by Nora Roberts
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 s
aid 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 sh
aped. 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?”