Christmas In the Snow: Taming Natasha / Considering Kate by Nora Roberts (14)

“Nervous?” Spencer Kimball watched his daughter pour a cup of coffee. She looked flawless, he thought. Her mass of curling hair was tied neatly into a tail that streamed down her back. Her stone-gray jacket and trousers were trim and tailored in an understated chic he sometimes thought she’d been born with. Her face—Lord, she looked like her mother—was composed.

Yes, she looked flawless, and lovely. And grown up. Why was it so hard to see his babies grown?

“Why should I be nervous? More coffee?”

“Yeah, thanks. It’s D-Day,” he added when she topped off his cup. “Deed Day. In a couple hours, you’ll be a property owner, with all the joys and frustrations that entails.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” She sat to nibble on the half bagel she’d toasted for breakfast. “I’ve thought it all through very carefully.”

“You always do.”

“Mmm. I know it’s a risk using so much of my savings, and a good portion of my trust fund in this investment. But I’m financially sound and I know I can handle the projected expenses over the next five years.”

He nodded, watching her face. “You have your mother’s business sense.”

“I like to think so. I also like to think I’ll have your skill for teaching. After all, I’m an artist, who comes from two people who are artists. And the little bit of teaching I did in New York gave me a taste for it.” She picked up the cream, added a little more to her coffee. “I’m establishing my business in my hometown, where I have solid contacts with the community.”

“Absolutely true.”

She set the bagel aside and picked up her coffee. “The Kimball name is respected here, and my name is respected in dance circles. I’ve studied dance for twenty years, sweated and ached my way through thousands of hours of instructions. I should have learned more than how to execute a clean tour jeté.”

“Without question.”

She sighed. There was no fooling her father. He knew her inside and out. He was all that was solid, she thought, all that was steady. “Okay. You know how you get butterflies in your stomach?”

“Yeah.”

“Mine are frogs. Big, fat, hopping frogs. I wasn’t this nervous before my first professional solo.”

“Because you never doubted your talent. This is new ground, honey.” He laid a hand over hers. “You’re entitled to the frogs. Fact is, I’d worry about you if you didn’t have the jumps.”

“You’re also worried I’m making a big mistake.”

“No, not a mistake.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “I’ve got some concerns—and a father’s entitled to the jumps, too—that in a few months you might miss performing. Miss the company and the life you built. Part of me wishes you’d waited a bit longer before making such a big commitment. And the other part’s just happy to have you home again.”

“Well, tell your frogs to settle down. Once I make a commitment, I keep it.”

“I know.”

That was one of the things that concerned him, but he wasn’t going to say that.

She picked up her bagel again, grinning a little. She knew just how to distract him. “So, tell me about the plans to remodel the kitchen.”

He winced, his handsome face looking pained. “I’m not getting into it.” As he glanced around the room he raked a hand through his hair so the gold and silver of it tangled. “Your mother’s got this bug over a full redo here. New this, new that, and Brody O’Connell’s aiding and abetting. What’s wrong with the kitchen?”

“Maybe it has something to do with the fact it hasn’t been remodeled in twenty-odd years?”

“So what’s your point?” Spencer gestured with his coffee cup. “It’s great. It’s perfectly comfortable. But then he had to go and show her sample books.”

Her lips twitched at the betrayal in her father’s voice, but she spoke with sober sympathy. “The dog.”

“And they’re talking about bow and bay windows. We’ve got a window.” He gestured to the one over the sink. “It’s fine. You can look through it all you want. I tell you, that boy has seduced my wife with promises of solid surface countertops and oak trim.”

“Oak trim, hmm. Very sexy.” Laughing, she propped an elbow on the table. “Tell me about O’Connell.”

“He does good work. But that doesn’t mean he should come tear up my kitchen.”

“Has he lived in the area long?”

“Grew up not far from here. His father’s Ace Plumbing. Brody left when he was about twenty. Went down to D.C. Worked construction.”

All right, Kate thought. She’d have to pry if that was all she could shake loose. “I heard he has a little boy.”

“Yeah, Jack. A real pistol. Brody’s wife died several years ago. Cancer of some kind, I think. My impression is he wanted to raise his son closer to family. Been back about a year, I guess. He’s established a nice business, with a reputation for quality work. He’ll do a good job for you.”

“If I decide to hire him.”

She wondered what he looked like in a tool belt, then reminded herself that was not only not the kind of question a woman should ask her doting father, but also one that had nothing to do with establishing a business relationship.

But she bet he looked just fine.

 

It was done. The frogs in her stomach were still pretty lively, but she was now the owner of a big, beautiful, dilapidated building in the pretty college town of Shepherdstown, West Virginia.

