by Nora Roberts
In groups and clutches, trick-or-treaters canvassed the neighborhood for candy bars and caramel apples. The wind-rushed night and crackling leaves were things they would remember long after the last chocolate drop had been consumed.
It was nearly ten before Spence managed to tuck an exhausted and thrilled Freddie into bed. “It was the best birthday I ever had,” she told him. “I’m glad I got the chicken pox.”
Spence rubbed a finger over a smeared orange freckle the cold cream had missed. “I don’t know if I’d go that far, but I’m glad you had fun.”
“Can I have—?”
“No.” He kissed her nose. “If you eat one more piece of candy you’ll blow up.”
She giggled, and because she was too tired to try any strategy, snuggled into her pillow. Memories were already swirling in her head. “Next year I want to be a gypsy like Tash. Okay?”
“Sure. Go to sleep now. I’m going to take Natasha home, but Vera’s here.”
“Are you going to marry Tash soon, so she can stay with us?”
Spence opened his mouth, then closed it again as Freddie yawned hugely. “Where do you get these ideas?” he muttered.
“How long does it take to get a baby sister?” she asked as she drifted off.
Spence rubbed a hand over his face, grateful that she had fallen asleep and saved him from answering.
Downstairs he found Natasha cleaning up the worst of the mess. She flicked back her hair as he came in. “When it looks as bad as this, you know you’ve had a successful party.” Something in his expression had her narrowing her eyes. “Is something wrong?”
“No. No, it’s Freddie.”
“She has a tummy ache,” Natasha said, instantly sympathetic.
“Not yet.” He shrugged it off with a half laugh. “She always manages to surprise me. Don’t,” he said and took the trash bag from her. “You’ve done enough.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I know.”
Before he could take her hand, she linked her own. “I should be going. Tomorrow’s Saturday—our busiest day.”
He wondered what it would be like if they could simply walk upstairs together, into his bedroom. Into his bed. “I’ll take you home.”
“That’s all right. You don’t have to.”
“I’d like to.” The tension was back. Their eyes met, and he understood that she felt it as well. “Are you tired?”
“No.” It was time for some truths, she knew. He had done what she’d asked and been only Freddie’s father during the party. Now the party was over. But not the night.
“Would you like to walk?”
The corners of her lips turned up, then she put her hand into his. “Yes. I would.”
It was colder now, with a bite in the air warning of winter. Above, the moon was full and chillingly white. Clouds danced over it, sending shadows shifting. Over the rustle of leaves they heard the echoing shouts and laughter of lingering trick-or-treaters. Inevitably the big oak on the corner had been wrapped in bathroom tissue by teenagers.
“I love this time,” Natasha murmured. “Especially at night when there’s a little wind. You can smell smoke from the chimneys.”
On the main street, older children and college students still stalked in fright masks and painted faces. A poor imitation of a wolf howl bounced along the storefronts, followed by a feminine squeal and laughter. A car full of ghouls paused long enough for them to lean out the windows and screech.
Spence watched the car turn a corner, its passengers still howling. “I can’t remember being anywhere that Halloween was taken so seriously.”
“Wait until you see what happens at Christmas.”
Natasha’s own pumpkin was glowing on her stoop beside a bowl half-filled with candy bars. There was a sign on her door. Take Only One. Or Else.
Spence shook his head at it. “That really does it?”
Natasha merely glanced at the sign. “They know me.”
Leaning over, Spence plucked one. “Can I have a brandy to go with it?”
She hesitated. If she let him come in, it was inevitable that they would pick up where the earlier kiss had left off. It had been two months, she thought, two months of wondering, of stalling, of pretending. They both knew it had to stop sooner or later.
“Of course.” She opened the door and let him in.
Wound tight, she went into the kitchen to pour drinks. It was yes or it was no, she told herself. She had known the answer long before this night, even prepared for it. But what would it be like with him? What would she be like? And how, when she had shared herself with him in that most private way, would she be able to pretend she didn’t need more?
Couldn’t need more, Natasha reminded herself. Whatever her feelings for him, and they were deeper, much deeper than she dared admit, life had to continue as it was. No promises, no vows. No broken hearts.
He turned when she came back into the room, but didn’t speak. His own thoughts were mixed and confused. What did he want? Her, certainly. But how much, how little could he accept? He’d been sure he’d never feel this way again. More than sure that he would never want to. Yet it seemed so easy to feel, every time he looked at her.
