Luring a Lady

The Stanislaskis

Book Two

Nora Roberts

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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

Nothing in Sydney Hayward’s background of wealth and privilege prepared her to take the helm of her family’s corporation, and her new responsibilities left no room for complications. Mikhail Stanislaski was definitely a complication. Earthy and entirely masculine, Mikhail came from a world utterly different from her own. But the way she felt when he put his strong, work-hardened hands on her was wreaking havoc with Sydney’s resolve.

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

CHAPTER ONE

She wasn’t a patient woman. Delays and excuses were barely tolerated, and never tolerated well. Waiting—and she was waiting now—had her temper dropping degree by degree toward ice. With Sydney Hayward icy anger was a great deal more dangerous than boiling rage. One frigid glance, one frosty phrase could make the recipient quake. And she knew it.

Now she paced her new office, ten stories up in midtown Manhattan. She swept from corner to corner over the deep oatmeal-colored carpet. Everything was perfectly in place, papers, files, coordinated appointment and address books. Even her brass-and-ebony desk set was perfectly aligned, the pens and pencils marching in a straight row across the polished mahogany, the notepads carefully placed beside the phone.

Her appearance mirrored the meticulous precision and tasteful elegance of the office. Her crisp beige suit was all straight lines and starch, but didn’t disguise the fact that there was a great pair of legs striding across the carpet. With it she wore a single strand of pearls, earrings to match and a slim gold watch, all very discreet and exclusive. As a Hayward, she’d been raised to be both.

Her dark auburn hair was swept off her neck and secured with a gold clip. The pale freckles that went with the hair were nearly invisible after a light dusting of powder. Sydney felt they made her look too young and too vulnerable. At twenty-eight she had a face that reflected her breeding. High, slashing cheekbones, the strong, slightly pointed chin, the small straight nose. An aristocratic face, it was pale as porcelain, with a softly shaped mouth she knew could sulk too easily, and large smoky-blue eyes that people often mistook for guileless.

Sydney glanced at her watch again, let out a little hiss of breath, then marched over to her desk. Before she could pick up the phone, her intercom buzzed.

“Yes.”

“Ms. Hayward. There’s a man here who insists on seeing the person in charge of the Soho project. And your four-o’clock appointment—”

“It’s now four-fifteen,” Sydney cut in, her voice low and smooth and final. “Send him in.”

“Yes, ma’am, but he’s not Mr. Howington.”

So Howington had sent an underling. Annoyance hiked Sydney’s chin up another fraction. “Send him in,” she repeated, and flicked off the intercom with one frosted pink nail. So, they thought she’d be pacified with a junior executive. Sydney took a deep breath and prepared to kill the messenger.

It was years of training that prevented her mouth from dropping open when the man walked in. No, not walked, she corrected. Swaggered. Like a black-patched pirate over the rolling deck of a boarded ship.

She wished she’d had the foresight to have fired a warning shot over his bow.

Her initial shock had nothing to do with the fact that he was wildly handsome, though the adjective suited perfectly. A mane of thick, curling black hair flowed just beyond the nape of his neck, to be caught by a leather thong in a short ponytail that did nothing to detract from rampant masculinity. His face was rawboned and lean, with skin the color of an old gold coin. Hooded eyes were nearly as black as his hair. His full lips were shadowed by a day or two’s growth of beard that gave him a rough and dangerous look.

Though he skimmed under six foot and was leanly built, he made her delicately furnished office resemble a doll’s house.

What was worse was the fact that he wore work clothes. Dusty jeans and a sweaty T-shirt with a pair of scarred boots that left a trail of dirt across her pale carpet. They hadn’t even bothered with the junior executive, she thought as her lips firmed, but had sent along a common laborer who hadn’t had the sense to clean up before the interview.

“You’re Hayward?” The insolence in the tone and the slight hint of a Slavic accent had her imagining him striding up to a camp fire with a whip tucked in his belt.

The misty romance of the image made her tone unnecessarily sharp. “Yes, and you’re late.”

His eyes narrowed fractionally as they studied each other across the desk. “Am I?”

“Yes. You might find it helpful to wear a watch. My time is valuable if yours is not. Mr….”

“Stanislaski.” He hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans, shifting his weight easily, arrogantly onto one hip. “Sydney’s a man’s name.”

She arched a brow. “Obviously you’re mistaken.”

He skimmed his gaze over her slowly, with as much interest as annoyance. She was pretty as a frosted cake, but he hadn’t come straight and sweaty from a job to waste time with a female. “Obviously. I thought Hayward was an old man with a bald head and a white mustache.”

“You’re thinking of my grandfather.”

“Ah, then it’s your grandfather I want to see.”

“That won’t be possible, Mr. Stanislaski, as my grandfather’s been dead for nearly two months.”

The arrogance in his eyes turned quickly to compassion. “I’m sorry. It hurts to lose family.”

She couldn’t say why, of all the condolences she had received, these few words from a stranger touched her. “Yes, it does. Now, if you’ll take a seat, we can get down to business.”

Cold, hard and distant as the moon. Just as well, he thought. It would keep him from thinking of her in more personal ways—at least until he got what he wanted.

“I have sent your grandfather letters,” he began as he settled into one of the trim Queen Anne chairs in front of the desk. “Perhaps the last were misplaced during the confusion of death.”

An odd way to put it, Sydney thought, but apt. Her life had certainly been turned upside down in the past few months. “Correspondence should be addressed to me.” She sat, folding her hands on the desk. “As you know Hayward Enterprises is considering several firms—”

“For what?”

She struggled to shrug off the irritation of being interrupted. “I beg your pardon?”

“For what are you considering several firms?”

If she had been alone, she would have sighed and shut her eyes. Instead, she drummed her fingers on the desk. “What position do you hold, Mr. Stanislaski?”

“Position?”

“Yes, yes, what is it you do?”

The impatience in her voice made him grin. His teeth were very white, and not quite straight. “You mean, what is it I do? I work with wood.”

“You’re a carpenter?”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” she repeated, and sat back. Behind her, buildings punched into a hard blue sky. “Perhaps you can tell me why Howington Construction sent a sometimes carpenter to represent them in this interview.”

The room smelled of lemon and rosemary and only reminded him that he was hot, thirsty and as impatient as she. “I could—if they had sent me.”

It took her a moment to realize he wasn’t being deliberately obtuse. “You’re not from Howington?”

“No. I’m Mikhail Stanislaski, and I live in one of your buildings.” He propped a dirty boot on a dusty knee. “If you’re thinking of hiring Howington, I would think again. I once worked for them, but they cut too many corners.”

“Excuse me.” Sydney gave the intercom a sharp jab. “Janine, did Mr. Stanislaski tell you he represented Howington?”

“Oh, no, ma’am. He just asked to see you. Howington called about ten minutes ago to reschedule. If you—”

“Never mind.” Sitting back again, she studied the man who was grinning at her. “Apparently I’ve been laboring under a misconception.”

“If you mean you made a mistake, yes. I’m here to talk to you about your apartment building in Soho.”

She wanted, badly, to drag her hands through her hair. “You’re here with a tenant complaint.”

“I’m here with many tenants’ complaints,” he corrected.

“You should be aware that there’s a certain procedure one follows in this kind of matter.”

He lifted one black brow. “You own the building, yes?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then it’s your responsibility.”

She stiffened. “I’m perfectly aware of my responsibilities, Mr. Stanislaski. And now…”

He rose as she did, and didn’t budge an inch. “Your grandfather made promises. To honor him, you must keep them.”

“What I must do,” she said in a frigid voice, “is run my business.” And she was trying desperately to learn how. “You may tell the other tenants that Hayward is at the point of hiring a contractor as we’re quite aware that many of our properties are in need of repair or renovation. The apartments in Soho will be dealt with in turn.”

His expression didn’t change at the dismissal, nor did the tone of his voice or the spread-legged, feet-planted stance. “We’re tired of waiting for our turn. We want what was promised to us, now.”

“If you’ll send me a list of your demands—”

“We have.”

She set her teeth. “Then I’ll look over the files this evening.”

“Files aren’t people. You take the rent money every month, but you don’t think of the people.” He placed his hands on the desk and leaned forward. Sydney caught a wisp of sawdust and sweat that was uncomfortably appealing. “Have you seen the building, or the people who live in it?”

“I have reports,” she began.

“Reports.” He swore—it wasn’t in a language she understood, but she was certain it was an oath. “You have your accountants and your lawyers, and you sit up here in your pretty office and look through papers.” With one quick slash of the hand, he dismissed her office and herself. “But you know nothing. It’s not you who’s cold when the heat doesn’t work, or who must climb five flights of stairs when the elevator is broken. You don’t worry that the water won’t get hot or that the wiring is too old to be safe.”

