, he noticed her earrings. “I bet those rocks are real.”
“These?” Automatically she lifted a hand to the sapphire-and-diamond clusters. “Yes, why?”
“You should know better than to walk around with a year’s rent on your earlobes.”
“It’s no use having them if I’m not going to wear them,” she pointed out with perfect logic.
“There’s a time and a place. And walking on the Lower East Side at 3:00 a.m. doesn’t qualify for either.”
“Want to put them in your pocket, too?” Freddie said dryly.
Before he could tell her it was just what he had in mind, someone called his name.
“Yo, Nick!”
Glancing across the deserted street, Nick saw the shadow, recognized it. “Just keep walking,” he told Freddie, automatically shifting her to his far side. “And don’t say anything.”
Breathless from the short jog, a thin-faced man in baggy pants fell into step beside them. “So, Nick, how’s it hanging?”
“Can’t complain, Jack.”
Freddie opened her mouth, but only a muffled squeak came out when Nick crushed all the major bones of her hand.
“Fancy stuff.” Jack winked at Nick and gave him an elbow dig. “You always had the luck.”
The man was too pitiful to bother decking. “Yeah, I’m loaded with it. We’ve got places to go, Jack.”
“Bet. Thing is, Nick, I’m short until payday.”
When wasn’t he? Nick thought. “Come by the bar tomorrow, I’ll float you.”
“Appreciate it. Thing is, I’m short now.”
Still walking, Nick dug into his pocket, pulled out a twenty. He knew exactly where it would go, if Jack could link up with his dealer at this hour.
“Thanks, bro.” The bill disappeared into the baggy pants. “I’ll get it back to you.”
“Sure.” When icicles drip in hell. “See you around, Jack.”
“Bet. Once a Cobra, always a Cobra.”
Not, Nick thought, if he could help it. Furious at being forced into the encounter, and that Freddie had been touched by the slimy edge of his past, he quickened his pace.
“You know him from the gang you used to belong to,” Freddie said quietly.
“That’s right. Now he’s a junkie.”
“Nick—”
“He hangs around the neighborhood, sometimes during the day. Odds are he won’t remember you, he was already buzzed, but if you run into him, just keep running. He’s bad news.”
“All right.” She would have reached for him, tried to comfort him somehow, drive away the misery lurking just behind his eyes. But they had reached her building, and he was pulling her purse out of his pocket.
Nick took out her keys himself and unlocked the front door, then stepped inside and pressed the button for the elevator. “Go upstairs. Lock your door.”
“Come up with me. Stay with me.”
He wanted to touch her, just once more. But his fingers still felt soiled where they had brushed Jack’s over a crumpled twenty-dollar bill.
“Do you have any idea what happened just now?” Nick demanded. “We just ran into part of my life, and if I hadn’t been along, he would have taken more from you than your pretty earrings.”
“He isn’t part of your life,” she said calmly. “He isn’t your friend. But you gave him money.”
“So maybe he won’t mug the next person he sees.”
“You’re not one of them anymore, Nick. I doubt you ever really were.”
He was suddenly so weary, so horribly tired. Giving in, he rested his brow agains
t hers. “You don’t know what I was, what I still might be. Now go upstairs, Fred.”
“Nick—”
To silence her, he gripped her shoulders and brought his mouth down hard on hers. When she could breathe again, she would have staggered, but his hands steadied her as he pushed her into the elevator. She could only stare, system sizzling, as he snapped the grate closed.
“Lock your door,” he said again, and walked out.
He took a careful look up the street, down, then turned and waited until he saw her light flash on.
He took the long way home.
Chapter Eight
She’d had incredible dreams. True, she’d gotten only a few hours’ sleep, but she saw no reason to complain. In fact, Freddie had awakened early, feeling wonderful. Since she had time to spare, she walked over to the Village and spent the morning haunting some of the more interesting shops, picking up what Nick liked to call her knickknacks.
