Stanislaski Sisters

Nora Roberts

Stanislaski

Contents

Taming Natasha

Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue

Falling for Rachel

Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve

Taming Natasha

Prologue

Contents - Next

Eyes snapping with a combination of temper and triumph, Natasha marched into her bedroom. So, Mikhail and Alexi thought it would be funny to dress the dog in her new bra and best dance skirt. And they had discovered, she reflected, just what happened to irritating younger brothers when they put their grubby hands on what didn't belong to them.

She imagined Mik would be limping for the rest of the day.

Best of all, Mama had ordered them to wash the bra and skirt—with their own hands. And hang them out to dry. Where, she thought with growing pleasure, several of the neighbor boys would be sure to see them at their task.

They'd be humiliated.

Mama, she thought, always dealt out perfect justice. It was even better than the kick in the shins she herself had dealt out to her brother.

Natasha turned toward the long mirror on her wall and to calm herself, lowered into a plié. Her fourteen-year-old body was as slim as her brothers', with just a hint of curves at breast and hip. Ballet lessons had taught those limbs, those joints, those bones, to bend, twist, adjust to demands, had schooled her mind toward discipline. And given her heart the greatest of joys. She knew the lessons were expensive, and how hard her parents worked to see that she—and her siblings—had what they wanted most.

Because she knew, she practiced religiously, worked harder than anyone else in her class.

One day she would be a great ballerina, and every time she danced, she would thank them for the gift.

Imagining herself in a sparkling tutu, hearing the music swell, she closed golden-brown eyes, lifted a delicate chin. Her hair, a long curling fall of black, swung gently as she rose on her toes and turned in a slow pirouette.

When she opened them, she saw her sister in the doorway.

"They're nearly finished washing it," Rachel announced. As usual when she looked at Natasha she was struck with a mix of pride and envy. Pride that her sister was so beautiful, looked so lovely when she danced. Envy that at eight she felt she would never be fourteen, never be so pretty, so graceful.

Natasha's ribbons never fell out of her hair, leaving it a tangled mess. And she was getting breasts. They were small, but they were there.

For Rachel, every ambition, need and desire centered around being fourteen.

Natasha merely smiled, turned another pirouette. "Are they whining?"

"A little." Rachel's lips twitched. "When Mama's too far away to hear. And Mik says you broke his leg."

"Good. He deserves a broken leg for taking my things."

"It was a little funny." Rachel came in to bounce on the bed. "Sasha looked so silly in your pretty white bra and pink skirt."

"A little funny," Natasha admitted. She walked to her dresser to pick up her brush. "Maybe very funny when they put on Swan Lake and pretended to dance with him." With temper over, she grinned and ran the brush idly through her hair. "Well, they're only boys."

Rachel wrinkled her nose. Boys were currently very low on her list. "Boys are stupid. They yell too loud and smell too much. Being a girl's better." Though she wore faded jeans, a ragged T-shirt and a Yankees' cap over her disordered black hair, she believed it absolutely.

Her eyes, the same color as her sister's, danced. "We can get them back."

She told herself she was above such things, but Natasha studied Rachel with growing interest. Rachel might have been the baby of the family, but she was devious. "How?"

"Mik's baseball jersey." Which Rachel privately coveted. "I think Sasha would look very handsome in it. When they go out to hang the wash, we can get it."

"Nobody knows where he hides it when he's not wearing it."

"I know." Rachel's smile spread over her pretty face. "I know everything. I'll tell you, and I'll help you pay him back, if…"

Natasha lifted a brow. Devious, and clever. Rachel always had an angle. "If?"

"If I can wear your gold earrings, the little hoops with the stars carved on them."

"The last time I let you wear a pair of my earrings, you lost one."

"I didn't lose it. I just can't find it yet." Part of her wanted to pout, but that would have to wait until the deal was set. "I'll get the jersey, help you dress Sasha, and keep Mama busy. You let me wear the earrings for three days."

"One day."

"Two."

Natasha let out a sigh. "All right then."

With a cagey smile, Rachel held out her hand. "Earrings first."