No one spoke to her that way. No one. Her own temper was making her heart beat too fast. It made her forget that she was facing a very dangerous man. “You’re wrong. I’m very concerned about all of those things. And I intend to correct them as soon as possible.”

His eyes flashed and narrowed, like a sword raised and turned on its edge. “This is a promise we’ve heard before.”

“Now, it’s my promise, and you haven’t had that before.”

“And we’re supposed to trust you. You, who are too lazy or too afraid to even go see what she owns.”

Her face went dead white, the only outward sign of fury. “I’ve had enough of your insults for one afternoon, Mr. Stanislaski. Now, you can either find your way out, or I’ll call security to help you find it.”

“I know my way,” he said evenly. “I’ll tell you this, Miss Sydney Hayward, you will begin to keep those promises within two days, or we’ll go to the building commissioner, and the press.”

Sydney waited until he had stalked out before she sat again. Slowly she took a sheet of stationery from the drawer then methodically tore it into shreds. She stared at the smudges his big wide-palmed hands had left on her glossy desk and chose and shredded another sheet. Calmer, she punched the intercom. “Janine, bring me everything you’ve got on the Soho project.”

An hour later, Sydney pushed the files aside and made two calls. The first was to cancel her dinner plans for the evening. The second was to Lloyd Bingham, her grandfather’s—now her—executive assistant.

“You just caught me,” Lloyd told her as he walked into Sydney’s office. “I was on my way out. What can I do for you?”

Sydney shot him a brief glance. He was a handsome, ambitious man who preferred Italian tailors and French food. Not yet forty, he was on his second divorce and liked to escort society women who were attracted to his smooth blond looks and polished manners. Sydney knew that he had worked hard and long to gain his position with Hayward and that he had taken over the reins during her grandfather’s illness the past year.

She also knew that he resented her because she was sitting behind a desk he considered rightfully his.

“For starters, you can explain why nothing has been done about the Soho apartments.”

“The unit in Soho?” Lloyd took a cigarette from a slim gold case. “It’s on the agenda.”

“It’s been on the agenda for nearly eighteen months. The first letter in the file, signed by the tenants, was dated almost two years ago and lists twenty-seven specific complaints.”

“And I believe you’ll also see in the file that a number of them were addressed.” He blew out a thin stream of smoke as he made himself comfortable on one of the chairs.

“A number of them,” Sydney repeated. “Such as the furnace repairs. The tenants seemed to think a new furnace was required.”

Lloyd made a vague gesture. “You’re new to the game, Sydney. You’ll find that tenants always want new, better and more.”

“That may be. However, it hardly seems cost-effective to me to repair a thirty-year-old furnace and have it break down again two months later.” She held up a finger before he could speak. “Broken railings in stairwells, peeling paint, an insufficient water heater, a defective elevator, cracked porcelain…” She glanced up. “I could go on, but it doesn’t seem necessary. There’s a memo here, from my grandfather to you, requesting that you take over the repairs and maintenance of this building.”

“Which I did,” Lloyd said stiffly. “You know very well that your grandfather’s health turned this company upside down over the last year. That apartment complex is only one of several buildings he owned.”

“You’re absolutely right.” Her voice was quiet but without warmth. “I also know that we have a responsibility, a legal and a moral responsibility to our tenants, whether the building is in Soho or on Central Park West.” She closed the folder, linked her hands over it and, in that gesture, stated ownership. “I don’t want to antagonize you, Lloyd, but I want you to understand that I’ve decided to handle this particular property myself.”

“Why?”

She granted him a small smile. “I’m not entirely sure. Let’s just say I want to get my feet wet, and I’ve decided to make this property my pet project. In the meantime, I’d like you to look over the reports on the construction firms, and give me your recommendations.” She offered him another file. “I’ve included a list of the properties, in order of priority. We’ll have a meeting Friday, ten o’clock, to finalize.”

“All right.” He tapped out his cigarette before he rose. “Sydney, I hope you won’t take offense, but a woman who’s spent most of her life traveling and buying clothes doesn’t know much about business, or making a profit.”

She did take offense, but she’d be damned if she’d show it. “Then I’d better learn, hadn’t I? Good night, Lloyd.”

Not until the door closed did she look down at her hands. They were shaking. He was right, absolutely right to point out her inadequacies. But he couldn’t know how badly she needed to prove herself here, to make something out of what her grandfather had left her. Nor could he know how terrified she was that she would let down the family name. Again.

Before she could change her mind, she tucked the file into her briefcase and left the office. She walked down the wide pastel corridor with its tasteful watercolors and thriving ficus trees, through the thick glass doors that closed in her suite of offices. She took her private elevator down to the lobby, where she nodded to the guard before she walked outside.

The heat punched like a fist. Though it was only mid-June, New York was in the clutches of a vicious heat wave with temperatures and humidity spiraling gleefully. She had only to cross the sidewalk to be cocooned in the waiting car, sheltered from the dripping air and noise. After giving her driver the address, she settled back for the ride to Soho.

Traffic was miserable, snarling and edgy. But that would only give her more time to think. She wasn’t certain what she was going to do when she got there. Nor was she sure what she would do if she ran into Mikhail Stanislaski again.

He’d made quite an impression on her, Sydney mused. Exotic looks, hot eyes, a complete lack of courtesy. The worst part was the file had shown that he’d had a perfect right to be rude and impatient. He’d written letter after letter during the past year, only to be put off with half-baked promises.

Perhaps if her grandfather hadn’t been so stubborn about keeping his illness out of the press. Sydney rubbed a finger over her temple and wished she’d taken a couple of aspirin before she’d left the office.

Whatever had happened before, she was in charge now. She intended to respect her inheritance and all the responsibilities that went with it. She closed her eyes and fell into a half doze as her driver fought his way downtown.

Inside his apartment, Mikhail carved a piece of cherrywood. He wasn’t sure why he continued. His heart wasn’t in it, but he felt it more productive to do something with his hands.

He kept thinking about the woman. Sydney. All ice and pride, he thought. One of the aristocrats it was in his blood to rebel against. Though he and his family had escaped to America when he had still been a child, there was no denying his heritage. His ancestors had been Gypsies in the Ukraine, hot-blooded, hot tempered and with little respect for structured authority.

Mikhail considered himself to be American—except when it suited him to be Russian.

Curls of wood fell on the table or the floor. Most of his cramped living space was taken up with his work—blocks and slabs of wood, even an oak burl, knives, chisels, hammers, drills, calipers. There was a small lathe in the corner and jars that held brushes. The room smelled of linseed oil, sweat and sawdust.

Mikhail took a pull from the beer at his elbow and sat back to study the cherry. It wasn’t ready, as yet, to let him see what was inside. He let his fingers roam over it, over the grain, into the grooves, while the sound of traffic and music and shouts rose up and through the open window at his back.

He had had enough success in the past two years that he could have moved into bigger and more modern dwellings. He liked it here, in this noisy neighborhood, with the bakery on the corner, the bazaarlike atmosphere on Canal, only a short walk away, the women who gossiped from their stoops in the morning, the men who sat there at night.

He didn’t need wall-to-wall carpet or a sunken tub or a big stylish kitchen. All he wanted was a roof that didn’t leak, a shower that offered hot water and a refrigerator that would keep the beer and cold cuts cold. At the moment, he didn’t have any of those things. And Miss Sydney Hayward hadn’t seen the last of him.

He glanced up at the three brisk knocks on his door, then grinned as his down-the-hall neighbor burst in. “What’s the story?”

Keely O’Brian slammed the door, leaned dramatically against it, then did a quick jig. “I got the part.” Letting out a whoop, she raced to the table to throw her arms around Mikhail’s neck. “I got it.” She gave him a loud, smacking kiss on one cheek. “I got it.” Then the other.

“I told you you would.” He reached back to ruffle her short cap of dusty blond hair. “Get a beer. We’ll celebrate.”

“Oh, Mik.” She crossed to the tiny refrigerator on long, slim legs left stunningly revealed by a pair of neon green shorts. “I was so nervous before the audition I got the hiccups, then I drank a gallon of water and sloshed my way through the reading.” She tossed the cap into the trash before toasting herself. “And I still got it. A movie of the week. I’ll probably only get like sixth or seventh billing, but I don’t get murdered till the third act.” She took a sip, then let out a long, bloodcurdling scream. “That’s what I have to do when the serial killer corners me in the alley. I really think my scream turned the tide.”

