Taming Natasha: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down

“No.” His eyes darkened, just slightly. Noting it, Natasha wondered if she’d erred in her initial impression. Perhaps he wasn’t harmless, after all. There was something deeper in those eyes, stronger and more dangerous. What surprised her further was that she found it exciting.

Disgusted with herself, she gave him a polite smile. “Was there something else?”

“I wanted something for my daughter.” The hell with the gorgeous Russian princess, he thought. He had more important things to tend to.

“What was it you wanted for her?”

“I don’t know.” That was true enough. Setting down his briefcase, he glanced around the shop.

Unbending a little, Natasha came around the counter. “Is it her birthday?”

“No.” Feeling foolish, he shrugged. “It’s the first day of school, and she looked so…brave getting on the bus this morning.”

This time Natasha’s smile was spontaneous and full of warmth. It nearly stopped his heart. “You shouldn’t worry. When she comes home, she’ll be full of stories about everything and everyone. The first day is much harder, I think, on the parent than on the child.”

“It’s been the longest day of my life.”

She laughed, a rich smoky sound that seemed impossibly erotic in a room full of clowns and stuffed bears. “It sounds like you both deserve a present. You were looking at a music box before. I have another you might like.”

So saying, she led the way to the back of the shop. Spence did his best to ignore the subtle sway of her hips and the soft, fresh-scrubbed flavor of her scent. The box she chose was carved of wood, its pedestal topped with a cat and a fiddle, a cow and a quarter moon. As it turned to “Stardust,” he saw the laughing dog and the dish with the spoon.

“It’s charming.”

“It’s one of my favorites.” She’d decided that any man who adored his daughter so blatantly couldn’t be all bad. So she smiled again. “I think it would be a lovely memento, something she could play on her first day of college and remember her father was thinking of her.”

“If he survives first grade.” He shifted slightly to look at her. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”

It was the oddest thing—his body had hardly brushed hers, but she’d felt a jolt. For an instant she forgot he was a customer, a father, a husband, and thought of him only as a man. His eyes were the color of the river at dusk. His lips, as they formed the barest hint of a smile, were impossibly attractive, alluring. Involuntarily she wondered what it would be like to feel them against her own—to watch his face as mouth met mouth, and see herself reflected in his eyes.

Appalled, she stepped back and her voice grew colder. “I’ll box it for you.”

Intrigued by the sudden change in tone, he took his time following her back to the counter. Hadn’t he seen something in those fabulous eyes of hers? Or was it wishful thinking? It had gone quickly enough, heat smothered in frost. For the life of him he could find no reason for either.

“Natasha.” He laid a hand on hers as she began to pack the music box.

Slowly she lifted her eyes. She was already hating herself for noticing that his hands were beautiful, wide-palmed, long-fingered. There was also a note of patience in his voice that stretched her already frayed nerves. “Yes?”

“Why do I keep getting the feeling you’d like to boil me in oil?”

“You’re mistaken,” she said evenly. “I don’t think I’d like that.”

“You don’t sound convinced.” He felt her hand flex under his, soft and strong. The image of steel-lined velvet seemed particularly apt. “I’m having some trouble figuring out exactly what I’ve done to annoy you.”

“Then you’ll have to think about it. Cash or charge?”

He’d had little practice with rejection. Like a wasp it stung the ego. No matter how beautiful she was, he had no desire to continue to ram his head against the same brick wall.

“Cash.” The door jangled open behind them and he released her hand. Three children, fresh from school, came in giggling. A young boy with red hair and a face bursting with freckles stood on his toes in front of the counter.

“I have three dollars,” he announced.

Natasha fought back a grin. “You’re very rich today, Mr. Jensen.”

He flashed her a smile that revealed his latest missing tooth. “I’ve been saving up. I want the race car.”

Natasha only lifted a brow as she counted out Spence’s change. “Does your mother know you’re here spending your life savings?” Her new customer remained silent. “Scott?”

He shifted from one foot to the other. “She didn’t say I couldn’t.”

“And she didn’t say you could,” Natasha surmised. She leaned over to tug at his cowlick. “Go and ask her, then you come back. The race car will still be here.”

“But, Tash—”

“You wouldn’t want your mother to be mad at me, would you?”

Scott looked thoughtful for a moment, and Natasha could tell it was a tough choice. “I guess not.”

“Then go ask her, and I’ll hold one for you.”

Hope blossomed. “Promise?”

Natasha put a hand on her heart. “Solemnly.” She looked back at Spence, and the amusement faded from her eyes. “I hope Freddie enjoys her present.”

“I’m sure she will.” He walked out, annoyed with himself for wishing he were a ten-year-old boy with a missing tooth.

Natasha locked the shop at six. The sun was still bright, the air still steamy. It made her think of picnics under a shady tree. A nicer fantasy than the microwave meal on her agenda, she mused, but at the moment impractical.

As she walked home, she watched a couple stroll hand in hand into the restaurant across the street. Someone hailed her from a passing car, and she waved in response. She could have stopped in the local pub and whiled away an hour over a glass of wine with any number of people she knew. Finding a dinner companion was as simple as sticking her head through one of a dozen doors and making the suggestion.

She wasn’t in the mood for company. Not even her own.

It was the heat, she told herself as she turned the corner, the heat that had hung mercilessly in the air throughout the summer and showed no sign of yielding to autumn. It made her restless. It made her remember.

It had been summer when her life had changed so irrevocably.

Even now, years later, sometimes when she saw the roses in full bloom or heard the drunken buzz of bees she would ache. And wonder what might have happened. What would her life be like now, if…? She detested herself for playing those wishing games.

There were roses now, fragile pink ones that thrived despite the heat and lack of rain. She had planted them herself in the little patch of grass outside her apartment. Tending them brought her pleasure and pain. And what was life, she asked herself as she ran a fingertip over a petal, without them both? The warm scent of the roses followed her up the walkway.

Her rooms were quiet. She had thought about getting a kitten or a pup, so that there would be something there to greet her in the evening, something that loved and depended on her. But then she realized how unfair it would be to leave it alone while she was at the shop.

So she turned to music, flicking on the stereo as she stepped out of her shoes. Even that was a test. Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet. She could see herself dancing to those haunting, romantic strains, the hot lights surrounding her, the music beating like her blood, her movements fluid, controlled without looking it. A triple pirouette, showing grace without effort.

That was past, Natasha reminded herself. Regrets were for the weak.

She moved out of habit, changing her work clothes for a loose, sleeveless jumpsuit, hanging up her skirt and blouse neatly as she had been taught. It was habit again rather than necessity that had her checking the cotton skirt for wear.

There was iced tea in the refrigerator and one of those packaged meals for the microwave that she both depended on and detested. She laughed at herself as she pushed the buttons to heat it.