“Thanks.” He took the brandy, watching her as he sipped. “You know, the first time I lectured, I stood at the podium and my mind went completely blank. For one terrible moment I couldn’t think of anything I’d planned to say. I’m having exactly the same problem now.”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
“It’s not as easy as I thought it would be.” He took her hand, surprised to find it cold and unsteady. Instinctively he lifted it to press his lips to the palm. It helped, knowing she was as nervous as he. “I don’t want to frighten you.”
“This frightens me.” She could feel sensation spear her. “Sometimes people say I think too much. Maybe it’s true. If it is, it’s because I feel too much. There was a time….” She took her hand from his, wanting to be strong on her own. “There was a time,” she repeated, “when I let what I felt decide for me. There are some mistakes that you pay for until you die.”
“This isn’t a mistake.” He set down the brandy to take her face between his hands.
Her fingers curled around his wrists. “I don’t want it to be. There can’t be any promises, Spence, because I’d rather not have them than have them broken. I don’t need or want pretty words. They’re too easily said.” Her grip tightened. “I want to be your lover, but I need respect, not poetry.”
“Are you finished?”
“I need for you to understand,” she insisted.
“I’m beginning to. You must have loved him a great deal.”
She dropped her hands, but steadied herself before she answered. “Yes.”
It hurt, surprising him. He could hardly be threatened by someone from her past. He had a past, as well. But he was threatened, and he was hurt. “I don’t care who he was, and I don’t give a damn what happened.” That was a lie, he realized, and one he’d have to deal with sooner or later. “But I don’t want you thinking of him when you’re with me.”
“I don’t, not the way you mean.”
“Not in any way.”
She raised a brow. “You can’t control my thoughts or anything else about 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 lifted her arms again—to him.
“I want you,” she said.
Flesh met flesh, drawing twin moans from each of them. Mouth met mouth, sending shock waves of pleasure and pain through both. Desire met desire, driving out reason.
Inevitable. It was the only thought that filtered through the chaos in her mind as her hands raced over him. No force this strong, no need this deep could be anything but inevitable. So she met that force, met that need, with all of her heart.
Patience was forgotten. She was a hunger in him already too long denied. He wanted all, everything she was, everything she had. Before he could demand, she was giving. When they tumbled onto the bed, his hands were already greedily searching to give and to take pleasure.
Could he have known it would be so huge, so consuming? Everything about her was vivid and honed sharp. Her taste an intoxicating mix of honey and whiskey, both heated. Her skin as lush as a rose petal drenched in evening dew. Her scent as dark as his own passion. Her need as sharp as a freshly whetted blade.
She arched against him, offering, challenging, crying out when he sought and found each se
cret. Pleasure arrowed into him as her small, agile body pressed against his. Strong, willful, she rolled over him to exploit and explore until his breath was a fire in his lungs and his body a mass of sensation. Half-mad, he tumbled with her over the bed and spread a tangle of sheets around them. When he lifted himself over her, he could see the wild curtain of her hair like a dark cloud, the deep, rich glow of her eyes as they clung to his. Her breathing was as hurried as his own, her body as willing.
Never before, he realized, and never again would he find anyone who matched him so perfectly. Whatever he needed, she needed, whatever he wanted, she wanted. Before he could ask, she was answering. For the first time in his life, he knew what it was to make love with mind and heart and soul as well as body.
She thought of no one and of nothing but him. When he touched her, it was as though she’d never been touched before. When he said her name, it was the first time she’d heard it. When his mouth sought hers, it was a first kiss, the one she’d been waiting for, wishing for all of her life.
Palm to palm their hands met, fingers gripping hard like one soul grasping another. They watched each other as he filled her. And there was a promise, felt by both. In a moment of panic she shook her head. Then he was moving in her, and she with him.
* * *
“Again,” was all he said as he pulled her against him.
“Spence.”
“Again.” His mouth covered hers, waking her out of a half dream and into fresh passion.
He wanted her just as much, now that he knew what they could make between them, but with a fire that held steady on slow burn. This time, though desire was still keen, the madness was less intense. He could appreciate the subtle curves, the soft angles, the lazy sighs he could draw out of her with only a touch. It was like making love to some primitive goddess, naked but for the gold draped over her skin. After so long a thirst he quenched himself slowly, leisurely after that first, greedy gulp.