“No doubt.” As always, her quick, nervous speech amused him. She was twenty-three, with an appealing coltish body, lively green eyes and a heart as wide as the Grand Canyon. If Mikhail hadn’t felt so much like her brother right from the beginning of their relationship, he would have long since attempted to talk her into bed.

Keely took a sip of beer. “Hey, do you want to order some Chinese or pizza or something? I’ve got a frozen pizza, but my oven is on the blink again.”

The simple statement made his eyes flash and his lips purse. “I went today to see Hayward.”

The bottle paused on the way to her lips. “In person? You mean like, face-to-face?”

“Yes.” Mikhail set aside his carving tools, afraid he would gouge the wood.

Impressed, Keely walked over to sit on the windowsill. “Wow. So, what’s he like?”

“He’s dead.”

She choked on the beer, watching him wide-eyed as she pounded on her chest. “Dead? You didn’t…”

“Kill him?” This time Mikhail smiled. Another thing he enjoyed about Keely was her innate flare for the dramatic. “No, but I considered killing the new Hayward—his granddaughter.”

“The new landlord’s a woman? What’s she like?”

“Very beautiful, very cold.” He was frowning as he skimmed his fingertips over the wood grain. “She has red hair and white skin. Blue eyes like frost on a lake. When she speaks, icicles form.”

Keely grimaced and sipped. “Rich people,” she said, “can afford to be cold.”

“I told her she has two days before I go to the building commissioner.”

This time Keely smiled. As much as she admired Mikhail, she felt he was naive in a lot of ways. “Good luck. Maybe we should take Mrs. Bayford’s idea about a rent strike. Of course, then we risk eviction, but…hey.” She leaned out the open window. “You should see this car. It’s like a Lincoln or something—with a driver. There’s a woman getting out of the back.” More fascinated than envious, she let out a long, appreciative breath. “Harper’s Bazaar’s version of the executive woman.” Grinning, she shot a glance over her shoulder. “I think your ice princess has come slumming.”

Outside, Sydney studied the building. It was really quite lovely, she thought. Like an old woman who had maintained her dignity and a shadow of her youthful beauty. The red brick had faded to a soft pink, smudged here and there by soot and exhaust. The trimming paint was peeling and cracked, but that could be easily remedied. Taking out a legal pad, she began to take notes.

She was aware that the men sitting out on the stoop were watching her, but she ignored them. It was a noisy place, she noted. Most of the windows were open and there was a variety of sound—televisions, radios, babies crying, someone singing “The Desert Song” in a warbling soprano. There were useless little balconies crowded with potted flowers, bicycles, clothes drying in the still, hot air.

Shading her eyes, she let her gaze travel up. Most of the railings were badly rusted and many had spokes missing. She frowned, then spotted Mikhail, leaning out of a window on the top floor, nearly cheek to cheek with a stunning blonde. Since he was bare chested and the blonde was wearing the tiniest excuse for a tank top, Sydney imagined she’d interrupted them. She acknowledged him with a frigid nod, then went back to her notes.

When she started toward the entrance, the men shifted to make a path for her. The small lobby was dim and oppressively hot. On this level the windows were apparently painted shut. The old parquet floor was scarred and scraped, and there was a smell, a very definite smell, of mold. She studied the elevator dubiously. Someone had hand-lettered a sign above the button that read Abandon Hope Ye Who Enter Here.

Curious, Sydney punched the up button and listened to the grinding rattles and wheezes. On an impatient breath, she made more notes. It was deplorable, she thought. The unit should have been inspected, and Hayward should have been slapped with a citation. Well, she was Hayward now.

The doors squeaked open, and Mikhail stepped out.

“Did you come to look over your empire?” he asked her.

Very deliberately she finished her notes before she met his gaze. At least he had pulled on a shirt—if you could call it that. The thin white T-shirt was ripped at the sleeves and mangled at the hem.

“I believe I told you I’d look over the file. Once I did, I thought it best to inspect the building myself.” She glanced at the elevator, then back at him. “You’re either very brave or very stupid, Mr. Stanislaski.”

“A realist,” he corrected with a slow shrug. “What happens, happens.”

“Perhaps. But I’d prefer that no one use this elevator until it’s repaired or replaced.”

He slipped his hands into his pockets. “And will it be?”

“Yes, as quickly as possible. I believe you mentioned in your letter that some of the stair railings were broken.”

“I’ve replaced the worst of them.”

Her brow lifted. “You?”

“There are children and old people in this building.”

The simplicity of his answer made her ashamed. “I see. Since you’ve taken it on yourself to represent the tenants, perhaps you’d take me through and show me the worst of the problems.”

As they started up the stairs, she noted that the railing was obviously new, an unstained line of wood that was sturdy under her hand. She made a note that it had been replaced by a tenant.

He knocked on apartment doors. People greeted him enthusiastically, her warily. There were smells of cooking—meals just finished, meals yet to be eaten. She was offered strudel, brownies, goulash, chicken wings. Some of the complaints were bitter, some were nervous. But Sydney saw for herself that Mikhail’s letters hadn’t exaggerated.

By the time they reached the third floor, the heat was making her dizzy. On the fourth, she refused the offer of spaghetti and meatballs—wondering how anyone could bear to cook in all this heat—and accepted a glass of water. Dutifully she noted down how the pipes rattled and thumped. When they reached the fifth floor, she was wishing desperately for a cool shower, a chilled glass of chardonnay and the blissful comfort of her air-conditioned apartment.

Mikhail noted that her face was glowing from the heat. On the last flight of stairs, she’d been puffing a bit, which pleased him. It wouldn’t hurt the queen to see how her subjects lived. He wondered why she didn’t at least peel off her suit jacket or loosen a couple of those prim buttons on her blouse.

He wasn’t pleased with the thought that he would enjoy doing both of those things for her.

“I would think that some of these tenants would have window units.” Sweat slithered nastily down her back. “Air-conditioning.”

“The wiring won’t handle it,” he told her. “When people turn them on, it blows the fuses and we lose power. The hallways are the worst,” he went on conversationally. “Airless. And up here is worst of all. Heat rises.”

“So I’ve heard.”

She was white as a sheet, he noted, and swore. “Take off your jacket.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re stupid.” He tugged the linen off her shoulders and began to pull her arms free.

The combination of heat and his rough, purposeful fingers had spots dancing in front of her eyes. “Stop it.”

“Very stupid. This is not a boardroom.”

His touch wasn’t the least bit loverlike, but it was very disturbing. She batted at his hands the moment one of her arms was free. Ignoring her, Mikhail pushed her into his apartment.

“Mr. Stanislaski,” she said, out of breath but not out of dignity. “I will not be pawed.”

“I have doubts you’ve ever been pawed in your life, Your Highness. What man wants frostbite? Sit.”

“I have no desire to—”

He simply shoved her into a chair, then glanced over where Keely stood in the kitchen, gaping. “Get her some water,” he ordered.

Sydney caught her breath. A fan whirled beside the chair and cooled her skin. “You are the rudest, most ill-mannered, most insufferable man I’ve ever been forced to deal with.”

He took the glass from Keely and was tempted to toss the contents into Sydney’s beautiful face. Instead he shoved the glass into her hand. “Drink.”

“Jeez, Mik, have a heart,” Keely murmured. “She looks beat. You want a cold cloth?” Even as she offered, she couldn’t help but admire the ivory silk blouse with its tiny pearl buttons.

“No, thank you. I’m fine.”

“I’m Keely O’Brian, 502.”

“Her oven doesn’t work,” Mikhail said. “And she gets no hot water. The roof leaks.”

“Only when it rains.” Keely tried to smile but got no response. “I guess I’ll run along. Nice to meet you.”

When they were alone, Sydney took slow sips of the tepid water. Mikhail hadn’t complained about his own apartment, but she could see from where she sat that the linoleum on the kitchen floor was ripped, and the refrigerator was hopelessly small and out-of-date. She simply didn’t have the energy to look at the rest.

His approach had been anything but tactful, still the bottom line was he was right and her company was wrong.

He sat on the edge of the kitchen counter and watched as color seeped slowly back into her cheeks. It relieved him. For a moment in the hall he’d been afraid she would faint. He already felt like a clod.

“Do you want food?” His voice was clipped and unfriendly. “You can have a sandwich.”

She remembered that she was supposed to be dining at Le Cirque with the latest eligible bachelor her mother had chosen. “No, thank you. You don’t think much of me, do you?”

He moved his shoulders in the way she now recognized as habit. “I think of you quite a bit.”

She frowned and set the glass aside. The way he said it left a little too much to the imagination. “You said you were a carpenter?”

“I am sometimes a carpenter.”

“You have a license?”

His eyes narrowed. “A contractor’s license, yes. For remodeling, renovations.”

