Considering Kate

The Stanislaskis

Book Six

Nora Roberts

www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Stanislaskis: an unforgettable family saga by #1 New York Times bestselling author Nora Roberts

Kate Stanislaski Kimball had turned her back on glamour and fame, and she’d come home to begin a new life. The only thing more perfect than the beautiful—dilapidated—building she’d bought for her new dance school was Brody O’Connell, the frustrating and surprisingly fascinating contractor she’d hired for the renovation.

But Brody was determined to resist Kate’s effortless allure. She was Natasha Stanislaski’s pampered, perfect daughter, after all. Still, every fiber of his being longed to make her his….

To my guys.

Contents

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

Chapter One

It was going to be perfect. She was going to see to it. Every step, every stage, every detail would be done precisely as she wanted, as she envisioned, until her dream became her reality.

Settling for less than what was exactly right was a waste of time, after all.

And Kate Kimball was not a woman to waste anything.

At twenty-five, she had seen and experienced more than a great many people did in a lifetime. When other young girls had been giggling over boys or worrying about fashion, she’d been traveling to Paris or Bonne, wearing glamorous costumes and doing extraordinary things.

She had danced for queens, and dined with princes.

She had sipped champagne at the White House, and wept with triumph and fatigue at the Bolshoi.

She would always be grateful to her parents, to the big, sprawling family who’d given her the opportunities to do so. Everything she had she owed to them.

Now it was time to start earning it herself.

Dance had been her dream for as long as she could remember. Her obsession, her brother Brandon would have said. And not, Kate acknowledged, inaccurately. There was nothing wrong with an obsession—as long as it was the right obsession and you worked for it.

God knew she’d worked for the dance.

Twenty years of practice, of study, of joy and pain. Of sweat and toe shoes. Of sacrifices, she thought. Hers, and her parents. She understood how difficult it had been for them to let her, the baby of the family, go to New York to study when she’d been only seventeen. But they’d never offered her anything but support and encouragement.

Of course, they’d known that though she was leaving the pretty little town in West Virginia for the big city, she’d be surrounded—watched over—by family. Just as she knew they had loved and trusted—believed in her enough—to let her go in any case.

She’d practiced and worked, and had danced, as much for them as for herself. And when she’d joined the Company and had appeared on stage the first time, they’d been there. When she’d earned a spot as principal dancer, they’d been there.

She’d danced professionally for six years, had known the spotlight, and the thrill of feeling the music inside her body. She’d traveled all over the world, had become Giselle, Aurora, Juliet, dozens of characters both tragic and triumphant. She had prized every moment of it.

No one was more surprised than Kate herself when she’d decided to step out of that spotlight and walk off that stage. There was only one way to explain it.

She’d wanted to come home.

She wanted a life, a real one. As much as she loved the dance, she’d begun to realize it had nearly absorbed and devoured every other aspect of her. Classes, rehearsals, performances, travel, media. The dancer’s career was far more than slipping on toe shoes and gliding into the spotlight—or it certainly had been for Kate.

So she wanted a life, and she wanted home. And, she’d discovered, she wanted to give something back for all the joy she’d reaped. She could accomplish all of that with her school.

They would come, she told herself. They would come because her name was Kimball, and that meant something solid in the area. They would come because her name was Kate Kimball, and that meant something in the world of dance.

Before long, she promised herself, they would come because the school itself meant something.

Time for a new dream, she reminded herself as she turned around the huge, echoing room. The Kimball School of Dance was her new obsession. She intended it to be just as fulfilling, just as intricate, and just as perfect as her old one.

And it would, no doubt, entail as much work, effort, skill and determination to bring to life.

With her hands fisted on her hips, she studied the grime-gray walls that had once been white. They’d be white again. A clean surface for displaying framed posters of the greats. Nuryev, Fontayne, Baryshnikov, Davidov, Bannion.

And the two long side walls would be mirrored behind their barres. This professional vanity was as necessary as breathing. A dancer must see each tiny movement, each arch, each flex, even as the body felt it, to perfect the positioning.

It was really more window than mirror, Kate thought. Where the dancer looked through the glass to see the dance.

The old ceiling would be repaired or replaced—whatever was necessary. The furnace…she rubbed her chilly arms. Definitely replaced. The floors sanded and sealed until they were a smooth and perfect surface. Then there was the lighting, the plumbing, probably some electrical business to see to.

Well, her grandfather had been a carpenter before he’d retired—or semiretired, she thought with affection. She wasn’t totally ignorant of what went on in a rehab situation. And she’d study more, ask questions, until she understood the process and could direct the contractor she hired appropriately.

Imagining what would be, she closed her eyes, dipped into a deep plié. Her body, long and wand-slim, simply flowed into the movement until her crotch rested on her heels, rose up again, lowered again.

She’d bundled her hair up, impatient to get out and take another look at what would soon be hers. With her movements, pins loosened and a few locks of glossy black curls spilled out. Freed, they would fall to her waist—a wildly romantic look that suited her image on stage.

