скачать книгу бесплатно
“Did you love her very much? I’m sorry,” she said quickly and closed her eyes tight. “I have no business asking that.”
“Yes, you do.” He kept his fingers firm. “I loved her once, or I loved the idea of her. That idea was gone long before she died.”
“Please. Tonight isn’t the time to talk about things that were.”
When she sat up, he went with her, cupping her forearms in his hands. “Maybe not. But there are things I need to tell you, things we will talk about.”
“Is what happened before so important?”
He heard the trace of desperation in her voice and wished he could find the reason. “I think it could be.”
“This is now.” She closed her hands over his. It was as close to a promise as she dared make. “Now I want to be your friend and your lover.”
“Then be both.”
She calmed herself with a deliberate effort.
“Perhaps I don’t want to talk about other women while I’m in bed with you.”
He could feel that she was braced and ready to argue. In a move that threw her off, he leaned closer to touch his lips to her brow. “We’ll let you use that one for now.”
“Thank you.” She brushed a hand through his hair. “I’d like to spend this night with you, all night.” With a half smile, she shook her head. “You can’t stay.”
“I know.” He caught her hand to bring it to his lips. “Freddie would have some very awkward questions for me if I wasn’t around for breakfast in the morning.”
“She’s a very lucky girl.”
“I don’t like leaving this way.”
She smiled and kissed him. “I understand, as long as the other woman is only six.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Bending closer, he deepened the kiss.
“Yes.” On a sigh she wrapped her arms around him. “Once more,” she murmured, drawing him down to the bed. “Just once more.”
In her cramped office at the back of the shop, Natasha sat at her desk. She had come in early to catch up on the practical side of business. Her ledger was up-to-date, her invoices had been filled. With Christmas less than two months away, she had completed her orders. Early merchandise was already stacked wherever room could be found. It made her feel good to be surrounded by the wishes of children, and to know that on Christmas morning what was now stored in boxes would cause cries of delight and wonder.
But there were practicalities as well. She had only begun to think of displays, decorations and discounts. She would have to decide soon whether she wanted to hire part-time help for the seasonal rush.
Now, at midmorning, with Annie in charge of the shop, she had textbooks and notes spread out. Before business there were studies, and she took both very seriously.
There was to be a test on the baroque era, and she intended to show her teacher—her lover—that she could hold her own.
Perhaps it shouldn’t have been so important to prove she could learn and retain. But there had been times in her life, times she was certain Spence could never understand, when she had been made to feel inadequate, even stupid. The little girl with broken English, the thin teenager who’d thought more about dance than schoolbooks, the dancer who’d fought so hard to make her body bear the insults of training, the young woman who had listened to her heart, not her head.
She was none of those people any longer, and yet she was all of them. She needed Spence to respect her intelligence, to see her as an equal, not just as the woman he desired.
She was being foolish. On a sigh, Natasha leaned back in her chair to toy with the petals of the red rose that stood at her elbow. Even more than foolish, she was wrong. Spence was nothing like Anthony. Except for the vaguest of physical similarities, those two men were almost opposites. True, one was a brilliant dancer, the other a brilliant musician, but Anthony had been selfish, dishonest, and in the end cowardly.
She had never known a man more generous, a man kinder than Spence. He was compassionate and honest. Or was that her heart talking? To be sure. But the heart, she thought, didn’t come with a guarantee like a mechanical toy. Every day she was with him, she fell deeper and deeper in love. So much in love, she thought, that there were moments, terrifying moments, when she wanted to toss aside everything and tell him.
She had offered her heart to a man before, a heart pure and fragile. When it had been given back to her, it had been scarred.
No, there were no guarantees.
How could she dare risk that again? Even knowing that what was happening to her now was different, very different from what had happened to the young girl of seventeen, how could she possibly take the chance of leaving herself open again to that kind of pain and humiliation?
Things were better as they were, she assured herself. They were two adults, enjoying each other. And they were friends.
Taking the rose out of its vase, she stroked it along her cheek. It was a pity that she and her friend could only find a few scattered hours to be alone. There was a child to consider, then there were schedules and responsibilities. But in those hours when her friend became her lover, she knew the true meaning of bliss.
Bringing herself back, she slipped the flower into the vase and shifted her concentration to her studies. Within five minutes the phone rang.
“Good morning, Fun House.”
“Good morning, businessperson.”
“Mama!”
“So, you are busy or you have a moment to talk to your mother?”
Natasha cradled the phone in both hands, loving the sound of her mother’s voice. “Of course I have a moment. All the moments you like.”
“I wondered, since you have not called me in two weeks.”
“I’m sorry.” For two weeks a man had been the center of her life. But she could hardly tell that to her mother. “How are you and Papa and everyone?”
“Papa and me and everyone are good. Papa gets a raise.”
“Wonderful.”
“Mikhail doesn’t see the Italian girl anymore.” Nadia gave thanks in Ukrainian and made Natasha laugh. “Alex, he sees all the girls. Smart boy, my Alex. And Rachel has time for nothing but her studies. What of Natasha?”
“Natasha is fine. I’m eating well and getting plenty of sleep,” she added before Nadia could ask.
“Good. And your store?”
“We’re about to get ready for Christmas, and I expect a better year than last.”
“I want you to stop sending your money.”
“I want you to stop worrying about your children.”
Nadia’s sigh made Natasha smile. It was an old argument. “You are a very stubborn woman.”
“Like my mama.”
That was true enough, and Nadia clearly didn’t intend to concede. “We will talk about this when you come for Thanksgiving.”
Thanksgiving, Natasha thought. How could she have forgotten? Clamping the receiver between ear and shoulder, she flipped through her calendar. It was less than two weeks away. “I can’t argue with my mother on Thanksgiving.” Natasha made a note for herself to call the train station. “I’ll be up late Wednesday evening. I’ll bring the wine.”