“Then you’d have a list of other contractors you’ve worked with—electricians, plumbers, that sort of thing.”

“Yes.”

“Fine. Work up a bid on repairs, including the finish work, painting, tile, replacing fixtures, appliances. Have it on my desk in a week.” She rose, picking up her crumpled jacket.

He stayed where he was as she folded the jacket over her arm, lifted her briefcase. “And then?”

She shot him a cool look. “And then, Mr. Stanislaski, I’m going to put my money where your mouth is. You’re hired.”

CHAPTER TWO

“Mother, I really don’t have time for this.”

“Sydney, dear, one always has time for tea.” So saying, Margerite Rothchild Hayward Kinsdale LaRue poured ginseng into a china cup. “I’m afraid you’re taking this real estate business too seriously.”

“Maybe because I’m in charge,” Sydney muttered without looking up from the papers on her desk.

“I can’t imagine what your grandfather was thinking of. But then, he always was an unusual man.” She sighed a moment, remembering how fond she’d been of the old goat. “Come, darling, have some tea and one of these delightful little sandwiches. Even Madam Executive needs a spot of lunch.”

Sydney gave in, hoping to move her mother along more quickly by being agreeable. “This is really very sweet of you. It’s just that I’m pressed for time today.”

“All this corporate nonsense,” Margerite began as Sydney sat beside her. “I don’t know why you bother. It would have been so simple to hire a manager or whatever.” Margerite added a squirt of lemon to her cup before she sat back. “I realize it might be diverting for a while, but the thought of you with a career. Well, it seems so pointless.”

“Does it?” Sydney murmured, struggling to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “I may surprise everyone and be good at it.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’d be wonderful at whatever you do, darling.” Her hand fluttered absently over Sydney’s. The girl had been so little trouble as a child, she thought. Margerite really hadn’t a clue how to deal with this sudden and—she was sure—temporary spot of rebellion. She tried placating. “And I was delighted when Grandfather Hayward left you all those nice buildings.” She nibbled on a sandwich, a striking woman who looked ten years younger than her fifty years, groomed and polished in a Chanel suit. “But to actually become involved in running things.” Baffled, she patted her carefully tinted chestnut hair. “Well, one might think it’s just a bit unfeminine. A man is easily put off by what he considers a high-powered woman.”

Sydney gave her mother’s newly bare ring finger a pointed look. “Not every woman’s sole ambition centers around a man.”

“Oh, don’t be silly.” With a gay little laugh, Margerite patted her daughter’s hand. “A husband isn’t something a woman wants to be without for long. You mustn’t be discouraged because you and Peter didn’t work things out. First marriages are often just a testing ground.”

Reining in her feelings, Sydney set her cup down carefully. “Is that what you consider your marriage to Father? A testing ground?”

“We both learned some valuable lessons from it, I’m sure.” Confident and content, she beamed at her daughter. “Now, dear, tell me about your evening with Channing. How was it?”

“Stifling.”

Margerite’s mild blue eyes flickered with annoyance. “Sydney, really.”

“You asked.” To fortify herself, Sydney picked up her tea again. Why was it, she asked herself, that she perpetually felt inadequate around the woman who had given birth to her. “I’m sorry, Mother, but we simply don’t suit.”

“Nonsense. You’re perfectly suited. Channing Warfield is an intelligent, successful man from a very fine family.”

“So was Peter.”

China clinked against china as Margerite set her cup in its saucer. “Sydney, you must not compare every man you meet with Peter.”

“I don’t.” Taking a chance, she laid a hand on her mother’s. There was a bond there, there had to be. Why did she always feel as though her fingers were just sliding away from it? “Honestly, I don’t compare Channing with anyone. The simple fact is, I find him stilted, boring and pretentious. It could be that I’d find any man the same just now. I’m not interested in men at this point of my life, Mother. I want to make something of myself.”

“Make something of yourself,” Margerite repeated, more stunned than angry. “You’re a Hayward. You don’t need to make yourself anything else.” She plucked up a napkin to dab at her lips. “For heaven’s sake, Sydney, you’ve been divorced from Peter for four years. It’s time you found a suitable husband. It’s women who write the invitations,” she reminded her daughter. “And they have a policy of excluding beautiful, unattached females. You have a place in society, Sydney. And a responsibility to your name.”

The familiar clutching in her stomach had Sydney setting the tea aside. “So you’ve always told me.”

Satisfied that Sydney would be reasonable, she smiled. “If Channing won’t do, there are others. But I really think you shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss him. If I were twenty years younger…well.” She glanced at her watch and gave a little squeak. “Dear me, I’m going to be late for the hairdresser. I’ll just run and powder my nose first.”

When Margerite slipped into the adjoining bath, Sydney leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Where was she to put all these feelings of guilt and inadequacy? How could she explain herself to her mother when she couldn’t explain herself to herself?

Rising, she went back to her desk. She couldn’t convince Margerite that her unwillingness to become involved again had nothing to do with Peter when, in fact, it did. They had been friends, damn it. She and Peter had grown up with each other, had cared for each other. They simply hadn’t been in love with each other. Family pressure had pushed them down the aisle while they’d been too young to realize the mistake. Then they had spent the best part of two years trying miserably to make the marriage work.

The pity of it wasn’t the divorce, but the fact that when they had finally parted, they were no longer friends. If she couldn’t make a go of it with someone she’d cared for, someone she’d had so much in common with, someone she’d liked so much, surely the lack was in her.

All she wanted to do now was to feel deserving of her grandfather’s faith in her. She’d been offered a different kind of responsibility, a different kind of challenge. This time, she couldn’t afford to fail.

Wearily she answered her intercom. “Yes, Janine.”

“Mr. Stanislaski’s here, Miss Hayward. He doesn’t have an appointment, but he says he has some papers you wanted to see.”

A full day early, she mused, and straightened her shoulders. “Send him in.”

At least he’d shaved, she thought, though this time there were holes in his jeans. Closing the door, he took as long and as thorough a look at her. As if they were two boxers sizing up the competition from neutral corners.

She looked just as starched and prim as before, in one of her tidy business suits, this time in pale gray, with all those little silver buttons on her blouse done up to her smooth white throat. He glanced down at the tea tray with its delicate cups and tiny sandwiches. His lips curled.

“Interrupting your lunch, Hayward?”

“Not at all.” She didn’t bother to stand or smile but gestured him across the room. “Do you have the bid, Mr. Stanislaski?”

“Yes.”

“You work fast.”

He grinned. “Yes.” He caught a scent—rather a clash of scents. Something very subtle and cool and another, florid and overly feminine. “You have company?”

Her brow arched. “Why do you ask?”

“There is perfume here that isn’t yours.” Then with a shrug, he handed her the papers he carried. “The first is what must be done, the second is what should be done.”

“I see.” She could feel the heat radiating off him. For some reason it felt comforting, life affirming. As if she’d stepped out of a dark cave into the sunlight. Sydney made certain her fingers didn’t brush his as she took the papers. “You have estimates from the subcontractors?”

“They are there.” While she glanced through his work, he lifted one of the neat triangles of bread, sniffed at it like a wolf. “What is this stuff in here?”

She barely looked up. “Watercress.”

With a grunt, he dropped it back onto the plate. “Why would you eat it?”

She looked up again, and this time, she smiled. “Good question.”

She shouldn’t have done that, he thought as he shifted his hands to his pockets. When she smiled, she changed. Her eyes warmed, her lips softened, and beauty became approachable rather than aloof.

It made him forget he wasn’t the least bit interested in her type of woman.

“Then I’ll ask you another question.”

Her lips pursed as she scanned the list. She liked what she saw. “You seem to be full of them today.”

“Why do you wear colors like that? Dull ones, when you should be wearing vivid. Sapphire or emerald.”

It was surprise that had her staring at him. As far as she could remember, no one had ever questioned her taste. In some circles, she was thought to be quite elegant. “Are you a carpenter or a fashion consultant, Mr. Stanislaski?”

His shoulders moved. “I’m a man. Is this tea?” He lifted the pot and sniffed at the contents while she continued to gape at him. “It’s too hot for tea. You have something cold?”

Shaking her head, she pressed her intercom. “Janine, bring in something cold for Mr. Stanislaski, please.” Because she had a nagging urge to get up and inspect herself in a mirror, she cleared her throat. “There’s quite a line of demarcation between your must and your should list, Mr.—”

“Mikhail,” he said easily. “It’s because there are more things you should do than things you must. Like life.”

“Now a philosopher,” she muttered. “We’ll start with the must, and perhaps incorporate some of the should. If we work quickly, we could have a contract by the end of the week.”

