The Stanislaski Series Collection, Volume 1

by Nora Roberts

  “I noticed you have several in your apartment.” She smiled, feeling slightly more relaxed as the conversation in the room picked up again to flow around them. “And the last time I was here the room looked like a florist’s shop.” She glanced around at the banks of cut flowers in vases, pots, baskets, even in a ceramic shoe. “So I settled on an African violet.”

  “I do have a weakness for flowers and growing things. Set it right there on the dresser, will you, dear? Between the roses and the carnations.”

  “She’s getting spoiled.” As Sydney moved to comply, the visiting daughter winked at her brother. “Flowers, presents, pampering. We’ll be lucky to ever get home-baked cookies again.”

  “Oh, I might have a batch or two left in me.” Mrs. Wolburg preened in her new crocheted bed jacket. “Mik tells me I’m getting a brand-new oven. Eye level, so I won’t have to bend and stoop.”

  “So I think I should get the first batch,” Mikhail said as he sniffed the roses. “The chocolate chip.”

  “Please.” Keely pressed a hand to her stomach. “I’m dieting. I’m getting murdered next week, and I have to look my best.” She noted Sydney’s stunned expression and grinned. “Death Stalk,” she explained. “My first TV movie. I’m the third victim of the maniacal psychopath. I get strangled in this really terrific negligee.”

  “You shouldn’t have left your windows unlocked,” Mrs. Wolburg told her, and Keely grinned again.

  “Well, that’s show biz.”

  Sydney waited until a break in the conversation, then made her excuses. Mikhail gave her a ten-second lead before he slipped a yellow rose out of a vase. “See you later, beautiful.” He kissed Mrs. Wolburg on the cheek and left her chuckling.

  In a few long strides, he caught up with Sydney at the elevators. “Hey. You look like you could use this.” He offered the flower.

  “It couldn’t hurt.” After sniffing the bloom, she worked up a smile. “Thanks.”

  “You want to tell me why you’re upset?”

  “I’m not upset.” She jabbed the down button again.

  “Never argue with an artist about your feelings.” Insistently he tipped back her chin with one finger. “I see fatigue and distress, worry and annoyance.”

  The ding of the elevator relieved her, though she knew he would step inside the crowded car with her. She frowned a little when she found herself pressed between Mikhail and a large woman carrying a suitcase-sized purse. Someone on the elevator had used an excess of expensive perfume. Fleetingly Sydney wondered if that shouldn’t be as illegal as smoking in a closed car.

  “Any Gypsies in your family?” she asked Mikhail on impulse.

  “Naturally.”

  “I’d rather you use a crystal ball to figure out the future than analyze my feelings at the moment.”

  “We’ll see what we can do.”

  The car stopped on each floor. People shuffled off or squeezed in. By the time they reached the lobby, Sydney was hard up against Mikhail’s side, with his arm casually around her waist. He didn’t bother to remove it after they’d stepped off. She didn’t bother to mention it.

  “The work’s going well,” he told her.

  “Good.” She didn’t care to think how much longer she’d be directly involved with the project.

  “The electrical inspection is done. Plumbing will perhaps take another week.” He studied her abstracted expression. “And we have decided to make the new roof out of blue cheese.”

  “Hmm.” She stepped outside, stopped and looked back at him. With a quick laugh, she shook her head. “That might look very distinctive—but risky with this heat.”

  “You were listening.”

  “Almost.” Absently she pressed fingers to her throbbing temple as her driver pulled up to the curb. “I’m sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  “Tell me.”

  It surprised her that she wanted to. She hadn’t been able to talk to her mother. Margerite would only be baffled. Channing—that was a joke. Sydney doubted that any of her friends would understand how she had become so attached to Hayward in such a short time.

  “There really isn’t any point,” she decided, and started toward her waiting car and driver.

  Did she think he would let her walk away, with that worry line between her brows and the tension knotted tight in her shoulders?

  “How about a lift home?”

  She glanced back. The ride home from her mother’s party was still a raw memory. But he was smiling at her in an easy, friendly fashion. Nonthreatening? No, he would never be that with those dark looks and untamed aura. But they had agreed on a truce, and it was only a few blocks.

  “Sure. We’ll drop Mr. Stanislaski off in Soho, Donald.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She took the precaution of sliding, casually, she hoped, all the way over to the far window. “Mrs. Wolburg looks amazingly well, considering,” she began.

  “She’s strong.” It was Mozart this time, he noted, low and sweet through the car speakers.

  “The doctor says she’ll be able to go home with her son soon.”

