by Nora Roberts
She was as erotic as any fantasy, her body swaying first to, then away from his. Her eyes stayed on him, glowing, aware, and her hair fell in a torrent of dark silk over her naked shoulders.
When he touched her, skimming his hands up and over, her head fell back. But there was nothing of submission in the gesture. It was a demand. Pleasure me.
On a groan he lowered his mouth to her throat and felt the need punch like a fist through his gut. His open mouth growing greedy, he trailed down her, pausing to linger at the firm swell of her breast. He could feel her heart, almost taste it, as its beat grew fast and hard against his lips. Her hands came to his hair, gripping tight while she arched like a bow.
Before he could think he reached for her and sent her spiraling over the first crest.
Breathless, shuddering, she clung, managing only a confused murmur as he laid her back on the bed. She struggled for inner balance, but he was already destroying will and mind and control.
This was seduction. She hadn’t asked for it, hadn’t wanted it. Now she welcomed it. She couldn’t move, couldn’t object. Helpless, drowning in her own pleasure, she let him take her where he willed. His mouth roamed freely over her damp skin. His hands played her as skillfully as they might a fine-tuned instrument. Her muscles went lax.
Her breath began to rush through her lips. She heard music. Symphonies, cantatas, preludes. Weakness became strength and she reached for him, wanting only to feel his body fit against her own.
Slowly, tormentingly, he slid up her, leaving trails of heat and ice, of pleasure and pain. His own body throbbed as she moved under him. He found her mouth, diving deep, holding back even when her fingers dug into his hips.
Again and again he brought them both shivering to the edge, only to retreat, prolonging dozens of smaller pleasures. Her throat was a long white column he could feast on as she rose to him. Her arms wrapped themselves fast around him like taut silk. Her breath rushed along his cheek, then into his mouth, where it formed his own name like a prayer against his lips.
When he slipped into her, even pleasure was shattered.
* * *
Natasha awoke to the scent of coffee and soap, and the enjoyable sensation of having her neck nuzzled.
“If you don’t wake up,” Spence murmured into her ear, “I’m going to have to crawl back into bed with you.”
“All right,” she said on a sigh and snuggled closer.
Spence took along, reluctant look at her shoulders, which the shifting sheets had bared. “It’s tempting, but I should be home in an hour.”
“Why?” Her eyes still closed, she reached out. “It’s early.”
“It’s nearly nine.”
“Nine? In the morning?” Her eyes flew open. She shot up in bed, and he wisely moved the cup of coffee out of harm’s way. “How can it be nine?”
“It comes after eight.”
“But I never sleep so late.” She pushed back her hair with both hands, then managed to focus. “You’re dressed.”
“Unfortunately,” he agreed, even more reluctantly when the sheets pooled around her waist. “Freddie’s due home at ten. I had a shower.” Reaching out, he began to toy with her hair. “I was going to wake you, see if you wanted to join me, but you looked so terrific sleeping I didn’t have the heart.” He leaned over to nip at her bottom lip. “I’ve never watched you sleep before.”
The very idea of it had the blood rushing warm under her skin. “You should have gotten me up.”
“Yes.” With a half smile he offered her the coffee. “I can see I made a mistake. Easy with the coffee,” he warned. “It’s really terrible. I’ve never made it before.”
Eyeing him, she took a sip, then grimaced. “You really should have wakened me.” But she valiantly took another sip, thinking how sweet it was of him to bring it to her. “Do you have time for breakfast? I’ll make you some.”
“I’d like that. I was going to grab a doughnut from the bakery down the street.”
“I can’t make pastries like Ye Old Sweet Shoppe, but I can fix you eggs.” Laughing, she set the cup aside. “And coffee.”
In ten minutes she was wrapped in a short red robe, frying thin slices of ham. He liked watching her like this, her hair tousled, eyes still heavy with sleep. She moved competently from stove to counter, like a woman who had grown up doing such chores as a matter of course.
Outside a thin November rain was falling from a pewter sky. He heard the muffled sound of footsteps from the apartment above, then the faint sound of music. Jazz from the neighbor’s radio. And there was the sizzle of meat grilling, the hum of the baseboard heater under the window. Morning music, Spence thought.
“I could get used to this,” he said, thinking aloud.
“To what?” Natasha popped two slices of bread into the toaster.
“To waking up with you, having breakfast with you.”
Her hands fluttered once, as if her thoughts had suddenly taken a sharp turn. Then, very deliberately they began to work again. And she said nothing at all.
“That’s the wrong thing to say again, isn’t it?”
“It isn’t right or wrong.” Her movements brisk, she brought him a cup of coffee. She would have turned away once more, but he caught her wrist. When she forced herself to look at him, she saw that the expression in his eyes was very intense. “You don’t want me to fall in love with you, Natasha, but neither one of us have a choice about it.”
“There’s always a choice,” she said carefully. “It’s sometimes hard to make the right one, or to know the right one.”
“Then it’s already been made. I am in love with you.”
He saw the change in her face, a softening, a yielding, and something in her eyes, something deep and shadowed and incredibly beautiful. Then it was gone. “The eggs are going to burn.”