His nod was slow, considering. “You, too, work fast.”

“When necessary. Now first, I’d like you to explain to me why I should replace all the windows.”

“Because they’re single glazed and not efficient.”

“Yes, but—”

“Sydney, dear, the lighting in there is just ghastly. Oh.” Margerite stopped at the doorway. “I beg your pardon, I see you’re in a meeting.” She would have looked down her nose at Mikhail’s worn jeans, but she had a difficult time getting past his face. “How do you do?” she said, pleased that he had risen at her entrance.

“You are Sydney’s mother?” Mikhail asked before Sydney could shoo Margerite along.

“Why, yes.” Margerite’s smile was reserved. She didn’t approve of her daughter being on a first-name basis in her relationships with the help. Particularly when that help wore stubby ponytails and dirty boots. “How did you know?”

“Real beauty matures well.”

“Oh.” Charmed, Margerite allowed her smile to warm fractionally. Her lashes fluttered in reflex. “How kind.”

“Mother, I’m sorry, but Mr. Stanislaski and I have business to discuss.”

“Of course, of course.” Margerite walked over to kiss the air an inch from her daughter’s cheek. “I’ll just be running along. Now, dear, you won’t forget we’re to have lunch next week? And I wanted to remind you that…Stanislaski,” she repeated, turning back to Mikhail. “I thought you looked familiar. Oh, my.” Suddenly breathless, she laid a hand on her heart. “You’re Mikhail Stanislaski?”

“Yes. Have we met?”

“No. Oh, no, we haven’t, but I saw your photo in Art/World. I consider myself a patron.” Face beaming, she skirted the desk and, under her daughter’s astonished gaze, took his hands in hers. To Margerite, the ponytail was now artistic, the tattered jeans eccentric. “Your work, Mr. Stanislaski—magnificent. Truly magnificent. I bought two of your pieces from your last showing. I can’t tell you what a pleasure this is.”

“You flatter me.”

“Not at all,” Margerite insisted. “You’re already being called one of the top artists of the nineties. And you’ve commissioned him.” She turned to beam at her speechless daughter. “A brilliant move, darling.”

“I—actually, I—”

“I’m delighted,” Mikhail interrupted, “to be working with your daughter.”

“It’s wonderful.” She gave his hands a final squeeze. “You must come to a little dinner party I’m having on Friday on Long Island. Please, don’t tell me you’re already engaged for the evening.” She slanted a look from under her lashes. “I’ll be devastated.”

He was careful not to grin over her head at Sydney. “I could never be responsible for devastating a beautiful woman.”

“Fabulous. Sydney will bring you. Eight o’clock. Now I must run.” She patted her hair, shot an absent wave at Sydney and hurried out just as Janine brought in a soft drink.

Mikhail took the glass with thanks, then sat again. “So,” he began, “you were asking about windows.”

Sydney very carefully relaxed the hands that were balled into fists under her desk. “You said you were a carpenter.”

“Sometimes I am.” He took a long, cooling drink. “Sometimes I carve wood instead of hammering it.”

If he had set out to make a fool of her—which she wasn’t sure he hadn’t—he could have succeeded no better. “I’ve spent the last two years in Europe,” she told him, “so I’m a bit out of touch with the American art world.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said, enjoying himself.

“I’m not apologizing.” She had to force herself to speak calmly, to not stand up and rip his bid into tiny little pieces. “I’d like to know what kind of game you’re playing, Stanislaski.”

“You offered me work, on a job that has some value for me. I am accepting it.”

“You lied to me.”

“How?” He lifted one hand, palm up. “I have a contractor’s license. I’ve made my living in construction since I was sixteen. What difference does it make to you if people now buy my sculpture?”

“None.” She snatched up the bids again. He probably produced primitive, ugly pieces in any case, she thought. The man was too rough and unmannered to be an artist. All that mattered was that he could do the job she was hiring him to do.

But she hated being duped. To make him pay for it, she forced him to go over every detail of the bid, wasting over an hour of his time and hers.

“All right then.” She pushed aside her own meticulous notes. “Your contract will be ready for signing on Friday.”

“Good.” He rose. “You can bring it when you pick me up. We should make it seven.”

“Excuse me?”

“For dinner.” He leaned forward. For a shocking moment, she thought he was actually going to kiss her. She went rigid as a spear, but he only rubbed the lapel of her suit between his thumb and forefinger. “You must wear something with color.”

She pushed the chair back and stood. “I have no intention of taking you to my mother’s home for dinner.”

“You’re afraid to be with me.” He said so with no little amount of pride.

Her chin jutted out. “Certainly not.”

“What else could it be?” With his eyes on hers, he strolled around the desk until they were face-to-face. “A woman like you could not be so ill-mannered without a reason.”

The breath was backing up in her lungs. Sydney forced it out in one huff. “It’s reason enough that I dislike you.”

He only smiled and toyed with the pearls at her throat. “No. Aristocrats are predictable, Hayward. You would be taught to tolerate people you don’t like. For them, you would be the most polite.”

“Stop touching me.”

“I’m putting color in your cheeks.” He laughed and let the pearls slide out of his fingers. Her skin, he was sure, would be just as smooth, just as cool. “Come now, Sydney, what will you tell your charming mother when you go to her party without me? How will you explain that you refused to bring me?” He could see the war in her eyes, the one fought between pride and manners and temper, and laughed again. “Trapped by your breeding,” he murmured. “This is not something I have to worry about myself.”

“No doubt,” she said between her teeth.

“Friday,” he said, and infuriated her by flicking a finger down her cheek. “Seven o’clock.”

“Mr. Stanislaski,” she murmured when he reached the door. As he turned back, she offered her coolest smile. “Try to find something in your closet without holes in it.”

She could hear him laughing at her as he walked down the hallway. If only, she thought as she dropped back into her chair. If only she hadn’t been so well-bred, she could have released some of this venom by throwing breakables at the door.

She wore black quite deliberately. Under no circumstances did she want him to believe that she would fuss through her wardrobe, looking for something colorful because he’d suggested it. And she thought the simple tube of a dress was both businesslike, fashionable and appropriate.

On impulse, she had taken her hair down so that it fluffed out to skim her shoulders—only because she’d tired of wearing it pulled back. As always, she had debated her look for the evening carefully and was satisfied that she had achieved an aloof elegance.

She could hear the music blasting through his door before she knocked. It surprised her to hear the passionate strains of Carmen. She rapped harder, nearly gave in to the urge to shout over the aria, when the door swung open. Behind it was the blond knockout in a skimpy T-shirt and skimpier shorts.

“Hi.” Keely crunched a piece of ice between her teeth and swallowed. “I was just borrowing an ice tray from Mik—my freezer’s set on melt these days.” She managed to smile and forced herself not to tug on her clothes. She felt like a peasant caught poaching by the royal princess. “I was just leaving.” Before Sydney could speak, she dashed back inside to scoop up a tray of ice. “Mik, your date’s here.”

Sydney winced at the term date as the blond bullet streaked past her. “There’s no need for you to rush off—”

“Three’s a crowd,” Keely told her on the run and, with a quick fleeting grin, kept going.

“Did you call me?” Mikhail came to the bedroom doorway. There was one, very small white towel anchored at his waist. He used another to rub at his wet, unruly hair. He stopped when he spotted Sydney. Something flickered in his eyes as he let his gaze roam down the long, cool lines of the dress. Then he smiled. “I’m late,” he said simply.

She was grateful she’d managed not to let her mouth fall open. His body was all lean muscle, long bones and bronzed skin—skin that was gleaming with tiny drops of water that made her feel unbearably thirsty. The towel hung dangerously low on his hips. Dazed, she watched a drop of water slide down his chest, over his stomach and disappear beneath the terry cloth.

The temperature in the room, already steamy, rose several degrees.

“You’re…” She knew she could speak coherently—in a minute. “We said seven.”

“I was busy.” He shrugged. The towel shifted. Sydney swallowed. “I won’t be long. Fix a drink.” A smile, wicked around the edges, tugged at his mouth. A man would have to be dead not to see her reaction—not to be pleased by it. “You look…hot, Sydney.” He took a step forward, watching her eyes widen, watching her mouth tremble open. With his gaze on hers, he turned on a small portable fan. Steamy air stirred. “That will help,” he said mildly.

She nodded. It was cooling, but it also brought the scent of his shower, of his skin into the room. Because she could see the knowledge and the amusement in his eyes, she got a grip on herself. “Your contracts.” She set the folder down on a table. Mikhail barely glanced at them.

“I’ll look and sign later.”

