tucked her tongue into her cheek. “You’re a hunk, Spence. Popular opinion is equally divided between you and the captain of the football team.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m not joking. But it’s fun to embarrass you.” She sat and ran her fingers over the keys. “Do you compose here?”
“I did once.”
“It’s wrong of you not to write.” She played a series of chords. “Art’s more than a privilege. It’s a responsibility.” She searched for the melody, then with a sound of impatience shook her head. “I can’t play. I was too old when I tried to learn.”
He liked the way she looked sitting there, her hair falling over her shoulders, half curtaining her face, her fingers resting lightly on the keys of the piano he had played since childhood.
“If you want to learn, I’ll teach you.”
“I’d rather you write a song.” It was more than impulse, she thought. Tonight he looked as though he needed a friend. She smiled and held out a hand. “Here, with me.”
He glanced up as Vera carried in a tray. “Just set it there, Vera. Thank you.”
“You will want something else?”
He looked back at Natasha. Yes, he would want something else. He wanted it very much. “No. Good night.” He listened to the housekeeper’s shuffling steps. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because you need to laugh. Come, write a song for me. It doesn’t have to be good.”
He did laugh. “You want me to write a bad song for you?”
“It can be a terrible song. When you play it for Freddie, she’ll hold her ears and giggle.”
“A bad song’s about all I can do these days.” But he was amused enough to sit down beside her. “If I do this, I have to have your solemn oath that it won’t be repeated for any of my students.”
“Cross my heart.”
He began to noodle with the keys, Natasha breaking in now and then to add her inspiration. It wasn’t as bad as it might have been, Spence considered as he ran through some chords. No one would call it brilliant, but it had a certain primitive charm.
“Let me try.” Tossing back her hair, Natasha struggled to repeat the notes.
“Here.” As he sometimes did with his daughter, he put his hands over Natasha’s to guide them. The feeling, he realized, was entirely different. “Relax.” His murmur whispered beside her ear.
She only wished she could. “I hate to do poorly at anything,” she managed. With his palms firmly over her hands, she struggled to concentrate on the music.
“You’re doing fine.” Her hair, soft and fragrant, brushed his cheek.
As they bent over the keys, it didn’t occur to him that he hadn’t played with the piano in years. Oh, he had played—Beethoven, Gershwin, Mozart and Bernstein, but hardly for fun…. It had been much too long since he had sat before the keys for entertainment.
“No, no, an A minor maybe.”
Natasha stubbornly hit a B major again. “I like this better.”
“It throws it off.”
“That’s the point.”
He grinned at her. “Want to collaborate?”
“You do better without me.”
“I don’t think so.” His grin faded; he cupped her face in one hand. “I really don’t think so.”
This wasn’t what she had intended. She had wanted to lighten his mood, to be his friend. She hadn’t wanted to stir these feelings in both of them, feelings they would be wiser to ignore. But they were there, pulsing. No matter how strong her will, she couldn’t deny them. Even the light touch of his fingers on her face made her ache, made her yearn, made her remember.
“The tea’s getting cold.” But she didn’t pull away, didn’t try to stand. When he leaned over to touch his mouth to hers, she only shut her eyes. “This can’t go anywhere,” she murmured.
“It already has.” His hand moved up her back, strong, possessive, in contrast with the light play of his lips. “I think about you all the time, about being with you, touching you. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.” Slowly he 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
