Nora Roberts - The Stanislaskis - Taming Natasha

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THE INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLING AUTHOR‘The most successful novelist on Planet Earth’ Washington PostLandlocked in Manhattan, rugged seamanZack Muldoon needs a tough, no-nonsense lawyer tosave his kid brother’s delinquent hide. Public defenderRachel Stanislaski is not what he has in mind—until hediscovers there’s a lot more to the beautiful, coolheadedattorney than meets the eye…and finds himselffalling for her, hook, line and sinker.Nora Roberts is a publishing phenomenon; this New York Times bestselling author of over 200 novels has more than 450 million of her books in print worldwide.Praise for Nora Roberts‘A storyteller of immeasurable diversity and talent’ Publisher’s Weekly‘You can’t bottle wish fulfilment, but Nora Roberts certainly knows how to put it on the page.’ New York Times‘Everything Nora Roberts writes turns to gold.’ Romantic Times.‘Roberts’ bestselling novels are… thoughtfully plotted, well-written stories featuring fascinating characters.’ USA Today

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Slowly they undressed each other.

She slipped his sweater over his head. He undid the buttons of her cardigan, then pushed it from her shoulders. Keeping her eyes on his, she unfastened his shirt. He slid up the cotton sweater, letting his fingers trail until she was free of it. She unhooked his trousers. He flipped the three snaps that held her slacks at the waist. Keeping his hands light, he drew the teddy down her body as she tugged away the last barrier between them.

Quietly they moved together, her palms pressing against his back, his skimming up her sides. Heads tilting first this way, then that, they experimented with long, lingering kisses. Enjoyment. Their bodies warming, their mouths seeking, it seemed so easy here.

They drew back in unspoken agreement. Spence pulled down the quilt. They slipped under it together.

Intimacy had no rival, Natasha thought. There was nothing to compare with this. Their bodies rubbed against each other, so that the sheets whispered with each movement. Her sigh answered his murmurs. The flavor and fragrance of his skin was familiar, personal. His touch, gentle, then persuasive, then demanding, was everything she wanted.

She was simply beautiful. Not just her body, not just that exquisite face, but her spirit. When she moved with him, there was a harmony more intense than any he could create with music. She was his music—her laugh, her voice, her gestures. He knew of no way to tell her. Only to show her.

He made love with her as though it were the first and the only time. Never had she felt so elegant, so graceful. Never had she felt so strong or so sure.

When he rose over her, when she rose to meet him, it was perfect.

“I’d like you to stay.”

Natasha turned her face into his throat. “I can’t. Freddie would ask questions in the morning I don’t know how to answer.”

“I have a very simple answer. I’ll tell her the truth. I’m in love with you.”

“That’s not simple.”

“It is the truth.” He shifted so that he could look at her. Her eyes were shadowed in the dim light. “I do love you, Natasha.”

“Spence—”

“No. No logic or excuses. We’re past that. Tell me if you believe me.”

She looked into his eyes and saw what she already knew. “Yes, I believe you.”

“Then tell me what you feel. I need to know.”

He had a right to know, she thought, though she could all but taste the panic on her tongue. “I love you. And I’m afraid.”

He brought her hand to his lips to press a kiss firmly against her fingers. “Why?”

“Because I was in love before, and nothing, nothing could have ended as badly.”

There was that shadow again, he thought impatiently. The shadow from her past that he could neither fight nor conquer because it was nameless.

“Neither of us have come into this without a few bruises, Natasha. But we have a chance to make something new, something important.”

She knew he was right, felt he was right, yet still held back. “I wish I were so sure. Spence, there are things you don’t know about me.”

“That you were a dancer.”

She shifted then, to gather the sheets to her breast and sit up. “Yes. Once.”

“Why haven’t you mentioned it?”

“Because it was over.”

He drew the hair away from her face. “Why did you stop?”

“I had a choice to make.” The ache came back, but briefly. She turned to him and smiled. “I was not so good. Oh, I was adequate, and perhaps in time I would have been good enough to have been a principal dancer. Perhaps… It was something I wanted very badly once. But wanting something doesn’t always make it happen.”

“Will you tell me about it?”

It was a beginning, one she knew she had to make. “It’s not very exciting.” She lifted her hands, then let them fall on to the sheet. “I started late, after we came here. Through the church my parents met Martina Latovia. Many years ago she was an important Soviet dancer who defected. She became friends with my mother and offered to give me classes. It was good for me, the dance. I didn’t speak English well, so it was hard to make friends. Everything was so different here, you see.”

“Yes, I can imagine.”

“I was nearly eight by that time. It becomes difficult to teach the body, the joints, to move as they weren’t meant to move. But I worked very hard. Madame was kind and encouraging. My parents were so proud.” She laughed a little, but warmly. “Papa was sure I would be the next Pavlova. The first time I danced en pointe, Mama cried. Dance is obsession and pain and joy. It’s a different world, Spence. I can’t explain. You have to know it, be a part of it.”

“You don’t have to explain.”

She looked over at him. “No, not to you,” she murmured. “Because of the music. I joined the corps de ballet when I was almost sixteen. It was wonderful. Perhaps I didn’t know there were other worlds, but I was happy.”

“What happened?”

“There was another dancer.” She shut her eyes. It was important to take this slowly, carefully. “You’ve heard of him, I imagine. Anthony Marshall.”

“Yes.” Spence had an immediate picture of a tall, blond man with a slender build and incredible grace. “I’ve seen him dance many times.”

“He was magnificent. Is,” she corrected. “Though it’s been years since I’ve seen him dance. We became involved. I was young. Too young. And it was a very big mistake.”

Now the shadow had a name. “You loved him.”

“Oh yes. In a naive and idealistic kind of way. The only way a girl can love at seventeen. More, I thought he loved me. He told me he did, in words, in actions. He was very charming, romantic…and I wanted to believe him. He promised me marriage, a future, a partnership in dance, all the things I wanted to hear. He broke all those promises, and my heart.”

“So now you don’t want to hear promises from me.”

“You’re not Anthony,” she murmured, then lifted a hand to his cheek. Her eyes were dark and beautiful, her voice only more exotic as emotions crowded. “Believe me, I know that. And I don’t compare, not now. I’m not the same woman who built dreams on a few careless words.”

“What I’ve said to you hasn’t been careless.”

“No.” She leaned closer to rest her cheek against his. “Over the past months I’ve come to see that, and to understand that what I feel for you is different from anything I’ve felt before.” There was more she wanted to tell him, but the words clogged her throat. “Please, let that be enough for now.”

“For now. It won’t be enough forever.”

She turned her mouth to his. “Just for now.”

How could it be? Natasha asked herself. How could it be that when she was just beginning to trust herself, to trust her heart, that this should happen? How could she face it again?

It was like a play run backward and started again, when her life had changed so drastically and completely. She sat back on her bed, no longer concerned about dressing for work, about starting a normal day. How could things be normal now? How could she expect them to be normal ever again?

She held the little vial in her hand. She had followed the instructions exactly. Just a precaution, she had told herself. But she’d known in her heart. Since the visit to her parents two weeks before she’d known. And had avoided facing the reality.

It was not the flu that made her queasy in the mornings. It was not overwork or stress that caused her to be so tired, or that brought on the occasional dizzy spells. The simple test that she’d bought over the counter in the drugstore had told her what she’d already known and feared.

She was carrying a child. Once again she was carrying a child. The rush of joy and wonder was totally eclipsed by the bone-deep fear that froze her.

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