“Fine. It would be best if you got dressed.” She had to swallow another obstruction in her throat when he smiled at her. Her voice was edgy and annoyed. “We’ll be late.”

“A little. There’s cold drink in the refrigerator,” he added as he turned back to the bedroom. “Be at home.”

Alone, she managed to take three normal breaths. Degree by degree she felt her system level. Any man who looked like that in a towel should be arrested, she thought, and turned to study the room.

She’d been too annoyed to take stock of it on her other visit. And too preoccupied, she admitted with a slight frown. A man like that had a way of keeping a woman preoccupied. Now she noted the hunks of wood, small and large, the tools, the jars stuffed with brushes. There was a long worktable beneath the living room window. She wandered toward it, seeing that a few of those hunks of wood were works in progress.

Shrugging, she ran a finger over a piece of cherry that was scarred with grooves and gouges. Rude and primitive, just as she’d thought. It soothed her ruffled ego to be assured she’d been right about his lack of talent. Obviously a ruffian who’d made a momentary impression on the capricious art world.

Then she turned and saw the shelves.

They were crowded with his work. Long smooth columns of wood, beautifully shaped. A profile of a woman with long, flowing hair, a young child caught in gleeful laughter, lovers trapped endlessly in a first tentative kiss. She couldn’t stop herself from touching, nor from feeling. His work ranged from the passionate to the charming, from the bold to the delicate.

Fascinated, she crouched down to get a closer look at the pieces on the lower shelves. Was it possible, she wondered, that a man with such rough manners, with such cocky arrogance possessed the wit, the sensitivity, the compassion to create such lovely things out of blocks of wood?

With a half laugh Sydney reached for a carving of a tiny kangaroo with a baby peeking out of her pouch. It felt as smooth and as delicate as glass. Even as she replaced it with a little sigh, she spotted the miniature figurine. Cinderella, she thought, charmed as she held it in her fingertips. The pretty fairy-tale heroine was still dressed for the ball, but one foot was bare as Mikhail had captured her in her dash before the clock struck twelve. For a moment, Sydney thought she could almost see tears in the painted eyes.

“You like?”

She jolted, then stood up quickly, still nestling the figurine in her hand. “Yes—I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry for liking.” Mikhail rested a hip, now more conservatively covered in wheat-colored slacks, on the worktable. His hair had been brushed back and now curled damply nearly to his shoulders.

Still flustered, she set the miniature back on the shelf. “I meant I should apologize for touching your work.”

A smile tugged at his lips. It fascinated him that she could go from wide-eyed delight to frosty politeness in the blink of an eye. “Better to be touched than to sit apart, only to be admired. Don’t you think?”

It was impossible to miss the implication in the tone of his voice, in the look in his eyes. “That would depend.”

As she started by, he shifted, rose. His timing was perfect. She all but collided with him. “On what?”

She didn’t flush or stiffen or retreat. She’d become accustomed to taking a stand. “On whether one chooses to be touched.”

He grinned. “I thought we were talking about sculpture.”

So, she thought on a careful breath, she’d walked into that one. “Yes, we were. Now, we really will be late. If you’re ready, Mr. Stanislaski—”

“Mikhail.” He lifted a hand casually to flick a finger at the sapphire drop at her ear. “It’s easier.” Before she could reply, his gaze came back and locked on hers. Trapped in that one long stare, she wasn’t certain she could remember her own name. “You smell like an English garden at teatime,” he murmured. “Very cool, very appealing. And just a little too formal.”

It was too hot, she told herself. Much too hot and close. That was why she had difficulty breathing. It had nothing to do with him. Rather, she wouldn’t allow it to have anything to do with him. “You’re in my way.”

“I know.” And for reasons he wasn’t entirely sure of, he intended to stay there. “You’re used to brushing people aside.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with—”

“An observation,” he interrupted, amusing himself by toying with the ends of her hair. The texture was as rich as the color, he decided, pleased she had left it free for the evening. “Artists observe. You’ll find that some people don’t brush aside as quickly as others.” He heard her breath catch, ignored her defensive jerk as he cupped her chin in his hand. He’d been right about her skin—smooth as polished pearls. Patiently he turned her face from side to side. “Nearly perfect,” he decided. “Nearly perfect is better than perfect.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your eyes are too big, and your mouth is just a bit wider than it should be.”

Insulted, she slapped his hand away. It embarrassed and infuriated her that she’d actually expected a compliment. “My eyes and mouth are none of your business.”

“Very much mine,” he corrected. “I’m doing your face.”

When she frowned, a faint line etched between her brows. He liked it. “You’re doing what?”

“Your face. In rosewood, I think. And with your hair down like this.”

Again she pushed his hand away. “If you’re asking me to model for you, I’m afraid I’m not interested.”

“It doesn’t matter whether you are. I am.” He took her arm to lead her to the door.

“If you think I’m flattered—”

“Why should you be?” He opened the door, then stood just inside, studying her with apparent curiosity. “You were born with your face. You didn’t earn it. If I said you sang well, or danced well, or kissed well, you could be flattered.”

He eased her out, then closed the door. “Do you?” he asked, almost in afterthought.

Ruffled and irritated, she snapped back. “Do I what?”

“Kiss well?”

Her brows lifted. Haughty arches over frosty eyes. “The day you find out, you can be flattered.” Rather pleased with the line, she started down the hall ahead of him.

His fingers barely touched her—she would have sworn it. But in the space of a heartbeat her back was to the wall and she was caged between his arms, with his hands planted on either side of her head. Both shock and a trembling river of fear came before she could even think to be insulted.

Knowing he was being obnoxious, enjoying it, he kept his lips a few scant inches from hers. He recognized the curling in his gut as desire. And by God, he could deal with that. And her. Their breath met and tangled, and he smiled. Hers had come out in a quick, surprised puff.

“I think,” he said slowly, consideringly, “you have yet to learn how to kiss well. You have the mouth for it.” His gaze lowered, lingered there. “But a man would have to be patient enough to warm that blood up first. A pity I’m not patient.”

He was close enough to see her quick wince before her eyes went icy. “I think,” she said, borrowing his tone, “that you probably kiss very well. But a woman would have to be tolerant enough to hack through your ego first. Fortunately, I’m not tolerant.”

For a moment he stood where he was, close enough to swoop down and test both their theories. Then the smile worked over his face, curving his lips, brightening his eyes. Yes, he could deal with her. When he was ready.

“A man can learn patience, milaya, and seduce a woman to tolerance.”

She pressed against the wall, but like a cat backed into a corner, she was ready to swipe and spit. He only stepped back and cupped a hand over her elbow.

“We should go now, yes?”

“Yes.” Not at all sure if she was relieved or disappointed, she walked with him toward the stairs.

CHAPTER THREE

Margerite had pulled out all the stops. She knew it was a coup to have a rising and mysterious artist such as Stanislaski at her dinner party. Like a general girding for battle, she had inspected the floral arrangements, the kitchens, the dining room and the terraces. Before she was done, the caterers were cursing her, but Margerite was satisfied.

She wasn’t pleased when her daughter, along with her most important guest, was late.

Laughing and lilting, she swirled among her guests in a frothy gown of robin’s-egg blue. There was a sprinkling of politicians, theater people and the idle rich. But the Ukrainian artist was her coup de grace, and she was fretting to show him off.

And, remembering that wild sexuality, she was fretting to flirt.

The moment she spotted him, Margerite swooped.

“Mr. Stanislaski, how marvelous!” After shooting her daughter a veiled censorious look, she beamed.

“Mikhail, please.” Because he knew the game and played it at his will, Mikhail brought her hand to his lips and lingered over it. “You must forgive me for being late. I kept your daughter waiting.”

“Oh.” She fluttered, her hand resting lightly, possessively on his arm. “A smart woman will always wait for the right man.”

“Then I’m forgiven.”

“Absolutely.” Her fingers gave his an intimate squeeze. “This time. Now, you must let me introduce you around, Mikhail.” Linked with him, she glanced absently at her daughter. “Sydney, do mingle, darling.”

Mikhail shot a quick, wicked grin over his shoulder as he let Margerite haul him away.

He made small talk easily, sliding into the upper crust of New York society as seamlessly as he slid into the working class in Soho or his parents’ close-knit neighborhood in Brooklyn. They had no idea he might have preferred a beer with friends or coffee at his mother’s kitchen table.

He sipped champagne, admired the house with its cool white walls and towering windows, and complimented Margerite on her art collection.

And all the while he chatted, sipped and smiled, he watched Sydney.