Smiling, a bit dreamy, her face took on a quiet glow. She had her mother’s dusky skin and high, slashing cheekbones, her father’s smoky eyes and stubborn chin.

It made an arresting combination, again a romantic one. The gypsy, the mermaid, the faerie queen. There had been men who’d looked at her, taken in the delicacy of her form, and had assumed a romanticism and fragility—and never anticipated the steel.

It was, always, a mistake.

“One of these days you’re going to get stuck like that, then you’ll have to hop around like a frog.”

Kate sprang up, eyes popping open. “Brandon!” With a full-throated war whoop, she leaped across the room and into his arms.

“What are you doing here? When did you get in? I thought you were playing winter ball in Puerto Rico. How long are you staying?”

He was barely two years her senior—an accident of birth he’d used to torment her when they’d been children, unlike her half sister, Frederica, who was older than both of them and had never lorded it over them. Despite it, he was the love of her life.

“Which question do you want me to answer first?” Laughing, he held her away from him, taking a quick study of her out of tawny and amused eyes. “Still scrawny.”

“And you’re still full of it. Hi.” She kissed him smackingly on the lips. “Mom and Dad didn’t say you were coming home.”

“They didn’t know. I heard you were settling in and figured I’d better check things out, keep an eye on you.” He glanced around the big, filthy room, rolled his eyes. “I guess I’m too late.”

“It’s going to be wonderful.”

“Gonna be. Maybe. Right now it’s a dump.” Still, he slung his arm around her shoulders. “So, the ballet queen’s going to be a teacher.”

“I’m going to be a wonderful teacher. Why aren’t you in Puerto Rico?”

“Hey, a guy can’t play ball twelve months a year.”

“Brandon.” Her eyebrow arched up.

“Bad slide into second. Pulled a few tendons.”

“Oh, how bad? Have you seen a doctor? Will you—”

“Jeez, Katie. It’s no big deal. I’m on the Disabled List for a couple of months. I’ll be back in action for spring training. And it gives me lots of time to hang around here and make your life a living hell.”

“Well, that’s some compensation. Come on, I’ll show you around.” And get a look at the way he moved. “My apartment’s upstairs.”

“From the looks of that ceiling, your apartment may be downstairs any minute.”

“It’s perfectly sound,” she said with a wave of the hand. “Just ugly at the moment. But I have plans.”

“You’ve always had plans.”

But he walked with her, favoring his right leg, through the room and into a nasty little hallway with cracked plaster and exposed brick. Up a creaking set of stairs and into a sprawling space that appeared to be occupied by mice, spiders and assorted vermin he didn’t want to think about.

“Kate, this place—”

“Has potential,” she said firmly. “And history. It’s pre-Civil War.”

“It’s pre-Stone Age.” He was a man who preferred things already ordered, and in an understandable pattern. Like a ballpark. “Have you any clue what it’s going to cost you to make this place livable?”

“I have a clue. And I’ll firm that up when I talk to the contractor. It’s mine, Brand. Do you remember when we were kids and you and Freddie and I would walk by this old place?”

“Sure, used to be a bar, then it was a craft shop or something, then—”

“It used to be a lot of things,” Kate interrupted. “Started out as a tavern in the 1800s. Nobody’s really made a go of it. But I used to look at it when we were kids and think how much I’d like to live here, and look out these tall windows, and rattle around in all the rooms.”

The faintest flush bloomed on her cheeks, and her eyes went deep and dark. A sure sign, Brandon thought, that she had dug in.

“Thinking like that when you’re eight’s a lot different than buying a heap of a building when you’re a grown-up.”

“Yes, it is. It is different. Last spring, when I came home to visit, it was up for sale. Again. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

She circled the room. She could see it, as it would be. Wood gleaming, walls sturdy and clean. “I went back to New York, went back to work, but I couldn’t stop thinking about this old place.”

“You get the screwiest things in your head.”

She shrugged that off. “It’s mine. I was sure of it the minute I came inside. Haven’t you ever felt that?”

He had, the first time he’d walked into a ballpark. He supposed, when it came down to it, most sensible people would have told him that playing ball for a living was a kid’s dream. His family never had, he remembered. Any more than they’d discouraged Kate from her dreams of ballet.

“Yeah, I guess I have. It just seems so fast. I’m used to you doing things in deliberate steps.”

“That hasn’t changed,” she told him with a grin. “When I decided to retire from performing, I knew I wanted to teach dance. I knew I wanted to make this place a school. My school. Most of all, I wanted to be home.”

“Okay.” He put his arm around her again, pressed a kiss to her temple. “Then we’ll make it happen. But right now, let’s get out of here. This place is freezing.”

“New heating system’s first on my list.”

Brandon took one last glance around. “It’s going to be a really long list.”

They walked together through the brisk December wind, as they had since childhood. Along cracked and uneven sidewalks, under trees that spread branches stripped of leaves under a heavy gray sky.

She could smell snow in the air, the teasing hint of it.

Storefronts were already decorated for the holidays, with red-cheeked Santas and strings of lights, flying reindeer and overweight snowpeople.

