Taming Natasha by Nora Roberts Page A

he could speak. “That’s a lofty position you put me in, Natasha.” He stepped down until they were at eye level. There were tears on her lashes, but they were offset by the condemnation in her eyes. “Let’s just be sure you’ve put me there for the right reasons. Is it because I kissed you, or because you liked it?”
    She swung her hand out. He could have avoided the blow easily enough, but thought she deserved a hit. As the crack of the slap echoed, he decided they were even.
    â€œDon’t come near me again,” she said, breathing hard. “I warn you, if you do, I won’t care what I say or who hears me. If it wasn’t for your little girl—” She broke off and bent to gather her things. Her pride was shattered, along with her self-esteem. “You don’t deserve such a beautiful child.”
    He caught her arm again, but this time the expression on his face made her blood go cold. “You’re right. I never have and probably never will deserve Freddie, but I’m all she has. Her mother—my wife—died three years ago.”
    He strode off, was caught in the beam of a street lamp, then disappeared into the dark beyond. Her notebook pressed against her chest, Natasha sank weakly onto the bottom step.
    What in hell was she going to do now?
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    There was no choice. No matter how much she hated it, there was really only one course to take. Natasha rubbed the palms of her hands on the thighs of her khakis, then started up the freshly painted wooden steps.
    It was a nice house, she thought, stalling. Of course she’d seen it so often that she rarely noticed it anymore. It was one of those sturdy old brick places tucked back from the street and shielded by trees and box hedges.
    The summer flowers had yet to fade, but the fall blooms were already staking their claim. Showy delphiniums vied with spicy scented mums, vivid dahlias with starry asters. Someone was caring for them. She could see fresh mulch on the flower beds, damp with watering.
    Wanting a little more time, she studied the house. There were curtains at the windows, thin ivory sheers that would let in the light. Higher up she caught a glimpse of a fanciful pattern of unicorns that identified a little girl’s room.
    She gathered her courage and crossed the porch to the front door. It would be quick, she promised herself. Not painless, but quick. She rapped, released her breath and waited.
    The woman who answered was short and wide with a face as brown and wrinkled as a raisin. Natasha found herself fixed by a pair of small, dark eyes while the housekeeper dried her hands on the skirt of a stained apron.
    â€œMay I help you?”
    â€œI’d like to see Dr. Kimball if he’s in.” She smiled, pretending shedidn’t feel as though she were stepping into the pillory. “I’m Natasha Stanislaski.” She saw the housekeeper’s little eyes narrow, so that they nearly disappeared into the folds of her face.
    Vera had at first taken Natasha for one of the señor ’s students, and had been prepared to nudge her on her way. “You own the toy store in town.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œAh.” With a nod, she opened the door wider to let Natasha in. “Freddie says you are a very nice lady, who gave her a blue ribbon for her doll. I promised to take her back, but just to look.” She gestured for Natasha to follow.
    As they made their way down the hall, Natasha caught the hesitant notes of a piano. When she saw her reflection in an old oval mirror, it surprised her that she was smiling.
    He was sitting at the piano with the child on his lap, looking over her head while she slowly tapped out “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” The sun streamed in through the windows behind them. At that moment she wished she could paint. How else could it be captured?
    It was perfect. The light, the shadows, the pale pastels of the room all combined