A building that was a short walk from the house where she’d grown up, from her mother’s toy shop, from the university where her father taught.

She was surrounded by family, friends and neighbors.

Oh God.

Everyone knew her—and everyone would be watching to see if she pulled it off, stuck it out, or fell flat on her face. Why hadn’t she opened her school in Utah or New Mexico or someplace she was anonymous, somewhere with no expectations hovering over her?

And that, she reminded herself, was just stupid. She was establishing her school here because it was home. Home, Kate thought, was exactly where she wanted to be.

There would be no falling, flat or otherwise, Kate promised herself as she parked her car. She would succeed because she would personally oversee every detail. She would take each upcoming step the way she’d taken all the others that had led here. Carefully, meticulously. And she would work like a Trojan to see it through.

She wouldn’t disappoint her parents.

The important thing was that the property was now hers—and the bank’s—and that those next steps could be taken.

She walked up the steps—her steps—crossed the short, slightly sagging porch and unlocked the door to her future.

It smelled of dust and cobwebs.

That would change. Oh, yes, she told herself as she set her bag and keys aside. That would begin to change very soon. In short order, the air would smell of sawdust and fresh paint and the sweat of a working crew.

She just had to hire the crew.

She started to cross the floor, just to hear her footsteps echo, and saw the little portable stereo in the center of the room. Baffled, she hurried to it, picked up the card set on top of the machine and grinned at her mother’s handwriting.

She ripped open the envelope and took out the card fronted with a lovely painting of a ballerina at the barre.

“Oh, you guys. You just never let me down.” A little teary-eyed, she crouched and turned the stereo on.

It was one of her father’s compositions, and one of her favorites. She remembered how thrilled, and how proud she had been, when she had danced to it the first time on stage in New York.

Kimball dancing to Kimball, she thought, and shrugged out of her coat, kicked off her shoes.

Slow at first—a long extension. The muscles tremble, but hold, and hold. A bend at the knee to change the line. Turning, beat by beat.

Lower. A gentle series of pirouettes, fluid rather than sharp.

She moved around the dingy room, sliding into the well-remembered steps. Music swelled into the space, into her mind, into her body.

Building now, from romance toward passion. Arabesque, quick, light triple pirouette and into ballottes.

The joy of it rushed into her. The confining band flew out of her hair. Grande jeté. And again. Again. Feel like you could fly forever. Look like you can.

End it with flair, with joy, in a fast rush of fouetté turns. Then set! Snap like a statue, one arm up, one back.

“I guess I’m supposed to throw roses, but I don’t have any on me.”

Her breath was already coming fast, and she nearly lost it completely as the statement shoved her out of dance mode. She pressed a hand to her speeding heart, and panting lightly, stared at Brody.

He stood just inside the door, hands in his pockets and a toolbox at his feet.

“You can owe me,” she managed to say. “I like red ones. God, you scared the life out of me.”

“Sorry. Your door wasn’t locked, and you didn’t hear me knock.” Or wouldn’t have, he decided, if he’d thought to knock.

But when he’d seen her through the window, he hadn’t thought at all. He’d just walked in, dazzled. A woman who looked like that, who moved like that, was bound to dazzle a man. He imagined she knew it.

“It’s all right.” She turned and walked over to turn down the music. “I was initiating the place. Though the dance looks better with the costumes and lights. So.” She pushed at her tumbled hair, willing her speeding heart to settle. “What can I do for you, Mr. O’Connell?”

He walked toward her, stopping to pick up her hair band. “You lost this during a spin.”

“Thanks.” She tucked it into her pocket.

He wished she’d pulled her hair back into it. He didn’t care for his reaction to the way she looked just now, flushed and tousled and…available. “I get the feeling you weren’t expecting me.”

“No, but I don’t mind the unexpected.” Especially, she thought, when it comes with fabulous green eyes and a sexy little scowl.

“Your mother asked me to come by, take a look at the place.”

“Ah. You’re another housewarming present.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing.” She angled her head. Dancers, she mused, knew as much about body language as a psychiatrist. His was stiff, just a little defensive. And he was certainly careful to keep a good, safe distance between them. “Do I make you nervous, O’Connell, or just annoy you?”

“I don’t know you well enough to be nervous or annoyed.”

“Want to?”

His belly muscles quivered. “Look, Ms. Kimball—”

“All right, don’t get huffy.” She waved him off. A pity, she thought. She preferred being direct, and he, obviously, didn’t. “I find you attractive, and I got the impression you were interested, initially. My mistake.”

“You make a habit of coming on to strange men in your mother’s toy store?”

