by Nora Roberts
To Brody’s surprise, he did. It was interesting, and entertaining to watch Jack interact with a family, to see how he slid into the mix with a brother and sister. It was cute the way he played with three-year-old Kelsey. Kind of like he was trying out his big brother muscles.
It wasn’t always easy, Brody mused, being an only child.
“Want to escape?” Nick asked and jerked his head. As he walked out of the playroom he called out: “You break it, you buy it.” Laughing moans followed them out.
He took Brody into the music room with its battered piano—one he’d kept more than a decade out of sentiment—and its wide, deep leather chairs. There were gleaming Tonys on a shelf and a clutter of sheet music on a bench.
Nick walked over to a clear-fronted minifridge. “Beer?”
“Oh,” Brody said with feeling. “Yeah.”
“Traveling with kids separates the men from the boys.” Nick popped tops, offered a bottle. “Let’s hear it for keeping them separate for ten blissful minutes.”
“He never stopped talking, not from the minute I picked him up from school. I think he broke his own record.”
“Wait till you try trans-Atlantic. Nine hours trapped on a plane with Max and Kelsey.” He shuddered. “Do you know how many questions can be asked in nine uninterrupted hours? No, let’s not think about it. It’ll give us both nightmares.”
At Nick’s gesture, Brody sank gratefully into one of the chairs. “It’s a great place you’ve got here. I guess when I think of New York, I think of little apartments where the windows all face a brick building, or big, sleek skyscrapers.”
“We got all of that. When Freddie and I started writing together, I was living over my brother’s bar. Lower East side. Great bar,” Nick added, “and not a half bad apartment. But it’s not the kind of place you want to try to raise a couple of kids.”
He glanced up, grinned. “Ah, here’s the prima now.”
“Sorry I’m late.” Kate rushed in, gave Nick a quick peck on the cheek, then turned, bent and gave Brody a much longer kiss. “And sorry I couldn’t pick you up. Davidov’s having one of his moments. The man can drive you to drink. Nick, my hero, if you get me a glass of wine, I’ll be your slave.”
“Sounds like a deal.”
“Tell Freddie I’ll be back in after I catch my breath.”
“Sit,” he ordered, and nudged her into the chair he vacated. “Rest those million-dollar feet.”
“You bet I will.” She groaned, and leaned over to slip off her shoes as Nick left the room.
Brody swore and was instantly on his knees in front of her, lifted her foot in his hand. “What the hell have you done?” Her feet were bandaged, and raw.
“I danced.”
“Until your feet bleed?” he demanded.
“Why yes, when necessary. With Davidov, it’s often necessary.”
“He ought to be shot.”
“Mmm.” She leaned back, closed her eyes. “I considered it, a number of times over the last couple days. Ballet isn’t for wimps, O’Connell. And aching, bleeding feet are part of the job description.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s the life.” She leaned over again, kissed his forehead. “Don’t worry. They heal.”
“How the hell are you supposed to dance on these tomorrow night?”
“Magnificently,” she told him, then let out a huge sigh of gratitude when Nick came back. “My prince. Brody thinks Davidov should be shot.”
“So you’ve said, plenty.” Nick glanced down at her feet, winced. “God, what a mess. Want some ice?”
“No, thanks. I’ll baby them later.”
“You’re going to take care of them right now.” To settle the matter, Brody got up, plucked her out of the chair and into his arms.
“Oh, really, Brody, get a grip.”
“Just be quiet,” he ordered and carried her out of the room.
Nick tipped back his beer. “Man, he is toast.” He hurried off to find his wife and tell her.
“It was so romantic.” Freddie’s heart continued to sigh over it now, hours later, as she and Nick prepared for bed. “He just carried her right into the kitchen, with that wonderful scowl on his face, and demanded where he could find a basin and so on to soak Kate’s poor feet.”
“I told you.” Absently Nick rapped a fist on the wall that adjoined their room with his son’s. But he didn’t really expect it to quiet the racket on the other side for long. “The man’s a goner.”
“And the way he looks at her—especially when he thinks no one, particularly Kate, is paying attention. Like he could just gobble her up in one big bite. It’s great.”
Nick stopped scratching his belly and frowned. “I look at you that way.”
Freddie sniffed and started to turn down the bed. “Yeah, right.”
“Hey.” He walked over, turned her around by the shoulder. “Right here,” he instructed, pointing at his own face, then attempting a smoldering look. “See?”
She snorted. “Yeah, that’s it all right. I am a puddle.”
“Are you insinuating that I’m not romantic? Are you saying the hammer-swinger’s got me beat in that department?”
Enjoying herself, Freddie rolled her eyes. “Please,” she said and wandered over to the dresser to run a brush through her hair.
The next thing she knew she was being swept off her feet. Her surprised yelp was muffled against his very determined mouth. “You want romance, pal? Boy, are you going to get it.”