By the time she’d cabbed home, dropped off her newest treasures and walked out again, she was running a little behind.
But the day was too gorgeous for her to worry about it.
Spring was in full swing now, with just a hint of the summer to come teasing the edges. It made the day balmy and bright, with none of the horrendous heat that could plague the city during the dog days.
She was, Freddie decided, one of the luckiest women in the world. She lived in an exciting city, was embarking on a new, equally exciting career. She was young and in love. And, unless her female intuition was faulty, she was very close to convincing the man she loved that he loved her right back.
Every step of her plan was falling into place.
Since she was feeling generous, she stopped by a sidewalk vendor to buy both herself and Nick a jumbo pretzel.
As she was slipping her change back into her pocket, she spotted the man leaning on the front of the building across the street.
The thin face, the baggy clothes. With a little inward shiver, she recognized the man Nick had called Jack from the night before. He was smoking, bringing a cigarette to his lips in quick, greedy puffs as his eyes darted right and left like wary birds.
Even though those eyes lingered a moment on her before passing on, she saw no recognition in them. Relieved, she turned away. Not that she would have spoken to him unless it was unavoidable, Freddie thought. Still, she wouldn’t have cared to explain to Nick about any interaction she had with one of his old gang comrades.
She quickened her pace, heading toward the bar without looking back. Though the back of her neck prickled.
She pushed Jack out of her mind as she stepped into the kitchen, and loitered there a few moments to praise Rio for his success with last night’s food.
Nibbling on her pretzel, she started upstairs. Her sunny mood didn’t cloud over, even when Nick yanked open the door and scowled at her.
“You’re late.”
So much, she thought, for loverlike greetings.
“I wasn’t even sure you’d be up yet. We had a late night.”
He didn’t care to be reminded of it. “I’m up, and I’m working, which is more than I can say for you.”
He’d had much worse than a late night. He hadn’t slept more than an hour, and even that had been restless and sweaty. Old dreams and new ones had plagued him.
He’d been raw then, and he was raw now, suffering from a combination of emotional and physical frustration he’d never experienced before.
And he knew just where to lay the blame for it.
She was standing right in front of him, looking as bright and golden as a sunbeam.
Though she was well aware of his foul mood, Freddie smiled at him, tilted her head. He hadn’t bothered to shave, she noted, but she didn’t object to the look. The angry eyes and stubbled chin gave him a sort of reckless and dangerous edge that was appealing, in its way.
She had a feeling he’d had trouble sleeping, and couldn’t have been happier.
“Rough night, Nick? Have a pretzel.”
Since she all but shoved it into his mouth, he had little choice but to take a bite. But he didn’t have to like it.
“Where’s the mustard?”
“Get your own.” She crossed to the piano and sat. “Ready to work?”
“I’ve been working.” What else was there to do, when you couldn’t sleep? “What have you been doing?”
“Shopping.”
“Figures.”
“And before you start hammering me, I happened to have finished the lyrics to ‘You’re Not Here.’” Pleased to be able to put him in his place, she opened her briefcase and pulled them out. “I polished them up before the shops opened.”
He muttered something, but joined her on the bench. In spite of himself, his mood began to lift as he read them. He should have known they’d be perfect.
Still, there was no use indulging her vanity. “They’re not too bad.”
She rolled her eyes. “Thank you, Richard Rodgers.”
His mouth quirked. “You’re welcome, Stephen Sondheim.”
Now that he looked at her, really looked, his gaze narrowed. “What did you do to your hair?”
Instinctively she reached up to pat it. “I pulled it back and put it up. It gets in the way.”
“I like it in the way.” To prove it, he started yanking out pins.
“Stop it.” Flustered, she batted at his hands. He simply caught her wrists, bracketing them with one hand while he used the other to pull her careful hairdo apart.
By the time the damage was to his liking, he was laughing and she was swearing at him. “There,” he decided. “Much better.”
“Now you’re a fashion consultant.”
