Waiting For Nick: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down

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—”