A Forever Kind of Love by Nora Roberts

Chapter 1

She was a woman with a mission. Her move from West Virginia to New York had a series of purposes, outlined carefully in her mind. She would find the perfect place to live, become a success in her chosen field and get her man.

Preferably, but not necessarily, in that order.

Frederica Kimball was, she liked to think, a flexible woman.

As she walked down the sidewalk on the East Side in the early-spring twilight, she thought of home. The house in Shepherdstown, West Virginia, with her parents and siblings, was, to Freddie’s mind, the perfect place to live. Rambling, noisy, full of music and voices.

She doubted that she could have left it if she hadn’t known she would always be welcomed back with open arms.

It was true that she had been to New York many times, and had ties there, as well, but she already missed the familiar—her own room, tucked into the second story of the old stone house, the love and companionship of her siblings, her father’s music, her mother’s laugh.

But she wasn’t a child any longer. She was twenty-four, and long past the age to begin to make her own.

In any case, she reminded herself, she was very much at home in Manhattan. After all, she’d spent the first few years of her life there. And much of her life in the years after had included visits—but all with family, she acknowledged.

Well, this time, she thought, straightening her shoulders, she was on her own. And she had a job to do. The first order of business would be to convince a certain Nicholas LeBeck that he needed a partner.

The success and reputation he’d accumulated as a composer over the past few years would only increase with her beside him as his lyricist. Already, just by closing her eyes and projecting, she could envision the LeBeck-Kimball name in lights on the Great White Way. She had only to let her imagination bloom to have the music they would write flow like a river through her head.

Now all she had to do, she thought with a wry smile, was convince Nick to see and hear the same thing.

She could, if necessary, use family loyalty to persuade him. They were, in a roundabout way, semicousins.

Kissing cousins, she thought now, while her eyes lighted with a smile. That was her final and most vital mission. Before she was done, Nick would fall as desperately in love with her as she was, had always been, with him.

She’d waited ten years for him, and that, to Freddie’s mind, was quite long enough.

It’s past time,Nick, she decided, tugging on the hem of her royal blue blazer, to face your fate.

Still, nerves warred with confidence as she stood outside the door of Lower the Boom. The popular neighborhood bar belonged to Zack Muldoon, Nick’s brother. Stepbrother, technically, but Freddie’s family had always been more into affection than terminology. The fact that Zack had married Freddie’s stepmother’s sister made the Stanislaski-Muldoon-Kimball-LeBeck families one convoluted clan.

Freddie’s longtime dream had been to forge another loop in that family chain, linking her and Nick.

She took a deep breath, tugged on her blazer again, ran her hands over the reddish-gold mop of curls she could never quite tame and wished once, hopelessly, that she had just a dash of the Stanislaskis’ exotic good looks. Then she reached for the door.

She’d make do with what she had, and make damned sure it was enough.

The air in Lower the Boom carried the yeasty scent of beer, overlaid with the rich, spicy scent of marinara. Freddie decided that Rio, Zack’s longtime cook, must have a pasta special going. On the juke, Dion was warning his fellow man about the fickle heart of Runaround Sue.

Everything was there, everything in place, the cozy paneled walls, the seafaring motif of brass bells and nautical gear, the long, scarred bar and the gleaming glassware. But no Nick. Still, she smiled as she walked to the bar and slid onto a padded stool.

“Buy me a drink, sailor?”

Distracted, Zack glanced up from drawing a draft. His easy smile widened instantly into a grin. “Freddie—hey! I didn’t think you were coming in until the end of the week.”

“I like surprises.”

“I like this kind.” Expertly Zack slid the mug of beer down the bar so that it braked between the waiting hands of his patron. Then he leaned over, caught Freddie’s face in both of his big hands and gave her a loud, smacking kiss. “Pretty as ever.”

“You, too.”

And he was, she thought. In the ten years since she’d met him, he’d only improved, like good whiskey, with age. The dark hair was still thick and curling, and the deep blue eyes were magnetic. And his face, she thought with a sigh. Tanned, tough, with laugh lines only enhancing its character and charm.

More than once in her life, Freddie had wondered how it was that she was surrounded by physically stunning people. “How’s Rachel?”

“Her Honor is terrific.”

Freddie’s lips curved at the use of the title, and the affection behind it. Zack’s wife—her aunt—was now a criminal court judge. “We’re all so proud of her. Did you see the trick gavel Mama sent her? The one that makes this crashing-glass sound when you bop something with it?”

“Seen it?” His grin was quick and crooked. “She bops me with it regularly. It’s something, having a judge in the family.” His eyes twinkled. “And she looks fabulous in those black robes.”