She blinked, a quick flicker of temper and hurt. Then she shrugged. “Oh, well. Ouch.”

“Sorry.” Disgusted with himself, he held up both hands. “Way out of line. Maybe you do annoy me after all. Not your fault. I’m out of practice when it comes to…aggressive women. Let’s just say I’m not in the market for any entanglements right now.”

“This is a blow—I’d already picked the band for the wedding, but I expect I’ll recover.”

His lips curved. “Oh, well. Ouch.”

He had a great smile when he used it, Kate thought. It was a damn shame he was so stingy with it where she was concerned. “Now that we have all that out of the way. What do you think?” She spread her arms to encompass the room.

Since here he was on solid ground, Brody relaxed. “It’s a great old place. Lots of atmosphere and potential. Solid foundation. Built to last.”

The little prickle of annoyance that still chilled her skin faded away. Warmth radiated. “That’s it. Now I love you.”

It was his turn to blink. He’d already taken a defensive step in retreat when Kate laughed. “Boy, you are out of practice. I’m not going to throw myself into your arms, Brody—though it’s tempting. It’s just that you’re the first person who’s agreed with me on this. Everyone else thinks I’m crazy to sink so much time and money into this building.”

He couldn’t remember having a woman make him feel like an idiot so often in such a short space of time. He shoved his hands into his pockets again. “It’s a good investment—if you do it right and you’re in for the long haul.”

“Oh, I’m in. Why don’t you tell me how you’d do it right?”

“First thing I’d do is have the heating system looked at. It’s freezing in here.”

She grinned at him. “We may just get along after all. The furnace is in the basement. Want to take a look?”

She came down with him—which he didn’t expect. She didn’t bolt when they came across a startled mouse—or the old shedded skin of a snake that had likely dined on the rodent’s relatives. And that he had expected.

In his experience, women—well, intensely female women types—generally made a quick retreat when they came across anything that slithered or skittered. But Kate just wrinkled her nose and took a little notebook out of her jacket pocket to jot something down.

The light was poor, the air thick and stale, and the ancient furnace that squatted on the original dirt floor, a lost cause.

He gave her that bad news, then explained her options, the pros and cons of electric heat pumps, gas, oil. BTU’s, efficiency, initial cost outlay and probable monthly expenses.

He imagined he’d do just as well speaking in Greek and offered to send brochures and information to her father.

“My father’s a composer and a college professor,” she said with cool politeness. “Do you assume he’d understand all of this better than I would because we have different chromosomes?”

Brody considered for a moment. “Yeah.”

“You assume incorrectly. You can send me your information, but at this point I’m more inclined to the steam heat. It seems simpler and more efficient as the pipes and radiators are already in place. I want to keep as much of the building’s character as possible, while making it more livable and attractive. Also, I’ll have secondary heat sources, if and when I need them, when the chimneys are checked—repaired if necessary.”

He didn’t much care for the icy tone, even if he did agree with the content. “You’re the boss.”

“There, you’re absolutely correct.”

“You have cobwebs in your hair. Boss.”

“So do you. I’ll need this basement area cleaned, and however authentic the dirt floor might be, I’ll want cement poured. And an exterminator. Better lighting. As it is, it’s virtually wasted space. It can be put to use for storage.”

“Fine.” He took a notepad and pencil out of his breast pocket and began scribbling notes.

She walked to the stairs, jiggling the banister as she started up. “The stairs don’t have to be pretty, but they have to be safe.”

“You’ll get safe. All the work will be up to code. I don’t work any other way.”

“Good to know. Now, let me show you what I want on the main level.”

She knew what she wanted. Maybe a little too precisely for his taste. Still, he had to give her points for not intending to simply gut the building, but to make use of its eccentricities and charm.

He couldn’t see a ballet school, but she apparently could. Right down to the bench she envisioned built in under the front windows, and the canned ceiling lights.

She wanted the kitchen redone, turning it into a smaller, more efficient room and using the extra space for an office.

Spaces that had metamorphosed over the years from bedrooms to storage rooms to display rooms would become dressing areas with counters and wardrobes built in.

“It seems a little elaborate for a small town dance school.”

She merely lifted an eyebrow. “It’s not elaborate. It’s correct. Now these two bathrooms.” She stopped in the hall beside two doors that were side by side.

“If you want to enlarge and remodel, I can open the wall between them.”

“Dancers have to forgo a great deal of modesty along the way, but let’s draw the line at coed bathrooms.”

“Coed.” He lowered the notebook, stared at her. “You’re planning on having boys?” His grin came fast. “You think you’re going to get boys in here doing what’s it? Pirouettes? Get out.”