But the best of them, always the best of them, was The Fun House. The toy store’s front window was crowded with delights. Miniature sleighs, enormous stuffed bears in stocking caps, dolls both elegant and homely, shiny red trucks, castles made of wooden blocks.

The look was delightfully jumbled and…fun, Kate thought. One might think the toys had simply been dropped wherever they fit. But she knew that great care, and a deep, affectionate knowledge of children, had gone into the design of the display.

Bells chimed cheerfully as they stepped inside.

Customers wandered. A toddler banged madly on a xylophone in the play corner. Behind the counter, Annie Maynard boxed a flop-eared stuffed dog. “He’s one of my favorites,” she said to the waiting customer. “Your niece is going to love him.”

Her glasses slid down her nose as she tied the fuzzy red yarn around the box. Then she glanced up over them, blinked and squealed.

“Brandon! Tash! Come see who’s here. Oh, come give me a kiss, you gorgeous thing.”

When he came around the counter and obliged, she patted her heart. “Been married twenty-five years,” she said to her customer. “And this boy can make me feel like a co-ed again. Happy holidays. Let me go get your mother.”

“No, I’ll get her.” Kate grinned and shook her head. “Brandon can stay here and flirt with you.”

“Well, then.” Annie winked. “Take your time.”

Her brother, Kate mused, had been leaving females puddled at his feet since he’d been five. No, since he’d been born, she corrected as she wandered through the aisles.

It was more than looks, though his were stellar. Even more than charm, though he could pump out plenty when he was in the mood. She’d long ago decided it was simply pheromones.

Some men just stood there and made women drool. Susceptible women, of course. Which she had never been. A man had to have more than looks, charm and sex appeal to catch her interest. She’d known entirely too many who were pretty to look at, but empty once you opened the package.

Then she turned the corner by the toy cars and very nearly turned into a puddle.

He was gorgeous. No, no, that was too female a term. Handsome was too fussily male. He was just…

Man.

Six-two if he was an inch, and all of it brilliantly packaged. As a dancer she appreciated a well-toned body. The specimen currently studying rows of miniature vehicles had his packed into snug and faded jeans, a flannel shirt and a denim jacket that was scarred and too light for the weather.

His work boots looked ancient and solid. Who would have thought work boots could be so sexy?

Then there was all that hair; dark, streaky blond masses of it waving around a lean, sharp-angled face. Not rugged, not classic, not anything she could label. His mouth was full, and appeared to be the only soft thing about him. His nose was long and straight, his chin, well, chiseled. And his eyes…

She couldn’t quite see his eyes, not the color, with all those wonderful lashes in the way. But they were heavy-lidded, so she imagined them a deep, slumberous blue.

She shifted her gaze to his hands as he reached for one of the toys. Big, wide-palmed, blunt-fingered. Strong.

Holy cow.

And while indulging in a moment’s fantasy—a perfectly harmless moment’s fantasy—she leaned and knocked over a small traffic jam of cars.

The resulting clatter slapped her out of her daydream, and turned the man’s eyes—his surprising and intense green eyes—in her direction.

“Oops,” she said. And grinning at him, laughing at herself, crouched down to pick up the cars. “I hope there were no casualties.”

“We’ve got an ambulance right here, if necessary.” He tapped the shiny red-and-white emergency vehicle, then hunkered down to help her.

“Thanks. If we can get these back before the cops get here, I may just get off with a warning.” He smelled as good as he looked, she decided. Wood shavings and man. She shifted, deliberately, and their knees bumped. “Come here often?”

“Yeah, actually.” He glanced up at her, took a good long look. She recognized the stirring of interest in his eyes. “Guys never outgrow their toys.”

“So I’ve heard. What do you like to play with?”

His eyebrows shot up. A man didn’t often come across a beautiful—provocative—woman in a toy store on a Wednesday afternoon. He very nearly stuttered, then did something he hadn’t done in years—spoke without thinking first.

“Depends on the game. What’s yours?”

She laughed, pushed back a tendril of hair that tickled her cheek. “Oh, I like all kinds of games—especially if I win.”

She started to rise, but he beat her to it, straightening those yard-long legs and holding out a hand. She gripped it, discovered to her pleasure it was as hard as she’d imagined, and as strong.

“Thanks again. I’m Kate.”

“Brody.” He offered the tiny blue convertible he was still holding. “In the market for a car?”

“No, not today. I’m more or less browsing, until I see what I want….” Her lips curved again, amused, flirtatious.

Brody had to order himself not to whistle out a breath. He’d had women come on to him from time to time, but never quite like this. And he’d been in a self-imposed female drought for… For what was beginning to seem entirely too long.

“Kate.” He leaned on a shelf, angled his body toward her. Funny, how the moves came back, how the system could pick up the dance as if it had never sat one out. “Why don’t we—”

“Katie. I didn’t know you’d come in.” Natasha Kimball hurried across the shop, carting an enormous toy cement mixer.

“I brought you a surprise.”