At the other end of the hall, as children finally fell into reluctant and exhausted sleep, Kate belted her robe. She’d put in several long, hard days—days that wore the body to a nub and left the mind fussy with fatigue.
But now, knowing Brody was just a few steps away, she was restless. And needy. She imagined he’d consider sneaking into her room rude. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t sneak into his.
She slipped from her room, walked quietly down the hall to peek in on the children. Even the dog, she noted, was sprawled out limply. Satisfied, she eased out again, and made her way to Brody’s door.
No light shone under it. Well, if she had to wake him up, she had to wake him up. She opened it—a little creak of sound—and stepped in just as he turned from the window.
He’d been thinking of her—nothing new there, he admitted. And stood now, wearing only his jeans loosened at the waist. His mouth went dry as he saw her reach behind and flip the lock.
“Kate. The kids.”
“Out for the count.” She’d bought the robe only the day before, on an hour break. A ridiculous extravagance of peach-colored silk. But seeing the way his eyes darkened, hearing the way it whispered as she crossed the room, she considered it worth every penny.
“I just checked on them,” she said, and ran her hands up his chest. “And if they wake up, one of the four of us will take care of it. Taking in the view?”
“It’s pretty spectacular.” He took her hands. “I was just thinking I’d never be able to sleep tonight, knowing you were so close, and not being able to touch you.”
“Touch me now, and neither one of us will worry about sleep tonight.”
He wondered how he had ever considered resisting her. She was every fantasy, every dream, every wish. All silk and shadows. And she was real, as real as that warm yielding mouth, those long, sculpted arms.
With her, all the years of emptiness, all the lonely nights were locked away.
He slipped the silk from her shoulders, and found only Kate beneath.
Curves and muscle, sighs and trembles. He slid into the bed with her, and into that intimate world they created together. Perfumed flesh, soft, stroking hands. She was a wonder to him, a smoky-eyed seductress who could beckon with a look. A strong-minded woman who refused to back down from a fight. An openhearted friend with strong shoulders and a steady hand.
He could no longer imagine what his life would be like if she stepped back out of it.
Knowing it, final
ly admitting it to himself, he gathered her close, and just held.
“Brody?” Kate brushed her fingers through his hair. His arms had tightened around her so fiercely she wondered why she didn’t simply snap in two. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” He pressed his lips to the side of her neck and ordered himself not to think. For God’s sake don’t think now. “It’s nothing. I want you. It’s like starving the way I want you.”
His mouth took hers now. Hot, ravenous, burning away all thoughts, all reason.
There was something different happening between them. Something more. But he was whipping her over the edge so fast, with a kind of quiet intensity that was kin to desperation. She could do nothing but feel, nothing but respond. Her heart, already lost to him, bounded like a deer.
City lights glanced against the dark windows. The sounds of traffic hummed on the street below. Whatever life pulsed there meant nothing in this tangle of sheets and needs.
She rose over him, slim and pale in the shadows. Her hair was a dark fall, tumbling down her back, then sliding forward to curtain them both as she leaned down to kiss him. The scent of it, of her, surrounded him. Drowned him.
Then she took him in, one fluid move that encased him in heat.
Twin moans merged. Eyes locked. He reached for her, his hands sliding, slippery, up her body, over her breasts. She covered them with her own, holding him to her. And then she began to move.
Slow. Painfully and gloriously slow so that each breath was a shudder. Pleasure slithered through the blood, and began to pulse. He watched her as she took both of them higher—that graceful arch of body, that delicate line of throat. Her eyes closed as she lost herself. Her arms lifted until her hands were buried in her own rich mass of hair.
A sound rippled in her throat of pleasure rising. She began to drive him, drive herself, her hips like lightning. It was all speed and power now. With a kind of greedy glee they dragged each other toward the edge. Held there, held until madness had them leaping recklessly over.
When she folded herself down to him, trembling still, his arms locked around her.
Love me, she thought. Her heart was raw with loving him. Tell me. Why won’t you tell me?
He shifted her so that she could curl against him, so he could hold her there. “Will you stay?”
Kate closed her eyes. “Yes.”
They lay quiet in each other’s arms. But neither slept for a long time.
He woke reaching for her. Confusion came first as he struggled to remember where he was. He was alone in bed, in the dark. Groggy, he glanced over at a faint sound, and saw Kate, in the faint wash of light through the window, slipping into her robe.
“What is it?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to wake you.” Whispering she stepped over to the side of the bed, bent down to kiss his cheek. “I have to go. Dance class.”
“Huh? You’re teaching class in the middle of the night?”
“I’m taking class—and it’s not the middle of the night. It’s nearly six.”
He tried to clear his brain, but it objected to functioning on four hour’s sleep. “You’re taking class? I thought you knew how to dance.”
“Smart aleck.”
“No, wait.” He grabbed for her hand before she could move away. “Why are you taking class? And why are you taking it at six in the morning?”
“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 positio
n. 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?”