Odd, he thought. He would have said that the sprawling elegance of the Long Island enclave was the perfect setting for her. Her looks, her demeanor, reminded him of glistening shaved ice in a rare porcelain bowl. Yet she didn’t quite fit. Oh, she smiled and worked the room as skillfully as her mother. Her simple black dress was as exclusive as any of the more colorful choices in the room. Her sapphires winked as brilliantly as any of the diamonds or emeralds.

But…it was her eyes, Mikhail realized. There wasn’t laughter in them, but impatience. It was as though she were thinking—let’s get this done and over with so I can get on to something important.

It made him smile. Remembering that he’d have the long drive back to Manhattan to tease her made the smile widen. It faded abruptly as he watched a tall blond man with football shoulders tucked into a silk dinner jacket kiss Sydney on the mouth.

Sydney smiled into a pair of light blue eyes under golden brows. “Hello, Channing.”

“Hello, yourself.” He offered a fresh glass of wine. “Where did Margerite find the wild horses?”

“I’m sorry?”

“To drag you out of that office.” His smile dispensed charm like penny candy. Sydney couldn’t help but respond.

“It wasn’t quite that drastic. I have been busy.”

“So you’ve told me.” He approved of her in the sleek black dress in much the same way he would have approved of a tasteful accessory for his home. “You missed a wonderful play the other night. It looks like Sondheim’s got another hit on his hands.” Never doubting her acquiescence, he took her arm to lead her into dinner. “Tell me, darling, when are you going to stop playing the career woman and take a break? I’m going up to the Hamptons for the weekend, and I’d love your company.”

Dutifully she forced her clamped teeth apart. There was no use resenting the fact he thought she was playing. Everyone did. “I’m afraid I can’t get away just now.” She took her seat beside him at the long glass table in the airy dining room. The drapes were thrown wide so that the garden seemed to spill inside with the pastel hues of early roses, late tulips and nodding columbine.

She wished the dinner had been alfresco so she could have sat among the blossoms and scented the sea air.

“I hope you don’t mind a little advice.”

Sydney nearly dropped her head into her hand. The chatter around them was convivial, glasses were clinking, and the first course of stuffed mushrooms was being served. She felt she’d just been clamped into a cell. “Of course not, Channing.”

“You can run a business or let the business run you.”

“Hmm.” He had a habit of stating his advice in clichés. Sydney reminded herself she should be used to it.

“Take it from someone with more experience in these matters.”

She fixed a smile on her face and let her mind wander.

“I hate to see you crushed under the heel of responsibility,” he went on. “And after all, we know you’re a novice in the dog-eat-dog world of real estate.” Gold cuff links, monogrammed, winked as he laid a hand on hers. His eyes were sincere, his mouth quirked in that I’m-only-looking-out-for-you smile. “Naturally, your initial enthusiasm will push you to take on more than is good for you. I’m sure you agree.”

Her mind flicked back. “Actually, Channing, I enjoy the work.”

“For the moment,” he said, his voice so patronizing she nearly stabbed him with her salad fork. “But when reality rushes in you may find yourself trampled under it. Delegate, Sydney. Hand the responsibilities over to those who understand them.”

If her spine had been any straighter, it would have snapped her neck. “My grandfather entrusted Hayward to me.”

“The elderly become sentimental. But I can’t believe he expected you to take it all so seriously.” His smooth, lightly tanned brow wrinkled briefly in what she understood was genuine if misguided concern. “Why, you’ve hardly attended a party in weeks. Everyone’s talking about it.”

“Are they?” She forced her lips to curve over her clenched teeth. If he offered one more shred of advice, she would have to upend the water goblet in his lap. “Channing, why don’t you tell me about the play?”

At the other end of the table, tucked between Margerite and Mrs. Anthony Lowell of the Boston Lowells, Mikhail kept a weather eye on Sydney. He didn’t like the way she had her head together with pretty boy. No, by God, he didn’t. The man was always touching her. Her hand, her shoulder. Her soft, white, bare shoulder. And she was just smiling and nodding, as though his words were a fascination in themselves.

Apparently the ice queen didn’t mind being pawed if the hands doing the pawing were as lily-white as her own.

Mikhail swore under his breath.

“I beg your pardon, Mikhail?”

With an effort, he turned his attention and a smile toward Margerite. “Nothing. The pheasant is excellent.”

“Thank you. I wonder if I might ask what Sydney’s commissioned you to sculpt.”

He flicked a black look down the length of the table. “I’ll be working on the project in Soho.”

“Ah.” Margerite hadn’t a clue what Hayward might own in Soho. “Will it be an indoor or outdoor piece?”

“Both. Who is the man beside Sydney? I don’t think I met him.”

“Oh, that’s Channing, Channing Warfield. The Warfields are old friends.”

“Friends,” he repeated, slightly mollified.

Conspiratorially Margerite leaned closer. “If I can confide, Wilhelmina Warfield and I are hoping they’ll make an announcement this summer. They’re such a lovely couple, so suitable. And since Sydney’s first marriage is well behind her—”

“First marriage?” He swooped down on that tidbit of information like a hawk on a dove. “Sydney was married before?”

“Yes, but I’m afraid she and Peter were too young and impetuous,” she told him, conveniently overlooking the family pressure that had brought the marriage about. “Now, Sydney and Channing are mature, responsible people. We’re looking forward to a spring wedding.”

Mikhail picked up his wine. There was an odd and annoying scratching in his throat. “What does this Channing Warfield do?”

“Do?” The question baffled her. “Why, the Warfields are in banking, so I suppose Channing does whatever one does in banking. He’s a devil on the polo field.”

“Polo,” Mikhail repeated with a scowl so dark Helena Lowell choked on her pheasant. Helpfully Mikhail gave her a sharp slap between the shoulder blades, then offered her her water goblet.

“You’re, ah, Russian, aren’t you, Mr. Stanislaski?” Helena asked. Images of Cossacks danced in her head.

“I was born in the Ukraine.”

“The Ukraine, yes. I believe I read something about your family escaping over the border when you were just a child.”

“We escaped in a wagon, over the mountains into Hungary, then into Austria and finally settled in New York.”

“A wagon.” Margerite sighed into her wine. “How romantic.”

Mikhail remembered the cold, the fear, the hunger. But he only shrugged. He doubted romance was always pretty, or comfortable.

Relieved that he looked approachable again, Helena Lowell began to ask him questions about art.

After an hour, he was glad to escape from the pretensions of the society matron’s art school jargon. Guests were treated to violin music, breezy terraces and moon-kissed gardens. His hostess fluttered around him like a butterfly, lashes batting, laughter trilling.

Margerite’s flirtations were patently obvious and didn’t bother him. She was a pretty, vivacious woman currently between men. Though he had privately deduced she shared little with her daughter other than looks, he considered her harmless, even entertaining. So when she offered to show him the rooftop patio, he went along.

The wind off the sound was playful and fragrant. And it was blessedly quiet following the ceaseless after-dinner chatter. From the rail, Mikhail could see the water, the curve of beach, the serene elegance of other homes tucked behind walls and circling gardens.

And he could see Sydney as she strolled to the shadowy corner of the terrace below with her arm tucked through Channing’s.

“My third husband built this house,” Margerite was saying. “He’s an architect. When we divorced, I had my choice between this house and the little villa in Nice. Naturally, with so many of my friends here, I chose this.” With a sigh, she turned to face him, leaning prettily on the rail. “I must say, I love this spot. When I give house parties people are spread out on every level, so it’s both cozy and private. Perhaps you’ll join us some weekend this summer.”

“Perhaps.” The answer was absent as he stared down at Sydney. The moonlight made her hair gleam like polished mahogany.

Margerite shifted, just enough so that their thighs brushed. Mikhail wasn’t sure if he was more surprised or more amused. But to save her pride, he smiled, easing away slowly. “You have a lovely home. It suits you.”

“I’d love to see your studio.” Margerite let the invitation melt into her eyes. “Where you create.”

“I’m afraid you’d find it cramped, hot and boring.”

“Impossible.” Smiling, she traced a fingertip over the back of his hand. “I’m sure I’d find nothing about you boring.”

Good God, the woman was old enough to be his mother, and she was coming on to him like a misty-eyed virgin primed for her first tumble. Mikhail nearly sighed, then reminded himself it was only a moment out of his life. He took her hand between both of his hands.

“Margerite, you’re charming. And I’m—” he kissed her fingers lightly “—unsuitable.”

She lifted a finger and brushed it over his cheek. “You underestimate yourself, Mikhail.”

No, but he realized how he’d underestimated her.

On the terrace below, Sydney was trying to find a graceful way to discourage Channing. He was attentive, dignified, solicitous, and he was boring her senseless.