“I love surprises. But first here you are, Brody, as promised. Just came in Monday, and I put it aside for you.”

“It’s great.” The cool-eyed, flirtatious expression had vanished into a delighted grin. “It’s perfect. Jack’ll flip.”

“The manufacturer makes its toys to last. This is something he’ll enjoy for years, not just for a week after Christmas. Have you met my daughter?” Natasha asked, sliding an arm around Kate’s waist.

Brody’s eyes flicked up from the truck in its open-fronted box. “Daughter?”

So this is the ballerina, he thought. Doesn’t it just figure?

“We just met—over a slight vehicular accident.” Kate kept the smile on her face. Surely she had imagined the sudden chill. “Is Jack your nephew?”

“Jack’s my son.”

“Oh.” She took a long step back in her mind. The nerve of the man! The nerve of the married man flirting with her. It hardly mattered who had flirted first, after all. She wasn’t married. “I’m sure he’ll love it,” she said, coolly now and turned to her mother.

“Mama—”

“Kate, I was just telling Brody about your plans. I thought you might like him to look at your building.”

“Whatever for?”

“Brody’s a contractor. And a wonderful carpenter. He remodeled your father’s studio last year. And has promised to take a look at my kitchen. My daughter insists on the best,” Natasha added, her dark gold eyes laughing. “So naturally, I thought of you.”

“I appreciate it.”

“No, I do, because I know you do quality work at a fair price.” She gave his arm a little squeeze. “Spence and I would be grateful if you looked the building over.”

“I don’t even settle for two days, Mama. Let’s not rush things. But I did run into something annoying in the building just a bit ago. It’s up in the front charming Annie.”

“What…Brandon? Oh, why didn’t you say so!” As Natasha rushed off, Kate turned to Brody. “Nice to have met you.”

“Likewise. Give me a call if you want me to look at your place.”

“Of course.” She placed the little car he’d handed her neatly back on the shelf. “I’m sure your son will love his truck. Is he your only child?”

“Yes. There’s just Jack.”

“I’m sure he keeps you and your wife busy. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“Jack’s mother died four years ago. But he keeps me plenty busy. Watch those intersections, Kate,” he suggested, and tucking the truck under his arm, walked away.

“Nice going.” She hissed under her breath. “Really nice going.”

Now maybe she could run out and see if there were any puppies she could kick, just to finish off the afternoon.

One of the best things about running your own business, in Brody’s opinion, was being able to prioritize your time. There were plenty of headaches—responsibilities, paperwork, juggling jobs—not to mention making damn sure there were jobs to juggle. But that one element made up for any and all of the downside.

For the last six years he’d had one priority.

His name was Jack.

After he’d hidden the cement truck under a tarp in the back of his pickup, had run by a job site to check on progress, called on a supplier to put a bug in their ear about a special order and stopped at yet another site to give a potential client an estimate on a bathroom rehab, he headed home.

Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, he made a point to be home before the school bus grumbled to the end of the lane. The other two school days—and in the case of any unavoidable delay—Jack was delivered to the Skully house, where he could spend an hour or two with his best pal Rod under the watchful eye of Beth Skully.

He owed Beth and Jerry Skully a great deal, and most of it was for giving Jack a safe and happy place to be when he couldn’t be home. In the ten months Brody had been back in Shepherdstown he was reminded, on an almost daily basis, just how comforting small towns could be.

Now, at thirty, he was amazed at the young man who had shaken that town off his shoes as fast as he could manage a little more than ten years before.

All for the best, he decided as he rounded the curve toward home. If he hadn’t left home, hadn’t been so hardheadedly determined to make his mark elsewhere, he wouldn’t have lived and learned. He wouldn’t have met Connie.

He wouldn’t have Jack.

He’d come nearly full circle. If he hadn’t completely closed the rift with his parents, he was making progress. Or Jack was, Brody corrected. His father might still hold a grudge against his son, but he couldn’t resist his grandson.

He’d been right to come home. Brody looked at the woods, growing thick on either side of the road. A few thin flakes of snow were beginning to drift out of the leaden sky. Hills, rocky and rough, rose and fell as they pleased.

It was a good place to raise a boy. Better for them both to be out of the city, to start fresh together in a place Jack had family.

Family who could and would accept him for what he was, instead of seeing him as a reminder of what was lost.

He turned into the lane, stopped and turned off the truck. The bus would be along in minutes, and Jack would leap out, race over and climb in, filling the cab of the truck with the thrills and spills of the day.

It was too bad, Brody mused, he couldn’t share the spills and thrills of his own with a six-year-old.

He could hardly tell his son that he’d felt his blood move for a woman again. Not just a mild stir, but a full leap. He couldn’t share that for a moment, a bit longer than a moment, he’d contemplated acting on that leap of blood.

It had been so damn long.

And what harm would it have done, really? An attractive woman, and one who obviously had no problem making the first move. A little mating dance, a couple of civilized dates, then some not-so-civilized sex. Everybody got what they wanted, and nobody got hurt.

