Taming Natasha by Nora Roberts Page B

to make the perfect backdrop. The alignment of their heads, their bodies, was too natural and eloquent ever to be posed. The girl was in pink and white, the laces of one sneaker untied. He had taken off his jacket and tie, then rolled up the sleeves of the pale dress shirt to the elbows like a workman.
    There was the fragile shine of the child’s hair, the deeper glow of his. The child leaned back against her father, her head resting just under his collarbone; the faintest smile of pleasure lighted her face. Over it all was the simple nursery rhyme music she was playing.
    He had his hands on the knees of her jeans, his long, beautifulfingers tapping the time in tandem with the tick of the antique metronome. She could see it all, the love, the patience, the pride.
    â€œNo, please,” Natasha whispered, holding out a hand to Vera. “Don’t disturb them.”
    â€œYou play now, Daddy.” Freddie tilted her head toward his. Her hair wisped around her face where it had escaped from its clips. “Play something pretty.”
    â€œFür Elise.” Natasha recognized it instantly, that soft, romantic, somehow lonely music. It went straight to her heart as she watched his fingers stroke, caress, seduce the keys.
    What was he thinking? She could see that his thoughts had turned inward—to the music, to himself. There was an effortlessness in the way his fingers flowed over the keys, and yet she knew that kind of beauty was never achieved without the greatest effort.
    The song swelled, note after note, unbearably sad, impossibly beautiful, like the vase of waxy calla lilies that rested on the glossy surface of the piano.
    Too much emotion, Natasha thought. Too much pain, though the sun was still shining through the gauzy curtains and the child on his lap continued to smile. The urge to go to him, to put a comforting hand onto his shoulder, to hold them both against her heart, was so strong that she had to curl her fingers into her palms.
    Then the music drifted away, the last note lingering like a sigh.
    â€œI like that one,” Freddie told him. “Did you make it up?”
    â€œNo.” He looked at his fingers, spreading them, flexing them, then letting them rest on hers. “Beethoven did.” Then he was smiling again, pressing his lips to the soft curve of his daughter’s neck. “Had enough for today, funny face?”
    â€œCan I play outside until dinner?”
    â€œWell… What’ll you give me?”
    It was an old game and a favorite one. Giggling, she swiveled on his lap and gave him a hard, smacking kiss. Still squealing from the bear hug, she spotted Natasha. “Hi!”
    â€œMiss Stanislaski would like to see you, Dr. Kimball.” At his nod, Vera walked back to the kitchen.
    â€œHello.” Natasha managed to smile, even when Spence lifted his daughter and turned. She wasn’t over the music yet. It was still pouring through her like tears. “I hope I haven’t come at a bad time.”
    â€œNo.” After a last squeeze, he set Freddie down, and she immediately bounded to Natasha.
    â€œWe’re all finished with my lesson. Did you come to play?”
    â€œNo, not this time.” Unable to resist, Natasha bent to stroke Freddie’s cheek. “Actually I came to talk to your father.” But she was a coward, Natasha thought in disgust. Rather than look at him, she continued to address Freddie. “How do you like school? You have Mrs. Patterson, don’t you?”
    â€œShe’s nice. She didn’t even yell when Mikey Towers’s icky bug collection got loose in the classroom. And I can read all of Go, Dog, Go .”
    Natasha crouched so that they were eye to eye. “Do you like my hat?”
    Freddie laughed, recognizing the line from the Dr. Seuss classic. “I like the dog party part the best.”
    â€œSo do I.” Automatically she tied Freddie’s loose laces. “Will you come to the