It was her lack, she was sure. Any woman with half a soul would be melting under the attraction of a man like Channing. There was moonlight, music, flowers. The breeze in the leafy trees smelled of the sea and murmured of romance. Channing was talking about Paris, and his hand was skimming lightly over her bare back.

She wished she was home, alone, with her eyes crossing over a fat file of quarterly reports.

Taking a deep breath, she turned. She would have to tell him firmly, simply and straight out that he needed to look elsewhere for companionship. It was Sydney’s bad luck that she happened to glance up to see Mikhail on the rooftop with her mother just when he took Margerite’s hand to his lips.

Why the…she couldn’t think of anything vile enough to call him. Slime was too simple. Gigolo too slick. He was nuzzling up to her mother. Her mother. When only hours before he’d been…

Nothing, Sydney reminded herself and dismissed the tense scene in the Soho hallway from her mind. He’d been posturing and preening, that was all.

And she could have killed him for it.

As she watched, Mikhail backed away from Margerite, laughing. Then he looked down. The instant their eyes met, Sydney declared war.

She whirled on Channing, her face so fierce he nearly babbled. “Kiss me,” she demanded.

“Why, Sydney.”

“I said kiss me.” She grabbed him by the lapels and hauled him against her.

“Of course, darling.” Pleased with her change of heart, he cupped her shoulders in his hands and leaned down to her.

His lips were soft, warm, eager. They slanted over hers with practiced precision while his hands slid down her back. He tasted of after-dinner mints. Her body fit well against his.

And she felt nothing, nothing but an empty inner rage. Then a chill that was both fear and despair.

“You’re not trying, darling,” he whispered. “You know I won’t hurt you.”

No, he wouldn’t. There was nothing at all to fear from Channing. Miserable, she let him deepen the kiss, ordered herself to feel and respond. She felt his withdrawal even before his lips left hers. The twinges of annoyance and puzzlement.

“Sydney, dear, I’m not sure what the problem is.” He smoothed down his crinkled lapels. Marginally frustrated, he lifted his eyes. “That was like kissing my sister.”

“I’m tired, Channing,” she said to the air between them. “I should go in and get ready to go.”

Twenty minutes later, the driver turned the car toward Manhattan. In the back seat Sydney sat ramrod straight well over in her corner, while Mikhail sprawled in his. They didn’t bother to speak, not even the polite nonentities of two people who had attended the same function.

He was boiling with rage.

She was frigid with disdain.

She’d done it to annoy him, Mikhail decided. She’d let that silk-suited jerk all but swallow her whole just to make him suffer.

Why was he suffering? he asked himself. She was nothing to him.

No, she was something, he corrected, and brooded into the dark. His only problem was figuring out exactly what that something was.

Obviously, Sydney reflected, the man had no ethics, no morals, no shame. Here he was, just sitting there, all innocence and quiet reflection, after his disgraceful behavior. She frowned at the pale image of her own face in the window glass and tried to listen to the Chopin prelude on the stereo. Flirting so blatantly with a woman twenty years older. Sneering, yes positively sneering down from the rooftop.

And she’d hired him. Sydney let out a quiet, hissing breath from between her teeth. Oh, that was something she regretted. She’d let her concern, her determination to do the right thing, blind her into hiring some oversexed, amoral Russian carpenter.

Well, if he thought he was going to start playing patty-cake with her mother, he was very much mistaken.

She drew a breath, turned and aimed one steady glare. Mikhail would have sworn the temperature in the car dropped fifty degrees in a snap.

“You stay away from my mother.”

He slanted her a look from under his lashes and gracefully crossed his legs. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Boris. If you think I’m going to stand by and watch you put the moves on my mother, think again. She’s lonely and vulnerable. Her last divorce upset her and she isn’t over it.”

He said something short and sharp in his native tongue and closed his eyes.

Temper had Sydney sliding across the seat until she could poke his arm. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You want translation? The simplest is bullshit. Now shut up. I’m going to sleep.”

“You’re not going anywhere until we settle this. You keep your big, grimy hands off my mother, or I’ll turn that building you’re so fond of into a parking lot.”

His eyes slitted open. She found the glitter of angry eyes immensely satisfying. “A big threat from a small woman,” he said in a deceptively lazy voice. She was entirely too close for his comfort, and her scent was swimming in his senses, tangling his temper with something more basic. “You should concentrate on the suit, and let your mother handle her own.”

“Suit? What suit?”

“The banker who spent the evening sniffing your ankles.”

Her face flooded with color. “He certainly was not. He’s entirely too well mannered to sniff at my ankles or anything else. And Channing is my business.”

“So. You have your business, and I have mine. Now, let’s see what we have together.” One moment he was stretched out, and the next he had her twisted over his lap. Stunned, Sydney pressed her hands against his chest and tried to struggle out of his hold. He tightened it. “As you see, I have no manners.”

“Oh, I know it.” She tossed her head back, chin jutting. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He wished to hell he knew. She was rigid as an ice floe, but there was something incredible, and Lord, inevitable, about the way she fit into his arms. Though he was cursing himself, he held her close, close enough that he felt the uneven rise and fall of her breasts against his chest, tasted the sweet, wine-tipped flavor of her breath on his lips.

There was a lesson here, he thought grimly, and she was going to learn it.

“I’ve decided to teach you how to kiss. From what I saw from the roof, you did a poor job of it with the polo player.”

Shock and fury had her going still. She would not squirm or scream or give him the satisfaction of frightening her. His eyes were close and challenging. She thought she understood exactly how Lucifer would have looked as he walked through the gates of his own dark paradise.

“You conceited jerk.” Because she wanted to slug him, badly, she fisted her hands closed and looked haughtily down her small, straight nose. “There’s nothing you can teach me.”

“No?” He wondered if he’d be better off just strangling her and having done with it. “Let’s see then. Your Channing put his hands here. Yes?” He slid them over her shoulders. The quick, involuntary shudder chilled her skin. “You afraid of me, milaya?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” But she was, suddenly and deeply. She swallowed the fear as his thumbs caressed her bare skin.

“Tremble is good. It makes a man feel strong. I don’t think you trembled for this Channing.”

She said nothing and wondered if he knew his accent had thickened. It sounded exotic, erotic. He wondered he could speak at all with her watching him and waiting.

“His way isn’t mine,” he muttered. “I’ll show you.”

His fingers clamped around the back of her neck, pulled her face toward his. He heard her breath catch then shudder out when he paused only a fraction before their lips touched. Her eyes filled his vision, that wide, wary blue. Ignoring the twist in his gut, he smiled, turned his head just an inch and skimmed his lips over her jawline.

She bit back only part of the moan. Instinctively she tipped her head back, giving him access to the long, sensitive column of her throat.

What was he doing to her? Her mind raced frantically to catch up with her soaring body. Why didn’t he just get it over with so she could escape with her pride intact?

She’d kill him for this. Crush him. Destroy him.

And oh, it felt wonderful, delicious. Wicked.

He could only think she tasted of morning—cool, spring mornings when the dew slicked over green, green grass and new flowers. She shivered against him, her body still held stiffly away even as her head fell back in surrender.

Who was she? He nibbled lazily over to her ear and burned for her to show him.

A thousand, a million pinpricks of pleasure danced along her skin. Shaken by them, she started to pull away. But his hands slid down her back and melted her spine. All the while his lips teased and tormented, never, never coming against hers to relieve the aching pressure.

She wanted.

The slow, flickering heat kindling in the pit of her stomach.

She yearned.

Spreading, spreading through her blood and bone.

She needed.

Wave after wave of liquid fire lapping, cruising, flowing over her skin.

She took.

In a fire flash her system exploded. Mouth to mouth she strained against him, pressing ice to heat and letting it steam until the air was so thick with it, it clogged in her throat. Her fingers speared through his hair and fisted as she fed greedily on the stunning flavor of her own passion.

This. At last this. He was rough and restless and smelled of man instead of expensive colognes. The words he muttered were incomprehensible against her mouth. But they didn’t sound like endearments, reassurances, promises. They sounded like threats.

His mouth wasn’t soft and warm and eager, but hot and hard and ruthless. She wanted that, how she wanted the heedless and hasty meeting of lips and tongues.

His hands weren’t hesitant or practiced, but strong and impatient. It ran giddily through her brain that he would take what he wanted, when and where it suited him. The pleasure and power of it burst through her like sunlight. She choked out his name when he tugged her bodice down and filled his calloused hands with her breasts.

He was drowning in her. The ice had melted and he was over his head, too dazed to know if he should dive deeper or scrabble for the surface. The scent, the taste, oh Lord, the texture. Alabaster and silk and rose petals. Every fine thing a man could want to touch, to steal, to claim as his own. His hands raced over her as he fought for more.

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