He cursed under his breath, rubbed at the tension that had settled into the back of his neck.

Someone always got hurt.

Still, it might have been worth the risk…if she hadn’t been Natasha and Spencer Kimball’s pampered and perfect daughter.

He’d gone that route once before, and had no intention of navigating those pitfalls a second time.

He knew plenty about Kate Kimball. Prima ballerina, society darling and toast of the arty set. Over and above the fact that he’d rather have his teeth pulled—one at a time—than sit through a ballet, he’d had his fill of the cultured class during his all-too-brief marriage.

Connie had been one in a million. A natural in a sea of pretense and pomp. And even then, it had been a hard road. He’d never know if they’d have continued to bump their way over it together, but he liked to believe they would have.

As much as he’d loved her, his marriage to Connie had taught him life was easier if you stuck with your own. And easier yet if a man just avoided any serious entanglements with a woman.

It was a good thing he’d been interrupted before he’d followed impulse and asked Kate Kimball out. A good thing he’d learned who she was before that flirtation had shifted into high gear.

A very good thing he’d had the time to remember his priority. Fatherhood had kicked the stuffing out of the arrogant, careless and often reckless boy. And had made a man out of him.

He heard the rumble of the bus, and sat up grinning. There was no place in the world Brody O’Connell would rather be than right here, right now.

The big yellow bus groaned to a stop, its safety lights flashing. The driver waved, a cheerful little salute. Brody waved back and watched his lightning bolt shoot out the door.

Jack was a compact boy, except for his feet. It would take some years for him to grow into them. At the end of the lane, he tipped back his head and tried to catch one of those thin snowflakes on his tongue. His face was round and cheerful, his eyes green like his father’s, his mouth still the innocent bow of youth.

Brody knew when Jack stripped off his red ski cap—as he would at the first opportunity—his pale blond hair would shoot up in sunflower spikes.

Watching his son, Brody felt love swarm him, fill him so fast it was a flood of the heart.

Then the door of the truck opened, and the little boy clambered in, an eager puppy with oversize paws.

“Hey, Dad! It’s snowing. Maybe it’ll snow eight feet and there won’t be any school and we can build a million snowmen in the yard and go sledding.” He bounced on the seat. “Can we?”

“The minute it snows eight feet, we start the first of a million snowmen.”

“Promise?”

Promises, Brody knew, were always a solemn business. “Absolutely promise.”

“Okay! Guess what?”

Brody started the engine and drove up the lane. “What?”

“It’s only fifteen days till Christmas, and Miss Hawkins says tomorrow it’ll be fourteen and that’s just two weeks.”

“I guess that means one from fifteen is fourteen.”

“Yeah?” Jack’s eyes went wide. “Okay. So it’s Christmas in two weeks, and Grandma says that time flies, so it’s practically Christmas now.”

“Practically.” Brody stopped the truck in front of the old three-story farmhouse. Eventually he’d have the whole thing rehabbed. Maybe by the time he was eligible for social security.

“So okay, if it’s almost practically Christmas, can I have a present?”

“Hmm.” Brody pursed his lips, wrinkled his brow and appeared to give this due consideration. “You know, Jacks, that was good. That was a really good one. No.”

“Aw.”

“Aw,” Brody echoed in the same sorrowful tone. Then he laughed and snatched his son off the seat. “But if you give me a hug, I’ll make O’Connell’s Amazing Magic Pizza for dinner.”

“Okay!” Jack wrapped his arms around his father’s neck.

And Brody was home.

Chapter Two

“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.

Congratulations, Katie!

Here’s a small housewarming gift so you’ll always have music.

Love, Mom, Dad and Brandon

“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.

Chapter Three

Jack sat at the partner’s desk in what he and his dad called their office and carefully printed out the alphabet. It was his job. Just like Dad was doing his job, on his side of the desk.

The drafting paper and rulers and stuff looked like a lot more fun than the alphabet. But Dad had said, if he got it all done, he could have some paper to draw with, too.

He thought he would draw a big, giant house, just like their house, with the old barn that was Dad’s workshop. And there would be lots of snow, too. Eight whole feet of snow and millions and billions of snowmen.

And a dog.

Grandpa and Grandma had a dog, and even though Buddy was sort of old, he was fun. But he had to stay at Grandma’s. One day he’d have a dog all of his own and its name would be Mike and he’d chase balls and sleep in the bed at night.

He could have one as soon as he was old enough to be responsible. Which could even be tomorrow.

Jack peeked up to study his father’s face and see if it was maybe time to ask if he was responsible yet.

But his dad had that look where he was kind of frowning but not mad. His working look. If you interrupted the working look, the answer was almost always: Not now.

But the alphabet was boring. He wanted to draw the house or play with his trucks or with the computer. Or maybe just look outside and see if it was snowing yet.

He butted his foot against the desk. Squirmed. Butted his foot.

“Jack, don’t kick the desk.”

“Do I have to write the whole alphabet?”

“Yep.”

“How come?”

“Because.”

“But I got all the way up to the P.”

