The Stanislaskis: Taming Natasha

“No.” She wasn’t aware she’d spoken the word aloud, and wouldn’t have cared. It was some sort of joke, she thought, and a particularly bad one. This—this man in the casually elegant jacket was Spencer Kimball, a musician whose songs she had admired and danced to. The man who, while barely into his twenties had been performing at Carnegie Hall being hailed as a genius. This man who had tried to pick her up in a toy store was the illustrious Dr. Kimball?

It was ludicrous, it was infuriating, it was—

Wonderful, Spence thought as he stared at her. Absolutely wonderful. In fact, it was perfect, as long as he could control the laugh that was bubbling in his throat. So the czarina was one of his students. It was better, much better than a warm brandy and an evening of quiet.

“I’m sure,” he said after a long pause, “we’ll all find the next few months fascinating.”

She should have signed up for Astronomy, Natasha told herself. She could have learned all kinds of interesting things about the planets and stars. Asteroids. She’d have been much better off learning about—what was it?—gravitational pull and inertia. Whatever that was. Surely it was much more important for her to find out how many moons revolved around Jupiter than to study Burgundian composers of the fifteenth century.

She would transfer, Natasha decided. First thing in the morning she would make the arrangements. In fact, she would get up and walk out right now if she wasn’t certain Dr. Spencer Kimball would smirk.

Running her pencil between her fingers, she crossed her legs and determined not to listen.

It was a pity his voice was so attractive.

Impatient, Natasha looked at the clock. Nearly an hour to go. She would do what she did when she waited at the dentist’s office. Pretend she was someplace else. Struggling to block Spence’s voice from her mind she began to swing her foot and doodle on her pad.

She didn’t notice when her doodles became notes, or when she began to hang on every word. He made fifteenth-century musicians seem alive and vital—and their music as real as flesh and blood. Rondeaux, vieralais, ballades. She could almost hear the three-part chansons of the dawning Renaissance, the reverent, soaring Kyries and Glorias of the masses.

She was caught up, involved in that ancient rivalry between church and state and music’s part in the politics. She could see huge banqueting halls filled with elegantly dressed aristocrats, feasting on music as well as food.

“Next time we’ll be discussing the Franco-Flemish school and rhythmic developments.” Spence gave his class an easy smile. “And I’ll try to be on time.”

Was it over? Natasha glanced at the clock again and was shocked to see it was indeed after nine.

“Incredible, isn’t he?”

She looked at Terry. His eyes were gleaming behind his lenses. “Yes.” It cost her to admit it, but truth was truth.

“You should hear him in theory class.” He noticed with envy that several students were grouped around his idol. As yet, Terry hadn’t worked up the nerve to approach him. “I’ll—see you Thursday.”

“What? Oh. Good night, Terry.”

“I could, ah, give you a ride home if you want.” The fact that he was nearly out of gas and his muffler was currently held on by a coat hanger didn’t enter his mind.

She favored him with an absent smile that had his heart doing a cha-cha. “That’s nice of you, but I don’t live far.”

She hoped to breeze out of the classroom while Spence was still occupied. She should have known better.

He simply put a hand on her arm and stopped her. “I’d like to speak with you a moment, Natasha.”

“I’m in a hurry.”

“It won’t take long.” He nodded to the last of his departing students, then eased back against his desk and grinned at her. “I should have paid more attention to my roster, but then again, it’s nice to know there are still surprises in the world.”

“That depends on your point of view, Dr. Kimball.”

“Spence.” He continued to grin. “Class is over.”

“So it is.” Her regal nod made him think again of Russian royalty. “Excuse me.”

“Natasha.” He waited, almost seeing impatience shimmer around her as she turned. “I can’t imagine that someone with your heritage doesn’t believe in destiny.”

“Destiny?”

“Of all the classrooms in all the universities in all the world, she walks into mine.”

She wouldn’t laugh. She’d be damned if she would. But her mouth quirked up at the corners before she controlled it. “And here I was thinking it was just bad luck.”

“Why Music History?”

She balanced her notebook on her hip. “It was a toss-up between that and Astronomy.”

“That sounds like a fascinating story. Why don’t we go down the street for a cup of coffee? You can tell me about it.” Now he saw it—molten fury that turned her eyes from rich velvet to sharp jet. “Now why does that infuriate you?” he inquired, almost to himself. “Is an offer of a cup of coffee in this town similiar to an illicit proposition?”

“You should know, Dr. Kimball.” She turned, but he reached the door before her, slamming it with enough force to make her step back. He was every bit as angry as herself, she noted. Not that it mattered. It was only that he had seemed a mild sort of man. Detestable, but mild. There was nothing mild about him now. Those fascinating bones and angles in his face might have been carved of stone.

“Clarify.”

“Open the door.”

“Gladly. After you answer my question.” He was angry. Spence realized he hadn’t felt this kind of hot, blood-pumping rage in years. It felt wonderful. “I realize that just because I’m attracted to you doesn’t mean you have to return the favor.”

She threw up her chin, hating herself for finding the storm-cloud-gray eyes so hypnotic. “I don’t.”

“Fine.” He couldn’t strangle her for that, however much he’d like to. “But, damn it, I want to know why you aim and fire every time I’m around you.”

“Because men like you deserve to be shot.”

“Men like me,” he repeated, measuring out the words. “What exactly does that mean?”

He was standing close, all but looming over her. As in the shop when he had brushed up against her, she felt those bubble bursts of excitement, attraction, confusion. It was more than enough to push her over the edge.

“Do you think because you have a nice face and a pretty smile you can do whatever you like? Yes,” she answered before he could speak and slapped her notebook against his chest. “You think you have only to snap your fingers.” She demonstrated dramatically. “And a woman will fall into your arms. Not this woman.”

Her accent thickened when she was on a roll, he noted, somewhat baffled by her claim. “I don’t recall snapping my fingers.”

She let loose one short, explicit Ukrainian oath and grabbed the knob. “You want to have a cup of coffee with me? Good. We’ll have your coffee—and we’ll call your wife and ask her to join us.”

“My what?” He closed his hand over hers so that the door was jerked open, then slammed shut again. “I don’t have a wife.”

“Really?” The single word dripped with scorn; her eyes flashed at him. “And I suppose the woman who came with you to the shop is your sister.”

It should have been funny. But he couldn’t quite get the joke. “Nina? As a matter of fact, she is.”

Natasha yanked open the door with a sound of disgust. “That is pathetic.”

Filled with righteous indignation, she stormed down the corridor and out the main door. In a staccato rhythm that matched her mood, her heels beat on the concrete as she started down the steps. When she was abruptly whirled around, she nearly took the last two in a tumble.