“You bring yourself.”
“Myself and the wine.” Natasha scribbled another note to herself. It was a difficult time to take off, but she had never missed—and would never miss—a holiday at home. “I’ll be so glad to see all of you again.”
“Maybe you bring a friend.”
It was another old routine, but this time, for the first time, Natasha hesitated. No, she told herself with a shake of her head. Why would Spence want to spend Thanksgiving in Brooklyn?
“Natasha?” Nadia’s well-honed instincts had obviously picked up her daughter’s mental debate. “You have friend?”
“Of course. I have a lot of friends.”
“Don’t be smart with your mama. Who is he?”
“He’s no one.” Then she rolled her eyes as Nadia began tossing out questions. “All right, all right. He’s a professor at the college, a widower,” she added. “With a little girl. I was just thinking they might like company for the holiday, that’s all.”
“Ah.”
“Don’t give me that significant ah, Mama. He’s a friend, and I’m very fond of the little girl.”
“How long you know him?”
“They just moved here late this summer. I’m taking one of his courses, and the little girl comes in the shop sometimes.” It was all true, she thought. Not all the truth, but all true. She hoped her tone was careless. “If I get around to it, I might ask him if he’d like to come up.”
“The little girl, she can sleep with you and Rachel.”
“Yes, if—”
“The professor, he can take Alex’s room. Alex can sleep on the couch.”
“He may already have plans.”
“You ask.”
“All right. If it comes up.”
“You ask,” Nadia repeated. “Now go back to work.”
“Yes, Mama. I love you.”
Now she’d done it, Natasha thought as she hung up. She could almost see her mother standing beside the rickety telephone table and rubbing her hands together.
What would he think of her family, and they of him? Would he enjoy a big, rowdy meal? She thought of the first dinner they had shared, the elegant table, the quiet, discreet service. He probably has plans anyway, Natasha decided. It just wasn’t something she was going to worry about.
Twenty minutes later the phone ran again. It was probably her mother, Natasha thought, calling with a dozen questions about this “friend.” Braced, Natasha picked up the receiver. “Good morning, Fun House.”
“Natasha.”
“Spence?” Automatically she checked her watch. “Why aren’t you at the university? Are you sick?”
“No. No. I came home between classes. I’ve got about an hour. I need you to come.”
“To your house?” There was an urgency in his voice, but it had nothing to do with disaster and everything to do with excitement. “Why? What is it?”
“Just come, will you? It’s nothing I can explain. I have to show you. Please.”
“Yes, all right. Are you sure you’re not sick?”
“No.” She heard his laugh and relaxed. “No, I’m not sick. I’ve never felt better. Hurry up, will you?”
“Ten minutes.” Natasha snatched up her coat. He’d sounded different. Happy? No, elated, ecstatic. What did a man have to be ecstatic about in the middle of the morning? Perhaps he was sick. Pulling on her gloves, she dashed into the shop.
“Annie, I have to—” She stopped, blinked, then stared at the image of Annie being kissed, soundly, by Terry Maynard. “I…excuse me.”
“Oh, Tash, Terry just… Well, he…” Annie blew the hair out of her eyes and grinned foolishly. “Are you going out?”
“Yes, I have to see someone.” She bit her lip to keep from grinning back. “I won’t be more than an hour. Can you manage?”
“Sure.” Annie smoothed down her hair, while Terry stood beside her, turning various shades of red. “It has been a quiet morning. Take your time.”
Perhaps the world had decided to go crazy today, Natasha thought as she rushed down the street. First her mother calling, already preparing to kick Alex out of his bed for a stranger. Spence demanding she come to his house and see…something in the middle of the day. And now Annie and Terry, kissing each other beside the cash register. Well, she could only deal with one at a time. It looked as though Spence was first on the list.
She took his steps two at time, convinced he was suffering from some sort of fever. When he pulled open the door before she reached it, she was certain of it. His eyes were bright, his color up. His sweater was rumpled and his tie unknotted.
“Spence, are you—?”
Before she could get the words out, he was snatching her up, crushing his mouth to hers as he swung her around and around. “I thought you’d never get here.”
“I came as quickly as I could.” Instinctively she put a hand to his cheek. Then the look in his eyes had her narrowing her own. No, it wasn’t a fever, she decided. At least it wasn’t the kind that required medical attention. “If you had me run all the way over here for that, I’m going to hit you very hard.”
“For—no,” he answered on a laugh. “Though it’s a wonderful idea. A really wonderful idea.” He kissed her again until she thoroughly agreed with him. “I feel like I could make love with you for hours, days, weeks.”
“They might miss you in class,” she murmured. Steadying herself, she stepped back. “You sounded excited. Did you win the lottery?”
“Better. Come here.” Remembering the door, he slammed it shut, then pulled her into the music room. “Don’t say anything. Just sit.”
She obliged, but when he went to the piano, she started to stand again. “Spence, I’d enjoy a concert, but—”
“Don’t talk,” he said impatiently. “Just listen.”
And he began to play.
It took only moments for her to realize it was nothing she’d heard before. Nothing that had been written before. A tremor ran through her body. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap.
Passion. Each note swelled with it, soared with it, wept with it. She could only stare, seeing the intensity in his eyes and the fluid grace of his fingers on the keys. The beauty of it ripped at her, digging deep into heart and into soul. How could it be that her feelings, her most intimate feelings could be put to music?
As the tempo built, her pulse beat thickly. She couldn’t have spoken, could hardly breathe. Then the music flowed into something sad and strong. And alive. She closed her eyes as it crashed over her, unaware that tears had begun to spill onto her cheeks.