“I bet. How about the kids?”

“The terrible trio? They’re great. Want a soda?”

Amused, Freddie tilted her head. “What, are you going to card me, Zack? I’m twenty-four, remember?”

Rubbing his chin, he studied her. The small build and china-doll skin would probably always be deceiving. If he hadn’t known her age, as well as the age of his own children, he would have asked for ID.

“I just can’t take it in. Little Freddie, all grown up.”

“Since I am—” she crossed her legs and settled in “—why don’t you pour me a white wine?”

“Coming up.” Long experience had him reaching behind him for the proper glass without looking. “How’re your folks, the kids?”

“Everybody’s good, and everyone sends their love.” She took the glass Zack handed her and lifted it in a toast. “To family.”

Zack tapped a squat bottle of mineral water against her glass. “So what are your plans, honey?”

“Oh, I’ve got a few of them.” She smiled into her wine before she sipped. And wondered what he would think if she mentioned that the biggest plan of her life was to woo his younger brother. “The first is to find an apartment.”

“You know you can stay with us as long as you want.”

“I know. Or with Grandma and Papa, or Mikhail and Sydney, or Alex and Bess.” She smiled again. It was a comfort to know she was surrounded by people who loved her. But... “I really want a place of my own.” She propped her elbow on the bar. “It’s time, I think, for a little adventure.” When he started to speak, she grinned and shook her head at him. “You’re not going to lecture, are you, Uncle Zack? Not you, the boy who went to sea.”

She had him there, he thought. He’d been a great deal younger than twenty-four when he shipped out for the first time. “Okay, no lecture. But I’m keeping my eye on you.”

“I’m counting on it.” Freddie sat back and rocked a little on the stool, then asked—casually, she hoped—“So, what’s Nick up to? I thought I might run into him here.”

“He’s around. In the kitchen, I think, shoveling in some of Rio’s pasta special.”

She sniffed the air for effect. “Smells great. I think I’ll just wander on back and say hi.”

“Go ahead. And tell Nick we’re waiting for him to play for his supper.”

“I’ll do that.”

She carried her wine with her and firmly resisted the urge to fuss with her hair or tug on her jacket again. Her attitude toward her looks was one of resignation. “Cute” was the best she’d ever been able to do with her combination of small build and slight stature. Long ago she’d given up on the fantasy that she would blossom into anything that could be termed lush or glamorous.

Added to a petite figure was madly curling hair that was caught somewhere between gold and red, a dusting of freckles over a pert nose, wide gray eyes and dimples. In her teenage years, she’d pined for sleek and sophisticated. Or wild and wanton. Curvy and cunning. Freddie liked to think that, with maturity, she’d accepted herself as she was.

But there were still moments when she mourned being a life-size Kewpie doll in a family of Renaissance sculptures.

Then again, she reminded herself, if she wanted Nick to take her seriously as a woman, she had to take herself seriously first.

With that in mind, she pushed open the kitchen door. And her heart jolted straight into her throat.

There was nothing she could do about it. It had been the same every time she saw him, from the first time she’d seen him to the last. Everything she’d ever wanted, everything she’d ever dreamed of, was sitting at the kitchen table, hunkered over a plate of fettuccine marinara.

Nicholas LeBeck, the bad boy her aunt Rachel had defended with passion and conviction in the courts. The troubled youth who had been guided away from the violence of street gangs and back alleys by love and care and the discipline of family.

He was a man now, but he still carried some of the rebellion and wildness of his youth. In his eyes, she thought, her pulse humming. Those wonderful stormy green eyes. He still wore his hair long, pulled back into a stubby ponytail of dark, bronzed blond. He had a poet’s mouth, a boxer’s chin and the hands of an artist.

She’d spent many nights fantasizing about those long-fingered, wide-palmed hands. Once she got beyond the face, with its fascinating hint of cheekbones and its slightly crooked nose—broken years ago by her own sharp line drive, which he’d tried unsuccessfully to field—she could, with pleasure, move on.

He was built like a runner, long, rangy, and wore old gray jeans, white at the knees. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow and missing a button.

As he ate, he carried on a running commentary with the huge cook, while Rio shook the grease out of a basket of French fries.

“I didn’t say there was too much garlic. I said I like a lot of garlic.” Nick forked in another bite as if to back up his statement. “Getting pretty damned temperamental in your old age, pal,” Nick added, his voice slightly muffled by the generous amount of pasta he’d just swallowed.

Rio’s mild, good-natured oath carried the music of the islands. “Don’t tell me about old, skinny boy—I can still beat hell out of you.”