“If you don’t do the rest, you can’t say any words that have the letters in them you left out.”

“But—”

“Can’t say ‘but.’ B-U-T.”

Jack heaved the heavy sigh of a six-year-old. He wrote the next three letters, then peeked up again. “Dad.”

“Hmm.”

“Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad. D-A-D.”

Brody glanced up, saw his son grinning at him. “Smart aleck.”

“I know how to spell Dad and Jack.”

Brody narrowed his eyes, lifted a fist. “Do you know how to spell knuckle sandwich?”

“Nuh-uh. Does it have mustard?”

The kid, Brody thought, was sharp as a bucket of tacks. “How’d you get to be such a wise guy?”

“Grandma says I got it from you. Can I see what you’re drawing? You said it’s for the dancing lady. Are you drawing her, too?”

“Yes, it’s for the dancing lady, and no, you can’t see it until you’re finished your job.” However much he wanted to set his own work aside and just be with his son, the only way to teach responsibility was to be responsible.

That was one of those sneaky circles of parenthood.

“What happens when you don’t finish what you start?”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Nothing.”

“Exactly.”

Jack heaved another sigh and applied his pencil. He didn’t see his father’s lips twitch.

God, what a kid. Brody wanted to toss his own pencil down, snatch Jack up and do whatever this major miracle of his life wanted to do for the rest of the evening. The hell with work, with responsibility, with what needed to be done.

There was only one thing he wanted more than that. To finish what he started. There was no job more vital than Jack O’Connell.

Had his own father ever looked at him and wondered, and worried? Probably, Brody thought. It had never showed, but probably. Still, Bob O’Connell hadn’t been one for wrestling on the rug or foolish conversations. He’d gone to work. He’d come home from work. He’d expected dinner on the table at six.

He’d expected his son to do his chores, stay out of trouble, and to—above all—do what he was told without question. One of those expectations had been to follow, precisely, in his father’s footsteps.

Brody figured he’d disappointed his father in every possible area. And had been disappointed by him.

He wasn’t going to put those same demands and expectations on his own son.

“Zee! Zee, Zee, Zee!” Jack picked up the paper, waved it madly. “I finished.”

“Hold it still, hotshot, so I can see.” A long way from neat, Brody noted when Jack held the paper up. But it was done. “Good job. You want some graph paper?”

“Can I come over there and help work on yours?”

“Sure.” So he’d stay up an extra hour and work, Brody thought as Jack scrambled down from his stool. It would be worth it to have this time with his son. He reached down, hauled Jack up on his lap. “Okay, so what we’ve got here is the apartment above the school.”

“How come they wear those funny clothes when they dance?”

“I have no idea. How do you know they wear funny clothes?”

“I saw a cartoon, and there were elephants in funny skirts. They were dancing on their toes. Do elephants really have toes?”

“Yeah.” Didn’t they? “We’ll look it up later so you can see. Here, take the pencil. You can draw this line here, right against the straight edge.”

“Okay!”

Father and son worked, heads close together, with the big hand guiding the small.

When Jack began to yawn, Brody shifted him, laying Jack over his shoulder as he rose.

“I’m not tired,” Jack claimed even as his head drooped.

“When you wake up, it’ll only be five days till Christmas.”

“Can I have a present?”

Brody smiled. His son’s voice was thick, his body already going limp. He paused in the living room, by the tree, swaying slightly as he had when Jack had been an infant, and fretful in the night. As Christmas trees went, Brody mused, this one wasn’t pretty. But it was festive. The mix of ornaments covered every available inch. Wads of tinsel shone in the multicolored lights Jack had wanted.

Rather than an angel or a star, there was a grinning Santa at the top. Jack still believed in Santa Claus. Brody wondered if he would this time the following year.

Thinking of that, of the years passed and passing still, he turned his face into his son’s hair. And just breathed him in.

After he’d carried Jack up to bed, he came down and brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Probably a mistake, Brody thought even as he poured the first cup. It would very likely keep him awake.

Still he stood, looking out the dark window, sipping it black. The house was too quiet with Jack asleep. There were times, God knew, when the boy made so much noise, caused so much chaos, it seemed there would never be a moment of peace and quiet.

Then when he got it, Brody wanted the noise.

Parenting, he thought, had to be the damnedest business going.

But the problem now was restlessness. It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced for quite some time. With parenting, establishing a business, making a home, soliciting jobs, he hadn’t had much excess time.

Still don’t, he thought, and began to pace the kitchen while he drank his coffee.

There was enough work to be done on the house to keep him busy for…probably the rest of his life. Should have bought something smaller, he thought, and less needy. Something more practical—and he’d heard variations on those thoughts from his father since he’d dug up the down payment.

Trouble was, he’d fallen head over heels for the old place, and so had Jack. And it was working, he reminded himself, glancing around the completed kitchen with its glass-fronted cabinets and granite counters.

Still, work was the bottom line, and he really had to carve out the time to deal with the rooms he’d put off.

Hard to find time when there were only days left until Christmas.

