by Nora Roberts
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.