“I’m shaking.” Grinning, Nick broke off a hunk of garlic bread just as Freddie let the door swing shut behind her. His eyes lighted with pleasure as he dropped the bread again and pushed back from the table. “Hey, Rio, look who’s here. How’s it going, Fred?”

He crossed over to give her a casual, brotherly hug. Then his brows drew together as the body that pressed firmly against his reminded him, uncomfortably, that little Fred was a woman.

“Ah...” He backed off, still smiling, but his hands dipped cautiously into his pockets. “I thought you were coming in later in the week.”

“I changed my mind.” Her confidence lifted a full notch at his reaction. “Hi, Rio.” Freddie set her wineglass aside so that she could properly return the bear hug she was enveloped in.

“Little doll. Sit down and eat.”

“I think I will. I thought about your cooking, Rio, all the way up on the train.” She sat, smiled and held out a hand to Nick. “Come sit down, your food’s getting cold.”

“Yeah.” He took her hand, gave it a quick squeeze, then let it go as he settled beside her. “So, how is everybody? Brandon still kicking butt on the baseball diamond?”

“Batting .420, leading the high school league in home runs and RBIs.” She let out a long sigh as Rio set a large plate in front of her. “Katie’s last ballet recital was really lovely. Mama cried, of course, but then she tears up when Brand hits a four-bagger. You know, her toy store was just featured in the Washington Post. And Dad’s just finishing a new composition.” She twirled pasta onto her fork. “So, how are things with you?”

“They’re fine.”

“Working on anything?”

“I’ve got another Broadway thing coming up.” He shrugged. It was still hard for him to let people know when something mattered.

“You should have won the Tony for Last Stop.”

“Being nominated was cool.”

She shook her head. It wasn’t enough for him—or for her. “It was a fabulous score, Nick. Is a fabulous score,” she corrected, since the musical was still playing to full houses. “We’re all so proud of you.”

“Well. It’s a living.”

“Don’t make his head bigger than it is,” Rio warned from his stove.

“Hey, I caught you humming ‘This Once,’” Nick noted with a grin.

Rio moved his massive shoulders in dismissal. “So, maybe one or two of the tunes weren’t bad. Eat.”

“Are you working with anyone yet?” Freddie asked. “On the new score?”

“No. It’s just in the preliminary stages. I’ve hardly gotten started myself.”

That was exactly what she’d wanted to hear. “I read somewhere that Michael Lorrey was committed to another project. You’ll need a new lyricist.”

“Yeah.” Nick frowned as he scooped up more pasta. “It’s too bad. I liked working with him. There are too many people out there who don’t hear the music, just their own words.”

“That would be a problem,” Freddie agreed, clearing a path for herself. “You need someone with a solid music background, who hears words in the melody.”

“Exactly.” He picked up his beer and started to drink.

“What you need, Nick, is me,” Freddie said firmly.

Nick swallowed hastily, set his beer down and looked at Freddie as though she had suddenly stopped speaking English. “Huh?”

“I’ve been studying music all my life.” It was a struggle, but she kept the eagerness out of her voice and spoke matter-of-factly. “One of my first memories is of sitting on my father’s lap, with his hands over mine on the piano keys. But, to his disappointment, composing isn’t my first love. Words are. I could write your words, Nick, better than anyone else.” Her eyes, gray and calm and smiling, met his. “Because I not only understand your music, I understand you. So what do you think?”

He shifted in his chair, blew out a breath. “I don’t know what to think, Fred. This is kind of out of left field.”

“I don’t know why. You know I’ve written lyrics for some of Dad’s compositions. And a few others besides.” She broke off a piece of bread, chewed it thoughtfully. “It seems to me to be a very logical, comfortable solution all around. I’m looking for work, you’re looking for a lyricist.”

“Yeah.” But it made him nervous, the idea of working with her. To be honest, he’d have had to admit that in the past few years, she’d begun to make him nervous.

“So you’ll think about it.” She smiled again, knowing, as the member of a large family, the strategic value of an apparent retreat. “And if you start to like the idea, you can run it by the producers.”

“I could do that,” Nick said slowly. “Sure, I could do that.”

“Great. I’ll be coming around here off and on, or you can reach me at the Waldorf.”

“The Waldorf? Why are you staying at a hotel?”

“Just temporarily, until I find an apartment. You don’t know of anything in the area, do you? I like this neighborhood.”

“No, I—I didn’t realize you were making this permanent.” His brows knit again. “I mean, a really permanent move.”

“Well, I am. And no, before you start, I’m not going to stay with the family. I’m going to find out what it’s like to live alone. You’re still upstairs, right? In Zack’s old place?”