Then, there was the job due to be completed the next afternoon. And on the heels of that came the school holiday. He should have lined up a baby-sitter—he’d meant to. But Jack disliked them so much, and the guilt was a slow burn.

He knew Beth Skully would take Jack at least part of the time. But after a while, it felt like imposing. In an emergency, he could call on his mother. But that was a tricky business. Whenever he passed Jack off in that direction, he felt like a failure.

He’d make it work. Jack could come along with him some of the time, go to his pal Rod’s some of the time. And in a pinch, he’d visit his grandmother.

And that wasn’t the problem at all, Brody admitted. That wasn’t the distraction, lodged like a splinter in his mind.

The splinter was Kate Kimball.

He didn’t have the time nor the inclination for her.

All right, damn it, he didn’t have the time. Whatever he did have for her was a hell of a ways up from inclination. He dragged a hand through his mass of sun-streaked hair and tried to ignore the sheer sexual frustration eating at his gut.

Had he ever felt this much pure physical hunger for a woman before? He must have. He just didn’t remember clearly, that was all. Didn’t remember being churned up this way.

And it really ticked him off.

It was only because it had been a long time. Because she was so openly provocative. So unbelievably beautiful.

But he wasn’t a kid anymore who could grab pretty toys without considering the consequences. He was no longer free to do whatever he liked, when he liked. And he wouldn’t want it any other way.

Not that taking her up on her obvious invitation had to have consequences. In the long run. Even in the short. They were both adults, they both knew the ropes.

And that kind of thinking, he decided, would only get him in trouble.

Do your job, he told himself. Take her money. Keep your distance.

And stop thinking about that amazing, streamlined body of hers.

He poured a second cup of coffee—knowing he was damning himself to a sleepless night—then went back to work.

The next afternoon, Kate opened the door to find Brody on her doorstep. Her pleasure at that was sidetracked by the bright-eyed little boy at his side.

“Well, hello, handsome.”

“I’m Jack.”

“Handsome Jack. I’m Kate. Come in.”

“I’m just dropping off the drawings, and the bid.” Brody held them out, kept a hand firm on Jack’s shoulder. “My card’s in there. If you have any questions or want to discuss the drawings or the figures, just get in touch.”

“Let’s save time and look them over now. What’s your hurry?” She barely looked at him, but beamed smiles at Jack. “Brr. It’s cold out there. Cold enough for cookies and hot chocolate.”

“With marshmallows?”

“In this house, it’s illegal to serve hot chocolate without marshmallows.” She held out a hand. Jack’s was already in it as he bolted inside.

“Listen—”

“Oh, come on, O’Connell. Be a sport. So, what grade are you in, Handsome Jack?” She crouched down to unzip his coat. “Eighth, ninth?”

“No.” He giggled. “First.”

“You’re kidding. This is such a coincidence. We happen to be running a special today for blond-haired boys in first grade. Your choice of sugar, chocolate chip or peanut butter cookies.”

“Can I have one of each?”

“Jack—”

“Ah, a man after my own heart,” Kate said, ignoring Brody. She straightened, handed Brody Jack’s coat and cap and muffler, then took the boy’s hand.

“Are you the dancing lady?”

She laughed as she started back with him toward the kitchen. “Yes, I am.” With that sultry smile on her lips, she glanced back over her shoulder at Brody. Gotcha, she thought. “Kitchen’s this way.”

“I know where the damn kitchen is.”

“Dad said damn,” Jack announced.

“So I hear. Maybe he shouldn’t get any cookies.”

“It’s okay for grown-ups to say damn. But they’re not supposed to say sh—”

“Jack!”

“But sometimes he says that, too,” Jack finished in a conspirator’s whisper. “And once when he banged his hand, he said all the curse words.”

“Really?” Absolutely charmed, she pulled a chair out for the boy. “In a row, or all mixed up?”

“All mixed up. He said some of them lots of times.” He gave her a bright smile. “Can I have three marshmallows?”

“Absolutely. You can hang those coats on the pegs there, Brody.” She sent him a sunny smile, then got out the makings for the hot chocolate.

And not a little paper pack, Brody noted. But a big hunk of chocolate, milk. “We don’t want to take up your time,” he began.

“I have time. I put in a few hours at the store this morning. My mother’s swamped. But Brandon’s taking the afternoon shift. That’s my brother’s ball mitt,” she told Jack, who instantly snatched his hand away from it.

“I was only looking.”

“It’s okay. You can touch, he doesn’t mind. Do you like baseball?”

“I played T-ball last year, and I’m going to play Little League when I’m old enough.”

“Brand played T-ball, too, and Little League. And now he plays for a real major league team. He plays third base for the L.A. Kings.”

Jack’s eyes rounded—little green gems. “For real?”

“For real.” She crossed over, slipped the glove onto the delighted Jack’s hand. “Maybe when your hand’s big enough to fit, you’ll play, too.”

“Holy cow, Dad. It’s a real baseball guy’s mitt.”