Shaking her head, Natasha opened her little jewelry box and took out the hoops. "How can you be such a wheedler when you're only eight?"

"When you're the youngest, you have to wheedle." She hopped up, happily putting on the earrings in the mirror. "Everybody else gets everything first. If I were the oldest, these would be my earrings."

"Well, you're not and they're mine. Don't lose them."

Rachel rolled her eyes, then studied the results. She was positive the earrings made her look older. Maybe as much as ten.

"If you're going to wear them, let's fix your hair." Natasha plucked off the ball cap and began to run the brush through Rachel's long, loose curls. "We'll tie it back so the earrings will show."

"I can't find my clip."

"You can use one of mine."

"When you were eight, did you look like me?"

"I don't know." Considering, Natasha bent so their faces were side-by-side in the mirror. "We have the same eyes almost, and our mouths, too. You have a nicer nose."

"I do?" The idea that she had anything nicer or prettier or better than her big sister was a towering thrill. "Really?"

"Yes, I think." Because she understood, Natasha rubbed her cheek against Rachel's. "One day, when we're grown up, people will look when we walk down the street. 'There's the Stanislaski sisters,' they'll say. 'Aren't they a striking pair?'"

The image had Rachel giggling and prancing around the room they shared. "Then they'll see Mikhail and Alexi, and say: 'Oh-oh, here come the Stanislaski brothers and that means trouble.'"

"They'd be right." Natasha heard the back door slam, glanced out the window. "And there they are! Oh, look, Rachel. It's perfect."

The two boys, heads lowered in mortification, dragged their feet on the way to the clothesline while the dog raced in circles around them.

"They look so embarrassed," Natasha said with satisfaction. "Look how red their faces are."

"It's not enough. Let's get the jersey!" Earrings dangling, Rachel grabbed her cap and raced out of the room.

Boys would never defeat the Stanislaski sisters, Natasha thought, and rushed after her.

For Gayle Link Welcome to the fold

Chapter One

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"Why is it that all the really great-looking men are married?"

"Is that a trick question?" Natasha arranged a velvet-gowned doll in a child-sized bentwood rocker before she turned to her assistant. "Okay, Annie, what great-looking man are we talking about in particular?"

"The tall, blond and gorgeous one who's standing outside the shop window with his nifty-looking wife and beautiful little girl." Annie tucked a wad of gum into her cheek and heaved a gusty sigh. "They look like an ad for Perfect Family Digest."

"Then perhaps they'll come in and buy the perfect toy."

Natasha stepped back from her grouping of Victorian dolls and accessories with a nod of approval. It looked exactly as she wanted—appealing, elegant and old-fashioned. She checked everything down to the tasseled fan in a tiny, china hand.

The toy store wasn't just her business, it was her greatest pleasure. Everything from the smallest rattle to the biggest stuffed bear was chosen by her with the same eye for detail and quality. She insisted on the best for her shop and her customers, whether it was a five-hundred-dollar doll with its own fur wrap or a two-dollar, palm-sized race car. When the match was right, she was pleased to ring up either sale.

In the three years since she had opened her jingling front door, Natasha had made The Fun House one of the most thriving concerns in the small college town on the West Virginia border. It had taken drive and persistence, but her success was more a direct result of her innate understanding of children. She didn't want her clients to walk out with a toy. She wanted them to walk out with the right toy.

Deciding to make a few adjustments, Natasha moved over to a display of miniature cars.

"I think they're going to come in," Annie was saying as she smoothed down her short crop of auburn hair. "The little girl's practically bouncing out of her Mary Janes. Want me to open up?"

Always precise, Natasha glanced at the grinning clown clock overhead. "We have five minutes yet."

"What's five minutes? Tash, I'm telling you this guy is incredible." Wanting a closer look, Annie edged down an aisle to restack board games. "Oh, yes. Six foot two, a hundred and sixty pounds. The best shoulders I've ever seen fill out a suit jacket. Oh Lord, it's tweed. I didn't know a guy in tweed could make me salivate."

"A man in cardboard can make you salivate."