His hand balled into a fist as she walked back to the stove. Slowly, carefully he flexed his fingers. “I said I love you, and you’re worried about eggs burning.”
“I’m a practical woman, Spence. I’ve had to be.” But it was hard to think, very hard, when her mind and heart were dragging her in opposing directions. She fixed the plates with the care she might have given to a state dinner. Going over and over the words in her head, she set the plates on the table, then sat down across from him.
“We’ve only known each other a short time.”
“Long enough.”
She moistened her lips. What she heard in his voice was more hurt than anger. She wanted nothing less than to hurt him. “There are things about me you don’t know. Things I’m not ready to tell you.”
“They don’t matter.”
“They do.” She took a deep breath. “We have something. It would be ridiculous to try to deny it. But love—there is no bigger word in the world. If we share that word, things will change.”
“Yes.”
“I can’t let them. From the beginning I told you there could be no promises, no plans. I don’t want to move my life beyond what I have now.”
“Is it because I have a child?”
“Yes, and no.” For the first time since he’d met her, nerves showed in the way she linked and unlinked her fingers. “I would love Freddie even if I hated you. For herself. Because I care for you, I only love her more. But for you and me to take what we have and make something more from this would change even that. I’m not ready to take on the responsibilities of a child.” Under the table she pressed her hand hard against her stomach. “But with or without Freddie, I don’t want to take the next step with you. I’m sorry, and I understand if you don’t want to see me again.”
Torn between frustration and fury, he rose to pace to the window. The rain was still falling thinly, coldly upon the dying flowers outside. She was leaving something out, something big and vital. She didn’t trust him yet, Spence realized. After everything they’d shared, she didn’t yet trust him. Not enough.
“You know I can’t stop seeing you, any more than I can stop loving you.
”
You could stop being in love, she thought, but found herself afraid to tell him. It was selfish, hideously so, but she wanted him to love her. “Spence, three months ago I didn’t even know you.”
“So I’m rushing things.”
She moved her shoulder and began to poke at her eggs.
He studied her from behind, the way she held herself, how her fingers moved restlessly from her fork to her cup, then back again. He wasn’t rushing a damn thing, and they both knew it. She was afraid. He leaned against the window, thinking it through. Some jerk had broken her heart, and she was afraid to have it broken again.
All right, he thought. He could get around that. A little time and the most subtle kind of pressure. He would get around it, he promised himself. For the first part of his life, he’d thought nothing would ever be as important to him as his music. In the last few years he’d learned differently. A child was infinitely more important, more precious and more beautiful. Now he’d been taught in a matter of weeks that a woman could be as important, in a different way, but just as important.
Freddie had waited for him, bless her. He would wait for Natasha.
“Want to go to a matinee?”
She’d been braced for anger, so only looked blankly over her shoulder. “What?”
“I said would you like to go to a matinee? The movies.” Casually he walked back to the table to join her. “I promised Freddie I’d take her to the movies this afternoon.”
“I—yes.” A cautious smile bloomed. “I’d like to go with you. You’re not angry with me?”
“Yes, I am.” But he returned her smile as he began to eat. “I figured if you came along, you’d buy the popcorn.”
“Okay.”
“The jumbo size.”
“Ah, now I begin to see the strategy. You make me feel guilty, so I spend all my money.”
“That’s right, and when you’re broke, you’ll have to marry me. Great eggs,” he added when her mouth dropped open. “You should eat yours before they get cold.”
“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “Since you’ve offered me an invitation, I have one for you. I was going to mention it last night, but you kept distracting me.”
“I remember.” He rubbed his foot over hers. “You’re easily distracted, Natasha.”
“Perhaps. It was about my mother’s phone call and Thanksgiving. She asked me if I wanted to bring someone along.” She frowned at her eggs. “I imagine you have plans.”
His smile was slow and satisfied. Perhaps the wait wouldn’t be as long as he’d thought. “Are you asking me to Thanksgiving dinner at your mother’s?”
“My mother asked,” Natasha said precisely. “She always makes too much food, and she and Papa enjoy company. When it came up, I thought about you and Freddie.”
“I’m glad to know that you think about us.”
“It’s nothing,” she said, annoyed with herself for stringing out what should have been a simple invitation. “I always take the train up on Wednesday after work and come back Friday evening. Since there is no school, it occurred to me that you both might enjoy the trip.”
“Do we get borscht?”
The corners of her lips curved. “I could ask.” She pushed her plate aside when she saw the gleam in his eyes. He wasn’t laughing, she thought, as much as planning. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. It’s simply an invitation from friend to friend.”
“Right.”
She frowned at him. “I think Freddie would enjoy a big family meal.”
“Right again.”
His easy agreement had her blowing out a frustrated breath. “Just because it’s at my parents’ home doesn’t mean I’m taking you there for…” She waved her hand as she searched for an appropriate phrase. “For approval, or to show you off.”
“You mean your father won’t take me into the den and ask me my intentions?”
“We don’t have a den,” she muttered. “And no. I’m a grown woman.” Because Spence was grinning, she lifted a brow. “He will, perhaps, study you discreetly.”
“I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“Then you’ll come?”
