The Stanislaskis ( Books 1-6). Nora Roberts

the lawyers were battling over a settlement. Then I heard that she’d been killed. A boating accident in the Mediterranean. Sometimes I’m afraid Freddie remembers what her mother was like. More, I’m afraid she’ll remember what I was like.”

      Natasha remembered how Freddie had spoken of her mother when they had rocked. Setting aside her glass, she took Spence’s face in her hand. “Children forgive,” she told him. “Forgiveness is easy when you’re loved. It’s harder, so much harder to forgive yourself. But you must.”

      “I think I’ve begun to.”

      Natasha took his glass and set it aside. “Let me love you,” she said simply, and enfolded him.

      It was different now that passion had mellowed. Slower, smoother, richer. As they knelt on the bed, their mouths met dreamily—a long, lazy exploration of tastes that had become hauntingly familiar. She wanted to show him what he meant to her, and that what they had together, tonight, was worlds apart from what had been. She wanted to comfort, excite and cleanse.

      A sigh, then a murmur, then a low, liquid moan. The sounds were followed by a light, breezy touch. Fingertips trailing on flesh. She knew his body now as well as her own, every angle, every plane, every vulnerability. When his breath caught on a tremble, her laughter came quietly. Watching him in the shifting candlelight, she brushed kisses at his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, his throat. There a pulse beat for her, heavy and fast.

      She was as erotic as any fantasy, her body swaying first to, then away from his. Her eyes stayed on him, glowing, aware, and her hair fell in a torrent of dark silk over her naked shoulders.

      When he touched her, skimming his hands up and over, her head fell back. But there was nothing of submission in the gesture. It was a demand. Pleasure me.

      On a groan he lowered his mouth to her throat and felt the need punch like a fist through his gut. His open mouth growing greedy, he trailed down her, pausing to linger at the firm swell of her breast. He could feel her heart, almost taste it, as its beat grew fast and hard against his lips. Her hands came to his hair, gripping tight while she arched like a bow.

      Before he could think he reached for her and sent her spiraling over the first crest.

      Breathless, shuddering, she clung, managing only a confused murmur as he laid her back on the bed. She struggled for inner balance, but he was already destroying will and mind and control.

      This was seduction. She hadn’t asked for it, hadn’t wanted it. Now she welcomed it. She couldn’t move, couldn’t object. Helpless, drowning in her own pleasure, she let him take her where he willed. His mouth roamed freely over her damp skin. His hands played her as skillfully as they might a fine-tuned instrument. Her muscles went lax.

      Her breath began to rush through her lips. She heard music. Symphonies, cantatas, preludes. Weakness became strength and she reached for him, wanting only to feel his body fit against her own.

      Slowly, tormentingly, he slid up her, leaving trails of heat and ice, of pleasure and pain. His own body throbbed as she moved under him. He found her mouth, diving deep, holding back even when her fingers dug into his hips.

      Again and again he brought them both shivering to the edge, only to retreat, prolonging dozens of smaller pleasures. Her throat was a long white column he could feast on as she rose to him. Her arms wrapped themselves fast around him like taut silk. Her breath rushed along his cheek, then into his mouth, where it formed his own name like a prayer against his lips.

      When he slipped into her, even pleasure was shattered.

      Natasha awoke to the scent of coffee and soap, and the enjoyable sensation of having her neck nuzzled.

      “If you don’t wake up,” Spence murmured into her ear, “I’m going to have to crawl back into bed with you.”

      “All right,” she said on a sigh and snuggled closer.

      Spence took along, reluctant look at her shoulders, which the shifting sheets had bared. “It’s tempting, but I should be home in an hour.”

      “Why?” Her eyes still closed, she reached out. “It’s early.”

      “It’s nearly nine.”

      “Nine? In the morning?” Her eyes flew open. She shot up in bed, and he wisely moved the cup of coffee out of harm’s way. “How can it be nine?”

      “It comes after eight.”

      “But I never sleep so late.” She pushed back her hair with both hands, then managed to focus. “You’re dressed.”

      “Unfortunately,” he agreed, even more reluctantly when the sheets pooled around her waist. “Freddie’s due home at ten. I had a shower.” Reaching out, he began to toy with her hair. “I was going to wake you, see if you wanted to join me, but you looked so terrific sleeping I didn’t have the heart.” He leaned over to nip at her bottom lip. “I’ve never watched you sleep before.”

      The very idea of it had the blood rushing warm under her skin. “You should have gotten me up.”

      “Yes.” With a half smile he offered her the coffee. “I can see I made a mistake. Easy with the coffee,” he warned. “It’s really terrible. I’ve never made it before.”

      Eyeing him, she took a sip, then grimaced. “You really should have wakened me.” But she valiantly took another sip, thinking how sweet it was of him to bring it to her. “Do you have time for breakfast? I’ll make you some.”

      “I’d like that. I was going to grab a doughnut from the bakery down the street.”

      “I can’t make pastries like Ye Old Sweet Shoppe, but I can fix you eggs.” Laughing, she set the cup aside. “And coffee.”

      In ten minutes she was wrapped in a short red robe, frying thin slices of ham. He liked watching her like this, her hair tousled, eyes still heavy with sleep. She moved competently from stove to counter, like a woman who had grown up doing such chores as a matter of course.

      Outside a thin November rain was falling from a pewter sky. He heard the muffled sound of footsteps from the apartment above, then the faint sound of music. Jazz from the neighbor’s radio. And there was the sizzle of meat grilling, the hum of the baseboard heater under the window. Morning music, Spence thought.

      “I could get used to this,” he said, thinking aloud.

      “To what?” Natasha popped two slices of bread into the toaster.

      “To waking up with you, having breakfast with you.”

      Her hands fluttered once, as if her thoughts had suddenly taken a sharp turn. Then, very deliberately they began to work again. And she said nothing at all.

      “That’s the wrong thing to say again, isn’t it?”

      “It isn’t right or wrong.” Her movements brisk, she brought him a cup of coffee. She would have turned away once more, but he caught her wrist. When she forced herself to look at him, she saw that the expression in his eyes was very intense. “You don’t want me to fall in love with you, Natasha, but neither one of us have a choice about it.”

      “There’s always a choice,” she said carefully. “It’s sometimes hard to make the right one, or to know the right one.”

      “Then it’s already been made. I am in love with you.”

      He saw the change in her face, a softening, a yielding, and something in her eyes, something deep and shadowed and incredibly beautiful. Then it was gone. “The eggs are going to burn.”

      His hand balled into a fist as she walked back to the stove. Slowly, carefully he flexed his fingers. “I said I love you, and you’re worried about eggs burning.”

      “I’m a practical woman, Spence. I’ve had to be.” But it was hard to think, very hard, when her mind and heart were dragging her in opposing directions. She fixed the plates with the care she might have given