“That’s right.”

“So, if you hear about anything in the neighborhood, you’ll let me know.”

It surprised him that even for a moment he would worry about what her moving to New York would change in his life. Of course, it wouldn’t change anything at all.

“I picture you more Park Avenue.”

“I lived on Park Avenue once,” she said, finishing up the last of her fettuccine. “I’m looking for something else.” And, she thought, wouldn’t it be handy if she found a place close to his? She pushed her hair out of her face and tipped back in her chair. “Rio, that was sensational. If I find a place close by, I’ll be in here for dinner every night.”

“Maybe we’ll kick Nick out and you can move upstairs.” He winked at her. “I’d rather look at you than his ugly face.”

“Well, in the meantime—” she rose and kissed Rio’s scarred cheek “—Zack wants you to come out when you’re done Nick, and play.”

“I’ll be out in a minute.”

“I’ll tell him. Maybe I’ll hang around for a little while and listen. Bye, Rio.”

“Bye, doll.” Rio whistled a tune as he moved back to his stove. “Little Freddie’s all grown up. Pretty as a picture.”

“Yeah, she’s okay.” Nick resented the fact that whatever spicy scent she’d been wearing was tugging on his senses like a baited hook. “Still wide-eyed, though. She doesn’t have a clue what she’s going to face in this town, in this business.”

“So, you’ll look out for her.” Rio thwacked a wooden spoon against his huge palm. “Or I look out for you.”

“Big talk.” Nick snagged his bottle of beer and sauntered out.

One of Freddie’s favorite things about New York was that she could walk two blocks in any given direction and see something new. A dress in a boutique, a face in the crowd, a hustler looking for marks. She was, she knew, naive in some ways—in the ways a woman might be when she had been raised with love and care in a small town. She could never claim to have Nick’s street smarts, but she felt she had a good solid dose of common sense. She used it to plan her first full day in the city.

Nibbling on her breakfast croissant, she studied the view of the city from her hotel window. There was a great deal she wanted to accomplish. A visit to her uncle Mikhail at his art gallery would down two birds. She could catch up with him and see if his wife, Sydney, might know of any available apartments through her real estate connections.

And it wouldn’t hurt to drop a bug in his ear—and the ears of other family members—that she was hoping to work with Nick on his latest score.

Not really fair,Fred, she told herself, and poured a second cup of coffee. But love didn’t always take fair into account. And she would never have applied even this type of benign pressure if she wasn’t confident in her own talents. As far as her skill with music and lyrics was concerned, Freddie was more than sure of herself. It was only when it came to her ability to attract Nick that she faltered.

But surely, once they were working so closely together, he would stop seeing her as his little cousin from West Virginia. She’d never be able to compete head-on with the sultry, striking women he drew to him. So, Freddie thought, nodding to herself, she’d be sneaky, and wind her way into his heart through their shared love of music.

It was all for his own good after all. She was the best thing in the world for him. All she had to do was make him realize it.

Since there was no time like the present, she pushed away from the table and hurried into the bedroom to dress.

An hour later, Freddie climbed out of a cab in front of a SoHo gallery. It was a fifty-fifty shot as to whether she’d find her uncle in. He was just as likely to be at his and Sydney’s Connecticut home, sculpting or playing with their children. It was every bit as likely he might be helping his father with some carpentry job, anywhere in the city.

With a shrug, Freddie pulled open the beveled-glass door. If she missed Mikhail here, she’d scoot over to Sydney’s office, or try the courthouse for Rachel. Failing that, she could look up Bess at the television studio, or Alexi at his precinct. She could, she thought with a smile, all but trip over family, any direction she took.

The first thing she noticed inside the small, sunny gallery was Mikhail’s work. Though the piece was new to her, she recognized his touch, and the subject, immediately. He’d carved his wife in polished mahogany. Madonna-like, Sydney held a baby in her arms. Their youngest, Freddie knew, Laurel. At Sydney’s feet, three children of various ages and sizes sat. Walking closer, Freddie recognized her cousins, Griff, Moira and Adam. Unable to resist, she trailed a finger over the baby’s cheek.

One day, she thought, she would hold her own child just that way. Hers and Nick’s.

“I don’t wait for faxes!” Mikhail shouted as he entered the gallery from a back room. “You wait for faxes! I have work!”

“But, Mik,” came a plaintive voice from inside the room. “Washington said—”

“Do I care what Washington says? I don’t think so. Tell them they can have three pieces, no more.”

“But—”

“No more,” he repeated, and closed the door behind him. He muttered to himself in Ukrainian as he crossed the gallery. Words, Freddie noted with a lifted brow, that she wasn’t supposed to understand.