“Ever hear of Baryshnikov? Davidov?” She was too used to the knee-jerk reaction to be particularly offended. “I’d put a well trained dancer in his prime up against any other athlete you name in a test of strength and endurance.”

“Who wears the tutu?”

She sighed, only because she was perfectly aware this was the sort of bias she’d be facing in a rural town. “For your information, male dancers are real men. In fact, my first lover was a premier danseur who drove a Harley and could execute a grande jeté with more height than Michael Jordan can pull off for a slam dunk. But then Jordan doesn’t wear tights, does he? Just those cute little boxers.”

“Trunks,” Brody muttered. “Basketball trunks.”

“Ah, well, it’s all perception, isn’t it? The bathrooms stay separate. New stalls, new sinks, new floors. One sink in each low enough for a child to reach. White fixtures. I want clean and streamlined.”

“I got that picture.”

“Then moving right along.” She gestured toward the stairs at the back end of the corridor. “Third floor, my apartment.”

“You’re going to live here—over the school?”

“I’m going to live, breathe, eat and work here. That’s how you turn a concept into reality. And I have very specific ideas about my living quarters.”

“I bet you do.”

 

Specific ideas, Brody thought an hour later, and good ones. He might have disagreed with some of the details she wanted on the main level, but he couldn’t fault her vision for the third floor.

She wanted the original moldings and woodwork restored—and added that she’d like whoever had painted all that gorgeous oak white caught, dragged into the street and horse-whipped.

Brody could only agree.

Portions of the woodwork were damaged. He liked the prospect of crafting the replacement sections himself, blending them in with the old. She wanted the floors sanded down, and coated with a clear seal. He’d have done precisely the same.

As he toured the top rooms with her, he felt the old anticipation building. To make his mark on something that had stood for generations, and to preserve it as it was meant to be preserved.

There had been a time when he’d done no more than put in his hours—do the job, pick up the pay. Pride and responsibility had come later. And the simple pleasure they gave him had pushed him to better himself, to hone his craft—to build something more than rooms.

To build a life.

He could make a difference here, Brody thought. And he wanted, badly, to get his hands on this place and make that difference. Even if it meant dealing with Kate Kimball, and his irritating reaction to her.

He hoped—if he got the job—she wouldn’t be one of those clients who hovered. At least not while she was wearing that damn perfume.

Then they were back to bathrooms. The old cast iron tub stayed. The beige wall hung sink went, and Brody was directed to find a suitable white pedestal sink to replace it.

The boss also wanted ceramic tile—navy and white—though she agreed to look at product samples before making the final decision.

She was just as decisive in the kitchen, but there he stopped her.

“Look, are you actually going to cook in here, or just heat up takeout?”

“Cook. I do know how.”

“Then you want solid work space there, instead of breaking it up.” Brody gestured. “You want efficient traffic flow, so you work from the window. You want your sink under the window instead of on that wall. You move the refrigerator there, the stove there. See, then you’ve got flow instead of zigzagging back and forth. Wasted effort, wasted space.”

“Yes, but there—”

“That’s for your pantry,” he interrupted, the room clear in his mind. “It gives you a nice line of counter. You angle it out here…” He pulled out his measuring tape. “Yeah, angle it out and you’ve got room for a couple of stools, so you get work space and seating space instead of dead space.”

“I was thinking of putting a table—”

“Then you’ll always be walking around it, and crowding yourself in.”

“Maybe.” She thought of the kitchen table where she’d sat with her father only that morning. And had sat with her family on countless mornings. Sentimental, she decided. And in this case probably impractical.

“Let me get the measurements, and I’ll draw it up for you in the next few days. You can think about it.”

“All right. Plenty of time. The main level’s my priority.”

“It’ll take me some time to work it up and get you a bid. But I can tell you now, you’re cruising toward six figures and a good four months work for the complete rehab.”

She’d come to that conclusion herself, but hearing it was still a jolt. “Work it up, draw it up, whatever it is you do. If I decide to hire you for the job, when would you be able to start?”

“I can get the permits pretty quick. And put in a materials and supply order right off. Probably start work first of the year.”

“Those are magic words. If I go with you, I want to get started right away. Get me a bid, Mr. O’Connell, and we’ll see if we can do business.”

She left him to measure and calculate, and went down to stand on her little front porch.

She could hear the light traffic from the main street, only a half block over. And smell the smoke from someone’s fireplace or woodstove. Her bumpy little front lawn was a disgrace of dead and dying weeds and a sad and ugly stump of what had once been a regal maple.