“Yeah.” He gave up. He couldn’t block anyone who gave his son such a thrill. “Very cool.” He ruffled Jack’s hair, smiled over at Kate. “Can I have three marshmallows, too?”

“Absolutely.”

The boy was a jewel, Kate thought as she prepared the hot chocolate, set out cookies. She had a weakness for kids, and this one was, as her father had said, a pistol.

Even more interesting, she noted, was the obvious link between father and son. Strong as steel and sweet as candy. It made her want to cuddle both of them.

“Lady?”

“Kate,” she said and put his mug of chocolate in front of him. “Careful now, it’s hot.”

“Okay. Kate, how come you wear funny clothes when you dance? Dad has no idea.”

Brody made a small sound—it might have been a groan—then took an avid interest in the selection of cookies.

Kate arched her eyebrows, set the other mugs on the table, then sat. “We like to call them costumes. They help us tell whatever story we want through the dance.”

“How can you tell stories with dancing? I like stories with talking.”

“It’s like talking, but with movement and music. What do you think of when you hear ‘Jingle Bells,’ without the words?”

“Christmas. It’s only five days till Christmas.”

“That’s right, and if you were going to dance to Jingle Bells, the movements would be happy and fast and fun. They’d make you think of sleigh rides and snow. But if it was ‘Silent Night,’ it would be slow and reverent.”

“Like in church.”

Oh, aren’t you quick, she thought. “Exactly. You come by my school some time, and I’ll show you how to tell a story with dancing.”

“Dad’s maybe going to build your school.”

“Yes, maybe he is.”

She opened the folder. Interesting, Brody thought, how she set the bid aside and went straight to the drawings. Possibilities rather than the bottom line.

Jack got down to business with the hot chocolate, his eyes huge with anticipation as he blew on the frothy surface to cool it. Kate ignored hers, and the cookies. When she began to ask questions, Brody scooted his chair over so they bent over the drawings together.

She smelled better than the cookies, and that was saying something.

“What is this?”

“A pocket door—it slides instead of swings. Saves space. That corridor’s narrow. I put one here, too, on your office. You need privacy, but you don’t have to sacrifice space.”

“I like it.” She turned her head. Faces close, eyes locked. “I like it very much.”

“I drew some of the lines,” Jack announced.

“You did a fine job,” Kate told him, then went back to studying the drawings while Brody dealt with the tangle of knots in his belly.

She looked at each one carefully, considering changes, rejecting them, or putting them aside for future possibilities. She could see it all quite clearly—the lines, the angles, the flow. And noted the details Brody had added or altered. She couldn’t find fault with them. At the moment.

More, she was impressed with his thoroughness. The drawings were clean and professional. She doubted she’d have gotten better with an architect.

When she was done, she picked up the bid—meticulously clear—ran down the figures. And swallowed the lump of it.

“Well, Handsome Jack.” She set the paperwork down again. “You and your dad are hired.”

Jack let out a cheer, and since nobody told him not to, took another cookie.

Brody didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath, not until it wanted to expel in one great whoosh. He controlled it, eased back. It was the biggest job he’d taken on since moving back to West Virginia.

The work would keep him and his crew busy all through the winter—when building work was often slow. There’d be no need to cut back on his men, or their hours.

And the income would give him a whole lot of breathing room.

Over and above the vital practicalities, he’d wanted to get his hands on that building. The trick would be to keep them there, and off Kate.

“I appreciate the business.”

“Remember that when I drive you crazy.”

“You started out doing that. Got a pen?”

She smiled, rose to get one out of the drawer. Leaning over the table, she signed her name to the contract, dated it. “Your turn,” she said, handing him the pen.

When he was done, she took the pen back, looked over at Jack. “Jack?”

“Huh?” Crumbs dribbled from the corner of his mouth. Catching his father’s narrow stare, he swallowed. “I mean, yes, ma’am.”

“Can you write your name?”

“I can print it. I know all the alphabet, and how to spell Jack and Dad and some stuff.”

“Good. Well, come on over here and make it official.” She tilted her head at his blank look. “You drew some of the lines, didn’t you? You want to be hired, or not?”

Pure delight exploded on his face. “Okay!”

He scrambled down, scattering more crumbs. Taking the pen, he locked his tongue between his teeth and with painful care printed his name under his father’s signature.

“Look, Dad! That’s me.”

“Yeah, it sure is.”

Stupefied by emotion, Brody looked up, met Kate’s eyes. What the hell was he going to do now? She’d hit him at his weakest point.

“Jack, go wash your hands.”

“They’re not dirty.”

“Wash them anyway.”

“Right down the hall, Jack,” Kate said quietly. “Count one door, then two, on the side of the hand you write your name with.”

Jack made little grumbling sounds, but he skipped out of the room.

Brody got to his feet. She didn’t back off. No, she wouldn’t have, he thought. So their bodies bumped a little, and his went on full alert.

“That was nice. What you did, making him feel part of it.”

“He is part of it. That is clear.” And so was something else that needled into her heart. “It wasn’t a strategy, Brody.”

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