"Most of the guys I know are cardboard." A dimple winked at the corner of Annie's mouth. She peeked around the counter of wooden toys to see if he was still at the window. "He must have spent some time at the beach this summer. His hair's sun-streaked and he's got a fabulous tan. Oh, God, he smiled at the little girl. I think I'm in love."

Choreographing a scaled-down traffic jam, Natasha smiled. "You always think you're in love."

"I know." Annie sighed. "I wish I could see the color of his eyes. He's got one of those wonderfully lean and bony faces. I'm sure he's incredibly intelligent and has suffered horribly."

Natasha shot a quick, amused look over her shoulder. Annie, with her tall, skinny build had a heart as soft as marshmallow cream. "I'm sure his wife would be fascinated with your fantasy."

"It's a woman's privilege—no, her obligation—to weave fantasies over men like that."

Though she couldn't have disagreed more, Natasha let Annie have her way. "All right then. Go ahead and open up."

"One doll," Spence said, giving his daughter's ear a tug. "I might have thought twice about moving into that house, if I'd realized there was a toy store a half mile away."

"You'd buy her the bloody toy store if you had your way."

He spared one glance for the woman beside him. "Don't start, Nina."

The slender blonde shrugged her shoulders, rippling the trim, rose linen jacket of her suit, then looked at the little girl. "I just meant your daddy tends to spoil you because he loves you so much. Besides, you deserve a present for being so good about the move."

Little Frederica Kimball's bottom lip pouted. "I like my new house." She slipped her hand into her father's, automatically aligning herself with him and against the world. "I have a yard and a swing set all of my own."

Nina looked them over, the tall, rangy man and the fairy-sized young girl. They had identical stubborn chins.

As far as she could remember, she'd never won an argument with either one.

"I suppose I'm the only one who doesn't see that as an advantage over living in New York." Nina's tone warmed slightly as she stroked the girl's hair. "I can't help worrying about you a little bit. I really only want you to be happy, darling. You and your daddy."

"We are." To break the tension, Spence swung Freddie into his arms. "Aren't we, funny face?"

"She's about to be that much happier." Relenting, Nina gave Spence's hand a squeeze. "They're opening."

"Good morning." They were gray, Annie noted, biting back a long, dreamy, "Ahh." A glorious gray. She tucked her little fantasy into the back of her mind and ushered in the first customers of the day. "May I help you?"

"My daughter's interested in a doll." Spence set Freddie on her feet again.

"Well, you've come to the right place." Annie dutifully switched her attention to the child. She really was a cute little thing, with her father's gray eyes and pale, flyaway blond hair. "What kind of doll would you like?"

"A pretty one," Freddie answered immediately. "A pretty one with red hair and blue eyes."

"I'm sure we have just what you want." She offered a hand. "Would you like to look around?"

After a glance at her father for approval, Freddie linked hands with Annie and wandered off.

"Damn it." Spence found himself wincing.

Nina squeezed his hand for the second time. "Spence—

"I delude myself thinking that it doesn't matter, that she doesn't even remember."

"Just because she wanted a doll with red hair and blue eyes doesn't mean anything."

"Red hair and blue eyes," he repeated; the frustration welled up once more. "Just like Angela's. She remembers,

Nina. And it does matter." Stuffing his hands into his pockets he walked away.

Three years, he thought. It had been nearly three years now. Freddie had still been in diapers. But she remembered Angela—beautiful, careless Angela. Not even the most liberal critic would have considered Angela a mother. She had never cuddled or crooned, never rocked or soothed.

He studied a small, porcelain-faced doll dressed in pale, angelic blue. Tiny, tapering fingers, huge, dreamy eyes. Angela had been like that, he remembered. Ethereally beautiful. And cold as glass.

He had loved her as a man might love a piece of art—distantly admiring the perfection of form, and constantly searching for the meaning beneath it. Between them they had somehow created a warm, gorgeous child who had managed to find her way through the first years of her life almost without help from her parents.

But he would make it up to her. Spence shut his eyes for a moment. He intended to do everything in his power to give his daughter the love, the structure and the security she deserved. The realness. The word seemed trite, but it was the only one he could find that described what he wanted for his daughter—the real, the solid bond of family.