Across the narrow side street was another brick building that had been converted into apartments. It was old, tidy and utterly quiet at this midday hour.

Another hundred thousand, she thought. Well, it could be done. Fortunately she hadn’t lived extravagantly over the past few years. And she did, indeed, have her mother’s head for business. Her savings had been carefully invested—and the trust fund was there as a cushion.

If she felt too much was going out, while nothing was coming in, she could agree to do a few guest appearances with the company. That door had been left open.

The fact was, with all the weeks of construction ahead, it would make sense to do so—and not only for financial reasons.

She was used to working, used to being busy. Once the work began on the building there would be nothing for her to do but wait until each stage was complete.

It was an easy trip to New York, and the simplest thing in the world to stay with family there. Rehearse, train, perform, come home again. Yes, that might be the best solution all around.

But not yet. Not quite yet. She wanted to see her plans get off the ground first.

“Kate?” Brody stepped out, her coat in his hand. “It’s cold out here.”

“A bit. I was hoping it would snow. We got teased the other day.”

“As long as it’s not eight feet.”

“Hmm?”

“Nothing.” He laid her coat over her shoulders, automatically lifting her hair out of the collar. There was so damn much of it, he thought. Soft, curling miles of it.

His hands were still caught in it when she turned, when she looked up, met his eyes. Interested after all, she realized with a lovely liquid tug in the belly. “Why don’t we walk around the corner. You can buy me a cup of coffee.” She moved in, a deliberate test for both of them. “We can discuss…counter space.”

She clogged his brain, his lungs, and did a hell of a job on his loins. “You’re coming on to me again.”

Her smile was slow, devastatingly female. “I certainly am.”

“You’re probably the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s the good fortune of birth, but since I look a great deal like my mother, thank you. I particularly like your mouth.” She shifted her gaze to it, lingered. “I just keep coming back to it.”

His throat was dry as the Sahara. What had happened with women since he’d been out of the game? he wondered. When had they started seducing men on the front porch in the middle of the afternoon?

He could feel the chill December wind whipping against his face. And the heat swarming into his blood. “Look.” In self-defense, he took her by the arms. Her coat slid off her shoulders, and he felt the taut sculpted muscle beneath her suit jacket.

“I’ve been looking.” Her gaze flicked up to his again. So male, she thought. So frustrated. “I just happen to like what I see.”

Her eyes were pure gray, he thought. Mysterious as smoke. He had only to lower his head, or better, yes better, to yank her to her toes. Then his mouth would be on those sultry, self-satisfied lips of hers.

He had a feeling, a bad one, it would be like bare-handing a live wire. Thrilling, and potentially deadly.

“I told you I wasn’t interested.”

“Yes, you did. But you lied.” To prove it, she rose up to her toes and took a quick, hard nip into his bottom lip. His hands tightened like vises on her arms. “See?” she whispered when he held her there, only a breath away. “You’re very interested.”

Amused at both of them, she lowered to the flats of her feet, eased back. “You just don’t want to be.”

“It comes down to the same thing.” He let her go, bent to pick up his toolbox. Damn it, his hands weren’t even close to steady.

“I don’t agree, but I won’t push it. I’d like to see you socially, if and when that suits you. Meanwhile, since we have similar views on this building, and I liked most of your ideas, I hope we’ll be able to work together.”

He hissed out a breath. Cool as January, he noted. While he was flustered, heated up and churning. “You’re a real piece of work, Kate.”

“I am, that’s true. I won’t apologize for being what I am. I’ll look forward to getting the brochures and information we discussed, and your bid on the job. If you need to get back in for more measurements or whatever, you know how to reach me.”

“Yeah, I know how to reach you.”

She stayed where she was, watched him stride down to the curb, climb into his truck. He’d have been surprised if he’d heard the long shaky breath she expelled as he drove away.

Surprised as well if he’d seen her slowly lower herself to the top step.

She was nowhere near as cool as January. She sat in the brisk breeze waiting to cool off. And for the frogs in her belly to settle down again.

Brody O’Connell, she thought. Wasn’t it strange and fascinating that a man she’d only met twice should have such a strong effect on her? It wasn’t that she was shy around men—far from it. But she was selective. The lover she’d tossed in Brody’s face had been one of the three men—all of whom she’d cared for deeply—that she’d allowed into her life, and into her bed.

Yet, after two meetings—no, she thought, ordering herself to be brutally honest—after one meeting, she’d wanted Brody in her bed. The second meeting had only sharpened that want into a keen-edged desire she wasn’t prepared for.

So she would do the logical and practical thing. She’d settle herself down, clear her mind. Then she’d begin to plan the best way to get him there.