The Stanislaskis: Taming Natasha. Нора Робертс

going to have to face down a large, hungry wolf.

      “What are you doing here?”

      “Freezing.”

      She nearly laughed. His breath was puffing out in white steam. With the wind chill, she imagined that the effective temperature was hovering around twenty-five degrees Fahrenheit. After a moment, Natasha decided she must be a very poor sport to be amused at the thought of Spence sitting on cold concrete for the past hour.

      He rose as she continued down the walk. How could she have forgotten how tall he was? “Didn’t you invite your friend back for a drink?”

      “No.” She reached out and twisted the knob. Like most of the doors in town, it was unlocked. “If I had, you’d be very embarrassed.”

      “That’s not the word for it.”

      “I’m suppose I’m lucky I didn’t find you waiting up for me inside.”

      “You would have,” he muttered, “if it had occurred to me to try the door.”

      “Good night.”

      “Wait a damn minute.” He slapped his palm on the door before she could close it in his face. “I didn’t sit out here in the cold for my health. I want to talk to you.”

      There was something satisfying in the brief, fruitless push-push they played with the door. “It’s late.”

      “And getting later by the second. If you close the door, I’m just going to beat on it until all your neighbors poke their heads out their windows.”

      “Five minutes,” she said graciously, because she had planned to grant him that in any case. “I’ll give you a brandy, then you’ll go.”

      “You’re all heart, Natasha.”

      “No.” She laid her coat over the back of the couch. “I’m not.”

      She disappeared into the kitchen without another word. When she returned with two snifters of brandy, he was standing in the center of the room, running Terry’s scarf through his fingers.

      “What kind of game are you playing?”

      She set down his brandy, then sipped calmly at her own. “I don’t know what you mean.”

      “What are you doing, going out on dates with some college kid who’s still wet behind the ears?”

      Both her back and her voice stiffened. “It’s none of your business whom I go out with.”

      “It is now,” Spence replied, realizing it now mattered to him.

      “No, it’s not. And Terry’s a very nice young man.”

      “Young’s the operative word.” Spence tossed the scarf aside. “He’s certainly too young for you.”

      “Is that so?” It was one thing for her to say it, and quite another to have Spence throw it at her like an accusation. “I believe that’s for me to decide.”

      “Hit a nerve that time,” Spence muttered to himself. There had been a time—hadn’t there?—when he had been considered fairly smooth with women. “Maybe I should have said you’re too old for him.”

      “Oh, yes.” Despite herself, she began to see the humor of it. “That’s a great deal better. Would you like to drink this brandy or wear it?”

      “I’ll drink it, thanks.” He lifted the glass, but instead of bringing it to his lips, took another turn around the room. He was jealous, Spence realized. It was rather pathetic, but he was jealous of an awkward, tongue-tied grad student. And while he was about it, he was making a very big fool of himself. “Listen, maybe I should start over.”

      “I don’t know why you would want to start something over you should never have begun.”

      But like a dog with a bone, he couldn’t stop gnawing. “It’s just that he’s obviously not your type.”

      Fire blazed again. “Oh, and you’d know about my type?”

      Spence held up his free hand. “All right, one straight question before my foot is permanently lodged in my mouth. Are you interested in him?”

      “Of course I am.” Then she cursed herself; it was impossible to use Terry and his feelings as a barricade against Spence. “He’s a very nice boy.”

      Spence almost relaxed, then spotted the scarf again, still spread over the back of her couch. “What are you doing with that?”

      “I picked it up for him.” The sight of it, bright and a little foolish on the jewel colors of her couch, made her feel like the most vicious kind of femme fatale. “He left it behind after I broke his heart. He thinks he’s in love with me.” Miserable, she dropped into a chair. “Oh, go away. I don’t know why I’m talking to you.”

      The look on her face made him want to smile and stroke her hair. He thought better of it and kept his tone brisk. “Because you’re upset, and I’m the only one here.”

      “I guess that’ll do.” She didn’t object when Spence sat down across from her. “He was very sweet and nervous, and I had no idea what he was feeling—or what he thought he was feeling. I should have realized, but I didn’t until he spilled his coffee all over his shirt, and… Don’t laugh at him.”

      Spence continued to smile as he shook his head. “I’m not. Believe me, I know exactly how he must have felt. There are some women who make you clumsy.”

      Their eyes met and held. “Don’t flirt with me.”

      “I’m past flirting with you, Natasha.”

      Restless, she rose to pace the room. “You’re changing the subject.”

      “Am I?”

      She waved an impatient hand as she paced. “I hurt his feelings. If I had known what was happening, I might have stopped it. There is nothing,” she said passionately, “nothing worse than loving someone and being turned away.”

      “No.” He understood that. And he could see by the shadows haunting her eyes that she did, too. “But you don’t really believe he’s in love with you.”

      “He believes it. I ask him why he thinks it, and do you know what he says?” She whirled back, her hair swirling around her shoulders with the movement. “He says because he thinks I’m beautiful. That’s it.” She threw up her hands and started to pace again. Spence only watched, caught up in her movements and by the musical cadence that agitation brought to her voice. “When he says it, I want to slap him and say—what’s wrong with you? A face is nothing but a face. You don’t know my mind or my heart. But he has big, sad eyes, so I can’t yell at him.”

      “You never had a problem yelling at me.”

      “You don’t have big, sad eyes, and you’re not a boy who thinks he’s in love.”

      “I’m not a boy,” he agreed, catching her by the shoulders from behind. Even as she stiffened, he turned her around. “And I like more than your face, Natasha. Though I like that very much.”

      “You don’t know anything about me, either.”

      “Yes, I do. I know you lived through experiences I can hardly imagine. I know you love and miss your family, that you understand children and have a natural affection for them. You’re organized, stubborn and passionate.” He ran his hands down her arms, then back to her shoulders. “I know you’ve been in love before.” He tightened his grip before she could pull away. “And you’re not ready to talk about it. You have a sharp, curious mind and caring heart, and you wish you weren’t attracted to me. But you are.”

      She lowered her lashes briefly to veil her eyes. “Then it would seem you know more of me than I of you.”

      “That’s easy to fix.”

      “I