Taming Natasha
Page 41

“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 to a state dinner. Going over and over the words in her head, she set the plates on the table, then sat down across from him.
“We’ve only known each other a short time.”
“Long enough.”
She moistened her lips. What she heard in his voice was more hurt than anger. She wanted nothing less than to hurt him. “There are things about me you don’t know. Things I’m not ready to tell you.”
“They don’t matter.”
“They do.” She took a deep breath. “We have something. It would be ridiculous to try to deny it. But love—there is no bigger word in the world. If we share that word, things will change.”
“Yes.”
“I can’t let them. From the beginning I told you there could be no promises, no plans. I don’t want to move my life beyond what I have now.”
“Is it because I have a child?”
“Yes, and no.” For the first time since he’d met her, nerves showed in the way she linked and unlinked her fingers. “I would love Freddie even if I hated you. For herself. Because I care for you, I only love her more. But for you and me to take what we have and make something more from this would change even that. I’m not ready to take on the responsibilities of a child.” Under the table she pressed her hand hard against her stomach. “But with or without Freddie, I don’t want to take the next step with you. I’m sorry, and I understand if you don’t want to see me again.”
Torn between frustration and fury, he rose to pace to the window. The rain was still falling thinly, coldly upon the dying flowers outside. She was leaving something out, something big and vital. She didn’t trust him yet, Spence realized. After everything they’d shared, she didn’t yet trust him. Not enough.
“You know I can’t stop seeing you, any more than I can stop loving you.”
You could stop being in love, she thought, but found herself afraid to tell him. It was selfish, hideously so, but she wanted him to love her. “Spence, three months ago I didn’t even know you.”
“So I’m rushing things.”
She moved her shoulder and began to poke at her eggs.
He studied her from behind, the way she held herself, how her fingers moved restlessly from her fork to her cup, then back again. He wasn’t rushing a damn thing, and they both knew it. She was afraid. He leaned against the window, thinking it through. Some jerk had broken her heart, and she was afraid to have it broken again.