She loved him. He felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders as he thought of the way Freddie's big eyes would shine when he tucked her in at night, at the way her arms would wrap tightly around him when he held her. Perhaps he would never fully forgive himself for being so involved with his own problems, his own life during her infancy, but things had changed. Even this move had been made with her welfare in mind.

He heard her laugh, and the rest of the tension dissolved on a wave of pure pleasure. There was no sweeter music than his little girl's laugh. An entire symphony could be written around it. He wouldn't disturb her yet, Spence thought. Let her indulge herself with the bright and beautiful dolls, before he had to remind her that only one could be hers.

Relaxed again, he began to pay attention to the shop. Like the dolls he'd imagined for his daughter, it was bright and beautiful. Though small, it was packed from wall to wall with everything a child might covet. A big golden giraffe and a sad-eyed purple dog hung from the ceiling. Wooden trains, cars and planes, all painted in bold colors, jockeyed for position on a long display table with elegant miniature furniture. An old-fashioned jack-in-the-box sat beside an intricate scale model of a futuristic space station. There were dolls, some beautiful, some charmingly homely, erector sets and tea sets.

The lack of studied arrangement made the result all the more appealing. This was a place to pretend and to wish, a crowded Aladdin's cave designed to make children's eyes light in wonder. To make them laugh, as his daughter was laughing now. He could already foresee that he'd be hard-pressed to keep Freddie from making regular visits.

That was one of the reasons he'd made the move to a small town. He wanted his daughter to be able to reap the pleasures of local shops, where the merchants would know her name. She would be able to walk from one end of town to the other without those big-city worries about muggings, abductions and drugs. There would be no need for dead bolts and security systems, for "white noise" machines to block out the surge and grind of traffic. Even a girl as little as his Freddie wouldn't be swallowed up here.

And perhaps, without the pace and the pressure, he would make peace with himself.

Idly he picked up a music box. It was of delicately crafted porcelain, graced with a figure of a raven-haired Gypsy woman in a flounced red dress. In her ears were tiny gold loops, and in her hands a tambourine with colored streamers. He was certain he wouldn't have found anything more skillfully made on Fifth Avenue.

He wondered how the owner could leave it out where small, curious fingers might reach and break. Intrigued, he turned the key and watched the figure revolve around the tiny, china camp fire.

Tchaikovsky. He recognized the movement instantly, and his skilled ear approved the quality of tone. A moody, even passionate piece, he thought, finding it strange to come across such exquisite workmanship in a toy store. Then he glanced up and saw Natasha.

He stared. He couldn't help it. She was standing a few feet away, her head up, slightly tilted as she watched him. Her hair was as dark as the dancer's and corkscrewed around her face in a wild disarray that flowed beyond her shoulders. Her skin was a dark, rich gold that was set off by the simple red dress she wore.

But this woman was not fragile, he thought. Though she was small, he got the impression of power. Perhaps it was her face, with its full, unpainted mouth and high, slashing cheekbones. Her eyes were almost as dark as her hair, heavy-lidded and thickly lashed. Even from a distance of ten feet he sensed it. Strong, undiluted sex. It surrounded her as other women surrounded themselves with perfumes.

For the first time in years he felt the muscle-numbing heat of pure desire.

Natasha saw it, then recognized and resented it. What kind of man, she wondered, walked into a room with his wife and daughter, then looked at another woman with naked hunger in his eyes?

Not her kind.

Determined to ignore the look as she had ignored it from others in the past, she crossed to him. "Do you need some help?"

Help? Spence thought blankly. He needed oxygen. He hadn't known it was literally possible for a woman to take a man's breath away. "Who are you?"

"Natasha Stanislaski." She offered her coolest smile. "I own the store."

Her voice seemed to hang in the air, husky, vital, with a trace of her Slavic origins adding eroticism as truly as the music still playing behind him. She smelled of soap, nothing more, yet the fragrance completely seduced him. When he didn't speak, she lifted a brow. It might have been amusing to knock a man off his feet, but she was busy at the moment, and the man was married. "Your daughter has her selection down to three dolls. Perhaps you'd like to help her with her final choice."

