The Stanislaskis ( Books 1-6). Nora Roberts

ran a hand down her throat, over her shoulder, along her arm until their fingers linked over the piano keys. “It’s like a thirst, Natasha, a constant thirst. And when I’m with you like this, I know it’s the same for you.”

      She wanted to deny it, but his mouth was roaming hungrily over her face, taunting hers to tremble with need. And she did need, to be held like this, wanted like this. It had been easy in the past to pretend that being desired wasn’t necessary. No, she hadn’t had to pretend. Until now, until him, it had been true.

      Now, suddenly, like a door opening, like a light being switched on, everything had changed. She yearned for him, and her blood swam faster, just knowing he wanted her. Even for a moment, she told herself as her hands clutched at his hair to pull his mouth to hers. Even for this moment.

      It was there again, that whirlwind of sensation that erupted the instant they came together. Too fast, too hot, too real to be borne. Too stunning to be resisted.

      It was as though he were the first, though he was not. It was as though he were the only one, though that could never be. As she poured herself into the kiss, she wished desperately that her life could begin again in that moment, with him.

      There was more than passion here. The emotions that swirled inside her nearly swallowed him. There was desperation, fear and a bottomless generosity that left him dazed. Nothing would ever be simple again. Knowing it, a part of him tried to pull back, to think, to reason. But the taste of her, hot, potent, only drew him closer to the flame.

      “Wait.” For the first time she admitted her own weakness and let her head rest against his shoulder. “This is too fast.”

      “No.” He combed his fingers through her hair. “It’s taken years already.”

      “Spence.” Struggling for balance, she straightened. “I don’t know what to do,” she said slowly, watching him. “It’s important for me to know what to do.”

      “I think we can figure it out.” But when he reached for her again, she rose quickly and stepped away.

      “This isn’t simple for me.” Unnerved, she pushed back her hair with both hands. “I know it might seem so, because of the way I respond to you. I know that it’s easier for men, less personal somehow.”

      He rose very carefully, very deliberately. “Why don’t you explain that?”

      “I only mean that I know that men find things like this less difficult to justify.”

      “Justify,” he repeated, rocking back on his heels. How could he be angry so quickly, after being so bewitched? “You make this sound like some kind of crime.”

      “I don’t always find the right words,” she snapped. “I’m not a college professor. I didn’t speak English until I was eight, couldn’t read it for longer than that.”

      He checked his temper as he studied her. Her eyes were dark with something more than anger. She was standing stiffly, head up, but he couldn’t tell if her stand was one of pride or self-defense. “What does that have to do with anything?”

      “Nothing. And everything.” Frustrated, she whirled back into the hallway to snatch up her coat. “I hate feeling stupid—hate being stupid. I don’t belong here. I shouldn’t have come.”

      “But you did.” He grabbed her by her shoulders, so that her coat flew out to fall onto the bottom step. “Why did you?”

      “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter why.”

      He gave her an impatient squeeze. “Why do I feel as if I’m having two conversations at the same time? What’s going on in that head of yours, Natasha?”

      “I want you,” she said passionately. “And I don’t want to.”

      “You want me.” Before she could jerk away, he pulled her against himself. There was no patience in this kiss, no persuasion. It took and took, until she was certain she could have nothing left to give. “Why does that bother you?” he murmured against her lips.

      Unable to resist, she ran her hands over his face, memorizing the shape. “There are reasons.”

      “Tell me about them.”

      She shook her head, and this time when she pulled back, he released her. “I don’t want my life to change. If something happened between us, yours would not, but mine might. I want to be sure it doesn’t.”

      “Does this lead back to that business about men and women thinking differently?”

      “Yes.”

      That made him wonder who had broken her heart, and he didn’t smile. “You look more intelligent than that. What I feel for you has already changed my life.”

      That frightened her, because it made her want to believe it. “Feelings come and go.”

      “Yes, they do. Some of them. What if I told you I was falling in love with you?”

      “I wouldn’t believe you.” Her voice shook, and she bent to pick up her coat. “And I would be angry with you for saying it.”

      Maybe it was best to wait until he could make her believe. “And if I told you that until I met you, I didn’t know I was lonely?”

      She lowered her eyes, much more moved by this than she would have been by any words of love. “I would have to think.”

      He touched her again, just a hand to her hair. “Do you think everything through?”

      Her eyes were eloquent when she looked at him. “Yes.”

      “Then think about this. It wasn’t my intention to seduce you—not that I haven’t given that a great deal of thought on my own, but I didn’t see it happening with my daughter sick upstairs.”

      “You didn’t seduce me.”

      “Now she’s taking potshots at my ego.”

      That made her smile. “There was no seduction. That implies planned persuasion. I don’t want to be seduced.”

      “I’ll keep that in mind. All the same, I don’t think I want to dissect all this like a Music major with a Beethoven concerto. It ruins the romance in much the same way.”

      She smiled again. “I don’t want romance.”

      “That’s a pity.” And a lie, he thought, remembering the way she’d looked when he’d given her a rose. “Since chicken pox is going to be keeping me busy for the next week or two, you’ll have some time. Will you come back?”

      “To see Freddie.” She shrugged into her coat, then relented. “And to see you.”

      She did. What began as just a quick call to bring Freddie a get-well present turned into the better part of an evening, soothing a miserable, rash-ridden child and an exhausted, frantic father. Surprisingly she enjoyed it, and made a habit over the next ten days of dropping in over her lunch break to spell a still-suspicious Vera, or after work to give Spence a much-needed hour of peace and quiet.

      As far as romance went, bathing an itchy girl in corn starch left a lot to be desired. Despite it, Natasha found herself only more attracted to Spence and more in love with his daughter.

      She watched him do his best to cheer the miserably uncomfortable patient on her birthday, then helped him deal with the pair of kittens that were Freddie’s favored birthday gift. As the rash faded and boredom set in, Natasha pumped up Spence’s rapidly fading imagination with stories of her own.

      “Just one more story.”

      Natasha smoothed Freddie’s covers under her chin. “That’s what you said three stories ago.”

      “You tell good ones.”

      “Flattery will get you nowhere. It’s past my bedtime.” Natasha lifted a brow at the big red alarm clock. “And yours.”

      “The