“You look cute when it sort of sproings all over the place.”
She blew it out of her face. “Sproings. Thanks.” Now her eyes gleamed. “Maybe I’ll do some rearranging on yours.”
She made her dive, but he was quicker. It had always been a disappointment to her that she couldn’t quite outmaneuver him. He just wrestled her backward until she was breathless and giggling.
It took her a moment to realize he wasn’t smiling anymore, but was staring at her. Staring with a sharp, focused intensity that had her pulse stuttering and her throat going dry. Her legs had gotten tangled with his, so that she was all but sitting on his lap.
A tug, a sweet, gradual pull, stretched from her heart down to her center.
“Nick.”
“We’re wasting time.” He let his hands fall away, untangled himself. He just had to get on the right track, he was sure of it, and he’d stop having these sudden, voracious cravings for her. “We’ll run through the number you just finished, see how it plays.”
Patience, she reminded herself, and wiped her damp palms on her trousers. “Fine. Whenever you’re ready.”
After a rocky start, the work smoothed out. Both of them became focused on the music, so that they could sit hip to hip as collaborators, as friends.
One hour passed into two, and two into three, and more. At one point, Rio brought up some leftovers from the party, and stayed awhile to listen, with a smile on his wide face.
They nibbled at food, polished, argued over small points and nearly always agreed on the big ones.
Nearly.
“It should be romantic.”
“Comedic,” Nick disagreed.
“It’s their wedding night.”
“Exactly.” He took time out for a cigarette, secretly pleased that he was cutting down on his tobacco intake daily. “They’ve rushed headlong into marriage. They’ve known each other three days.”
“They’re in love.”
“They don’t know what they are.” Thoughtfully, he took a slow drag, setting the scene in his head. “They’ve just rushed off to a JP for a ridiculous ceremony, now they’re in a broken-down hotel room, wondering what they’ve gotten into. And what the hell they’re going to do about it.”
“That may be, but it’s still their wedding night. You’re
writing a dirge.”
He only grinned. “Ever really listened to the Wedding March, Fred?” To prove his point, he crushed the cigarette out and began to play it.
Freddie had to admit it was solemn, serious, and a little scary. “Okay, you’ve got a point. Play it again and let me think.”
She got up to pace, letting Nick’s music run through her. And she watched him, and wondered.
What was it about him that pulled her so? His looks? Perhaps that had been true years ago, when a young girl first saw those restless green eyes. But she looked deeper now.
His manner? That made her smile. Hardly that. However kind and loving Nick could be, he could be equally brusque and careless of feelings. Not that he meant to hurt others’ feelings, she thought. He simply forgot about them.
It was his heart, she decided, that had always called to hers, and always would.
But what if she had met him only yesterday? What if they had come together as strangers and she had simply, irrevocably lost that heart to him?
Would she be frightened, unsure? Excited?
“Who is this man,” she murmured, “who calls me his wife? It takes more than a gold ring to change a girl’s life.”
She wrinkled her nose when Nick glanced back. “Needs to be sharper,” she said.
Thinking, she took another turn around the room. “Till death do us part? That’s a deal with no heart. Love, honor and cherish, from now till I perish?”
He turned and grinned. “I like it. Marriage and death. Quite a pair.”
“I can do better. Who is this man, waiting outside the door? What’s he want me to be? A wife, a lover, a whore? He’s going to see me naked. There’s no way I can fake it…”
She stopped, laughed, rubbed the back of her neck. “I’m getting punchy.”
“It’s the right theme,” he told her. “Panic.”
“Maybe…maybe.” She walked back to him. “What if we started out the way you have it, slow, funereal—a cello-and-organ thing. Then we pick up the tempo, faster, then faster. Panic building.”
“With a key change.”
“Good. Try here.” To demonstrate, she leaned over his shoulder, putting her hands over his on the keys.
“Yeah, I got the picture.” He wished to God her breasts weren’t pressing into his back. “You’re crowding me, Fred.”