“Very artistic language, Uncle Mik.”

He broke off in the middle of a very creative oath. “Freddie.” With a hoot of laughter, he hoisted her off the ground as if she weighed no more than a favored rag doll. “Still just a peanut,” he said, kissing her on the way down. “How’s my pretty girl?”

“Excited to be here, and to see you.”

He was, like his swearing, wild and exotic, with the golden eyes and raven hair of the Stanislaskis. Freddie had often thought that if she could paint, she would paint each member of her Ukrainian family in bold strokes and colors.

“I was just admiring your work,” she told him. “It’s incredibly beautiful.”

“It’s easy to create something beautiful when you have something beautiful to work with.” He glanced toward the sculpture with love in his eyes. For the wood, Freddie reflected, but more, much more for the family he’d carved in it. “So, you’ve come to the big city to make your splash.”

“I have indeed.” With a flutter of lashes, Freddie hooked an arm through his and began to stroll, stopping here and there to admire a piece of art. “I’m hoping to work with Nick on the score he’s beginning.”

“Oh?” Mikhail quirked a brow. A man with so many women in his life understood their ways well, and appreciated them. “To write the words for his music?”

“Exactly. We’d make a good team, don’t you think?”

“Yes, but it’s not what I think, is it?” He smiled when her lips moved into a pout. “Our Nick, he can be stubborn, yes? And very hard of head. I can knock him in that head, if you like.”

Her lips curved again before she laughed. “I hope it won’t come to that, but I’ll keep the offer in reserve.” Her eyes changed, sharpened, and he could see clearly that she wasn’t so much the child any longer. “I’m good, Uncle Mik. Music’s in my blood, the way art’s in yours.”

“And when you see what you want...”

“I find a way to have it.” Easily accepting her own arrogance, she shrugged her shoulders. That, too, was in the blood. “I want to work with Nick. I want to help him. And I’m going to.”

“And from me you want...?”

“Family support for a chance to prove myself, if it becomes necessary, though I have an idea I can convince him without it.” She tossed her hair back, in a gesture, Mikhail thought, very like his sister’s. “What I do want, and need, is some advice about an apartment. I was hoping Aunt Sydney might have some ideas about a place near Lower the Boom.”

“Maybe she does, but there’s plenty of room with us. The children, you know how they would love to have you with them, and Sydney—” He caught her expression and sighed. “I promised your mama I would try. Natasha, she worries.”

“She doesn’t need to. She and Dad did a pretty good job of raising the self-reliant type. Just a small place, Uncle Mik,” she continued quickly. “If you’d just ask Aunt Sydney to give me a call at the Waldorf. Maybe she and I can have lunch one day soon, if she’s got time.”

“She always has time for you. We all do.”

“I know. And I intend to make a nuisance of myself. I want a place soon. Before,” she added with a gleam in her eyes, “Grandma starts conspiring to have me move in with them in Brooklyn. I’ve got to go.” She gave him a quick parting kiss. “I have another couple of stops to make.” She darted for the door, paused. “Oh, and when you talk to Mama, tell her you tried.”

With a wave, she was out on the street, and hailing another cab.

Now that her next seed was planted, Freddie had the cab take her to Lower the Boom, and wait as she went to the rear entrance to ring the security bell. Moments later, Nick’s very sleepy and irritated voice barked through the intercom.

“Still in bed?” she said cheerfully. “You’re getting too old for the wild life, Nicholas.”

“Freddie? What the hell time is it?”

“Ten, but who’s counting? Just buzz me in, will you? I’ve got something I want you to have. I’ll just leave it on the table downstairs.”

He swore, and she heard the sound of something crashing to the floor. “I’ll come down.”

“No, don’t bother.” She didn’t think her system could handle facing him when he was half-awake and warm from bed. “I don’t have time to visit, anyway. Just buzz me in, and call me later after you’ve gone over what I’m leaving for you.”

“What is it?” he demanded as the buzzer sounded.

Instead of answering, Freddie hurried inside, dropped her music portfolio on Rio’s table and raced out again. “Sorry to wake you, Nick,” she called into the intercom. “If you’re free tonight, we’ll have dinner. See you.”

“Wait a damn—”

But she was already dashing toward the front of the building and her waiting cab. She sat back, let out a long breath and closed her eyes. If he didn’t want her—her talents, she corrected—after he went through what she’d left for him, she was back to ground zero.

Think positive, she ordered herself. Straightening, she folded her arms. “Take me to Saks,” she told the driver.

When a woman had a potential date with the man she intended to marry, the very least she deserved was a new dress.