"In a minute. Your accent—is it Russian?"

"Yes." She wondered if she should tell him his wife was standing near the front door, bored and impatient. "How long have you been in America?"

"Since I was six." She aimed a deliberately cold glance. "About the same age as your little girl. Excuse me—"

He had his hand on her arm before he could stop himself. Even though he knew the move was a bad one, the venom in her eyes surprised him. "Sorry. I was going to ask you about this music box."

Natasha shifted her gaze to it as the music began to wind down. "It's one of our best, handcrafted here in the States. Are you interested in buying it?''

"I haven't decided, but I thought you might not have realized it was sitting out on that shelf."

"Why?"

"It's not the kind of merchandise one expects to find in a toy store. It could easily be broken."

Natasha took it and placed it farther back on the shelf. "And it can be mended." She made a quick, clearly habitual movement with her shoulders. It spoke of arrogance rather than carelessness. "I believe children should be allowed the pleasures of music, don't you?"

"Yes." For the first time a smile flickered over his face. It was, as Annie had noted, a particularly effective one, Natasha had to admit. Through her annoyance she felt the trickle of attraction, and strangely, kinship. Then he said, "As a matter of fact, I believe that quite strongly. Perhaps we could discuss it over dinner."

Holding herself rigid, Natasha battled back fury. It was difficult for one with her hot, often turbulent nature, but she reminded herself that the man had not only his wife, but his young daughter in the store.

The angry insults that rose to her throat were swallowed, but not before Spence saw them reflected in her eyes.

"No," was all she said as she turned.

"Miss—" Spence began, then Freddie whirled down the aisle, carrying a big, floppy Raggedy Ann.

"Daddy, isn't she nice?" Eyes shining, she held out the doll for his approval.

It was redheaded, Spence thought. But it was anything but beautiful. Nor, to his relief, was it a symbol of Angela. Because he knew Freddie expected it, he took his time examining her choice. "This is," he said after a moment, "the very best doll I've seen today."

"Really?"

He crouched until he was eye to eye with his daughter. "Absolutely. You have excellent taste, funny face."

Freddie reached out, crushing the doll between them as she hugged her father. "I can have her?''

"I thought she was for me." As Freddie giggled, he picked up the pair of them.

"I'll be happy to wrap her for you." Natasha's tone was warmer, she knew. He might be a jerk, but he loved his daughter.

"I can carry her." Freddie squeezed her new friend close.

"All right. Then I'll just give you a ribbon for her hair. Would you like that?"

"A blue one."

"A blue one it is." Natasha led the way to the cash register.

Nina took one look at the doll and rolled her eyes. "Darling, is that the best you could do?"

"Daddy likes her," Freddie murmured, ducking her head.

"Yes, I do. Very much," he added with a telling look for Nina. Setting Freddie on her feet again, he fished out his wallet.

The mother was certainly no prize, Natasha decided. Though that didn't give the man a right to come on to a clerk in a toy store. She made change and handed over the receipt, then took out a length of blue ribbon.

"Thank you," she said to Freddie. "I think she's going to like her new home with you very much."

"I'll take good care of her," Freddie promised, while she struggled to tie the ribbon through the yarn mop of hair. "Can people come in to look at the toys, or do they have to buy one?"

Natasha smiled, then taking another ribbon, tied a quick, sassy bow in the child's hair. "You can come in and look anytime you like."

"Spence, we really must be going." Nina stood holding the door open.

"Right." He hesitated. It was a small town, he reminded himself. And if Freddie could come in and look, so could he. "It was nice meeting you, Miss Stanislaski."

"Goodbye." She waited until the door jingled and closed, then let out a muttered stream of curses.

Annie peeked around a tower of building blocks. "Excuse me?"

"That man."

"Yes." With a little sigh, Annie waltzed down the aisle. "That man."

"He brings his wife and child into a place like this, then looks at me as if he wants to nibble on my toes."

"Tash." Her expression pained, Annie pressed a hand to her heart. "Please don't excite me."

"I find it insulting." She skirted around the ...