The Stanislaski Series Collection, Volume 1

by Nora Roberts

  “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 a
bout 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.<
br />
  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.