He sat back, sipping his coffee and smiling to himself. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
CHAPTER TEN
Freddie sat in the back seat with a blanket tucked up to her chin and clutched her Raggedy Ann. Because she wanted to drift with her own daydreams she pretended to sleep, and pretended so well that she actually dozed from time to time. It was a long drive from West Virginia to New York, but she was much too excited to be bored.
There was soft music on the car radio. She was enough of her father’s daughter to recognize Mozart, and child enough to wish there were words to sing along to. Vera had already been dropped off at her sister’s in Manhattan, where the housekeeper would holiday until Sunday. Now Spence was directing the big, quiet car through the traffic toward Brooklyn.
Freddie was only a little disappointed that they hadn’t taken the train, but liked snuggling up and listening to her father and Natasha talk. She didn’t pay much attention to what they said. Their voices were enough.
She was almost sick with excitement at the idea of meeting Natasha’s family and sharing a big turkey dinner. Though she didn’t like turkey very much, Natasha had told her that there would be plenty of cranberry sauce and succotash. Freddie had never eaten succotash, but the name was so funny, she knew it would be good. Even if it wasn’t, even if it was disgusting, she was determined to be polite and clean her plate. JoBeth had told her that her grandmother got upset if JoBeth didn’t eat all her vegetables, so Freddie wasn’t taking any chances.
Lights flickered over her closed lids. Her lips curved a little as she heard Natasha’s laugh merging with her father’s. In her imaginings they were already a family. Instead of Raggedy Ann, Freddie was carefully tending to her baby sister as they all drove through the night to her grandparents’ house. It was just like the song, she thought, but she didn’t know if they were going over any rivers. And she didn’t think they would pass through the woods.
Her baby sister’s name was Katie, and she had black, curly hair like Natasha. Whenever Katie cried, Freddie was the only one who could make her happy again. Katie slept in a white crib in Freddie’s room, and Freddie always made sure she was covered with a pink blanket. Babies caught colds, Freddie knew. When they did, you had to give them medicine out of a little dropper. They couldn’t blow their noses themselves. Everyone said that Katie took her medicine best from Freddie.
Delighted with herself, Freddie snuggled the doll closer. “We’re going to Grandmother’s,” she whispered, and began to build a whole new fantasy around the visit.
The trouble was, Freddie wasn’t sure that the people she was pretending were her grandparents would like her. Not everyone liked kids, she thought. Maybe they wished she wasn’t coming to visit. When she got there, they would want her to sit in a chair with her hands folded on her lap. That was the way Aunt Nina told her young ladies sat. Freddie hated being a young lady. But she would have to sit for just hours, not interrupting, not talking too loud, and never, never running in the house.
They would get mad and frown at her if she spilled something on the floor. Maybe they would yell. She’d heard JoBeth’s father yell, especially when JoBeth’s big brother, who was in third grade already and was supposed to know better, had taken one of his father’s golf clubs to hit at rocks in the backyard. One of the rocks had crashed right through the kitchen window.
Maybe she would break a window. Then Natasha wouldn’t marry her daddy and come to stay with them. She wouldn’t have a mother or a baby sister, and Daddy would stop playing his music at night again.
Almost paralyzed by her thoughts, Freddie shrank against the seat as the car slowed.
“Yes, turn right here.” At the sight of her old neighborhood, Natasha’s spirits rose even higher. “It’s about halfway down, on the left. You might be able to find a space…yes, there.” She spotte
d a parking space behind her father’s ancient pickup. Obviously the Stanislaskis had put out the word that their daughter and friends were coming, and the neighbors had cooperated.
It was like that here, she thought. The Poffenbergers had lived on one side, the Andersons on the other for as long as Natasha could remember. One family would bring food when there was illness, another would mind a child after school. Joys and sorrows were shared. And gossip abounded.
Mikhail had dated the pretty Anderson girl, then had ended up as best man at her wedding, when she’d married one of his friends. Natasha’s parents had stood as godparents for one of the Poffenberger babies. Perhaps that was why, when Natasha had found she’d needed a new place and a new start, she had picked a town that had reminded her of home. Not in looks, but in ties.
“What are you thinking?” Spence asked her.
“Just remembering.” She turned her head to smile at him. “It’s good to be back.” She stepped onto the curb, shivered once in the frosty air, then opened the back door for Freddie while Spence popped the trunk. “Freddie, are you asleep?”
Freddie kept herself balled tight, but squeezed her eyes open. “No.”
“We’re here. It’s time to get out.”
Freddie swallowed, clutching the doll to her chest. “What if they don’t like me?”
“What’s this?” Crouching, Natasha brushed the hair from Freddie’s cheeks. “Have you been dreaming?”
“They might not like me and wish I wasn’t here. They might think I’m a pest. Lots of people think kids’re pests.”
“Lots of people are stupid then,” Natasha said briskly, buttoning up Freddie’s coat.
“Maybe. But they might not like me, anyway.”
“What if you don’t like them?”
That was something that hadn’t occurred to her. Mulling it over, Freddie wiped her nose with the back of her hand before Natasha could come up with a tissue. “Are they nice?”