The Stanislaskis ( Books 1-6). Nora Roberts

me.”

      “You’re wrong.” Fueled by impotent jealousy, he pulled her into his arms. The kiss was angry, demanding, possessive. And tempting. Tempting her so close to submission that she struggled away.

      “I won’t be taken.” Her voice was only more defiant because she was afraid she was wrong.

      “Your rules, Natasha?”

      “Yes. If they’re fair.”

      “To whom?”

      “Both of us.” She pressed her fingers against her temples for a moment. “We shouldn’t be angry,” she said more quietly. “I’m sorry.” She offered a shrug and a quick smile. “I’m afraid. It’s been a long time since I’ve been with anyone—since I’ve wanted to be.”

      He picked up his brandy, staring into it as it swirled. “You make it hard for me to stay mad.”

      “I’d like to think we were friends. I’ve never been friends with a lover.”

      And he’d never been in love with a friend. It was a huge and frightening admission, and one he was certain he couldn’t make out loud. Perhaps, if he stopped being clumsy, he could show her.

      “We are friends.” He held out a hand, then curled his fingers around hers. “Friends trust each other, Natasha.”

      “Yes.”

      He looked at their joined hands. “Why don’t we—?” A noise at the window had him breaking off and glancing over. Before he could move, Natasha tightened her hold. It took only a moment to see that she wasn’t frightened, but amused. She brought a finger from her free hand to her lips.

      “I think it’s a good idea to be friends with my professor,” she said, lifting her voice and making a go-ahead gesture to Spence.

      “I, ah, I’m glad Freddie and I have found so many nice people since we’ve moved.” Puzzled, he watched Natasha root through a drawer.

      “It’s a nice town. Of course, sometimes there are problems. You haven’t heard about the woman who escaped from the asylum.”

      “What asylum?” At her impatient glance, he covered himself. “No, I guess not.”

      “The police are keeping very quiet about it. They know she’s in the area and don’t want people to panic.” Natasha flicked on the flashlight she’d uncovered and nodded in approval as the batteries proved strong. “She’s quite insane, you know, and likes to kidnap small children. Especially young boys. Then she tortures them, hideously. On a night with a full moon she creeps up on them, so silently, so evilly. Then before they can scream, she grabs them around the throat.”

      So saying, she whipped up the shade on the window. With the flashlight held under her chin, she pressed her face against the glass and grinned.

      Twin screams echoed. There was a crash, a shout, then the scramble of feet.

      Weak from laughter, Natasha leaned against the windowsill. “The Freedmont boys,” she explained when she’d caught her breath. “Last year they hung a dead rat outside Annie’s door.” She pressed a hand to her heart as Spence came over to peer out the window. All he could see was two shadows racing across the lawn.

      “I think the tables are well-turned.”

      “Oh, you should have seen their faces.” She dabbed a tear from her lashes. “I don’t think their hearts will start beating again until they pull the covers over their heads.”

      “This should be a Halloween they don’t forget.”

      “Every child should have one goods care they remember always.” Still smiling, she stuck the light under her chin again. “What do you think?”

      “It’s too late to scare me away.” He took the flashlight and set it aside. Closing his hand over hers, he drew her to her feet. “It’s time to find out how much is illusion, how much is reality.” Slowly he pulled the shade down.

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      It was very real. Painfully real. The feel of his mouth against hers left no doubt that she was alive and needy. The time, the place, meant nothing. Those could have been illusions. But he was not. Desire was not. She felt it spring crazily inside her at only a meeting of lips.

      No, it wasn’t simple. She had known since she had first tasted him, since she had first allowed herself to touch him that whatever happened between them would never be simple. Yet that was what she had been so certain she’d wanted. Simplicity, a smooth road, an easy path.

      Not with him. And not ever again.

      Accepting, she twined her arms around him. Tonight there would be no past, no future. Only one moment taken in both hands, gripped hard and enjoyed.

      Answer for answer, need for need, they clung together. The low light near the door cast their silhouettes onto the wall, one shadow. It shifted when they did, then stilled.

      When he swept her into his arms, she murmured a protest. She had said she wouldn’t be taken and had meant it. Yet cradled there she didn’t feel weak. She felt loved. In gratitude and in acceptance she pressed her lips to his throat. As he carried her toward the bedroom, she allowed herself to yield.

      Then there was only moonlight. It crept through the thin curtain, softly, quietly, as a lover might creep through the window to find his woman. Her lover said nothing as he set her on her feet by the bed. His silence told her everything.

      He’d imagined her like this. It seemed impossible, yet he had. The image had been clear and vivid. He had seen her with her hair in wild tangles around her face, with her eyes dark and steady, her skin gleaming like the gold she wore. And in his imaginings, he’d seen much, much more.

      Slowly he reached up to slip the scarf from her hair, to let it float soundlessly to the floor. She waited. With his eyes on hers he loosened another and another of the slashes of color—sapphire, emerald, amber—until they lay like jewels at her feet. She smiled. With his fingertips he drew the dress off her shoulders, then pressed his lips to the skin he’d bared.

      A sigh and a shudder. Then she reached for him, struggling to breathe while she pulled his shirt over his head. His skin was taut and smooth under her palms. She could feel the quiver of muscle at the passage of her hands. As her eyes stayed on his, she could see the flash and fury of passion that darkened them.

      He had to fight every instinct to prevent himself from tearing the dress from her, ripping aside the barriers and taking what she was offering. She wouldn’t stop him. He could see it in her eyes, part challenge, part acknowledgment and all desire.

      But he had promised her something. Though she claimed she wanted no promises, he intended to keep it. She would have romance, as much as he was capable of giving her.

      Fighting for patience, he undid the range of buttons down her back. Her lips were curved when she pressed them to his chest. Her hands were smooth when she slipped his pants over his hips. As the dress slid to the floor, he brought her close for a long, luxurious kiss.

      She swayed. It seemed foolish to her, but she was dizzy. Colors seemed to dance in her head to some frantic symphony she couldn’t place. Her bracelets jingled when he lifted her hand to press a small circle of kisses upon her wrist. Material rustled, more notes to the song, when he slipped petticoat after colorful petticoat over her hips.

      He hadn’t believed she could be so beautiful. But now, standing before him in only a thin red chemise and the glitter of gold, she was almost more than a man could bear. Her eyes were nearly closed, but her head was up—a habit of pride that suited her well. Moonlight swam around her.

      Slowly she lifted her arms, crossing them in front of her to push the slender straps from her shoulders. The material trembled over her breasts, then clung for a fleeting instant before it slithered to the floor at their feet. Now there was only the glitter of gold against her skin. Exciting, erotic, exotic. She waited, then