  “And you’ve arranged for the therapist to visit.” Sydney stopped passing the rose from hand to hand and looked at him. “She told me,” he explained. “Also that when she is ready to go home again, there will be a nurse to stay with her, until she is well enough to be on her own.”

  “I’m not playing Samaritan,” Sydney mumbled. “I’m just trying to do what’s right.”

  “I realize that. I realize, too, that you’re concerned for her. But there’s something more on your mind. Is it the papers and the television news?”

  Her eyes went from troubled to frigid. “I didn’t assume responsibility for Mrs. Wolburg’s medical expenses for publicity, good or bad. And I don’t—”

  “I know you didn’t.” He cupped a hand over one of her clenched ones. “Remember, I was there. I saw you with her.”

  Sydney drew a deep breath. She had to. She’d very nearly had a tirade, and a lost temper was hardly the answer. “The point is,” she said more calmly, “an elderly woman was seriously injured. Her pain shouldn’t become company politics or journalistic fodder. What I did, I did because I knew it was right. I just want to make sure the right thing continues to be done.”

  “You are president of Hayward.”

  “For the moment.” She turned to look out the window as they pulled up in front of the apartment building. “I see we’re making progress on the roof.”

  “Among other things.” Because he was far from finished, he leaned over her and opened the door on her side. For a moment, they were so close, his body pressed lightly to hers. She had an urge, almost desperate, to rub her fingers over his cheek, to feel the rough stubble he’d neglected to shave away. “I’d like you to come up,” he told her. “I have something for you.”

  Sydney caught her fingers creeping up and snatched them back. “It’s nearly six. I really should—”

  “Come up for an hour,” he finished. “Your driver can come back for you, yes?”

  “Yes.” She shifted away, not sure whether she wanted to get out or simply create some distance between them. “You can messenger your report over.”

  “I could.”

  He moved another inch. In defense, Sydney swung her legs out of the car. “All right then, but I don’t think it’ll take an hour.”

  “But it will.”

  She relented because she preferred spending an hour going over a report than sitting in her empty apartment thinking about the scheduled board meeting. After giving her driver instructions, she walked with Mikhail toward the building.

  “You’ve repaired the stoop.”

  “Tuesday. It wasn’t easy getting the men to stop sitting on it long enough.” He exchanged greetings with the three who were ranged across it now as Sydney passed through the aroma of beer and tobacco. “We can take the elevator. The inspection certificate is hardly dry.”

  She thought of the five long flights up.
“I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that.” She stepped in with him, waited while he pulled the open iron doors closed.

  “It has character now,” he said as they began the assent. “And you don’t worry that you’ll get in to get downstairs and spend the night inside.”

  “There’s good news.”

  He pulled the doors open again as the car slid to a smooth, quiet stop. In the hallway, the ceiling was gone, leaving bare joists and new wiring exposed.

  “The water damage from leaking was bad,” Mikhail said conversationally. “Once the roof is finished, we’ll replace.”

  “I’ve expected some complaints from the tenants, but we haven’t received a single one. Isn’t it difficult for everyone, living in a construction zone?”

  Mikhail jingled his keys. “Inconvenient. But everyone is excited and watches the progress. Mr. Stuben from the third floor comes up every morning before he leaves for work. Every day he says, ‘Mikhail, you have your work cut out for you.’” He grinned as he opened the door. “Some days I’d like to throw my hammer at him.” He stepped back and nudged her inside. “Sit.”

  Lips pursed, Sydney studied the room. The furniture had been pushed together in the center—to make it easier to work, she imagined. Tables were stacked on top of chairs, the rug had been rolled up. Under the sheet he’d tossed over his worktable were a variety of interesting shapes that were his sculptures, his tools, and blocks of wood yet to be carved.

  It smelled like sawdust, she thought, and turpentine.

  “Where?”

  He stopped on his way to the kitchen and looked back. After a quick study, he leaned into the jumble and lifted out an old oak rocker. One-handed, Sydney noted, and felt foolish and impressed.

  “Here.” After setting it on a clear spot, he headed back into the kitchen.

  The surface of the rocker was smooth as satin. When Sydney sat, she found the chair slipped around her like comforting arms. Ten seconds after she’d settled, she was moving it gently to and fro.

  “This is beautiful.”

  He could hear the faint creak as the rocker moved and didn’t bother to turn. “I made it for my sister years ago when she had a baby.” His voice changed subtly as he turned on the kitchen tap. “She lost the baby, Lily, after only a few months, and it was painful for Natasha to keep the chair.”

  “I’m sorry.” The creaking stopped. “I can’t think of anything worse for a parent to face.”

  “Because there is nothing.” He came back in, carrying a glass of water and a bottle. “Lily will always leave a little scar on the heart. But Tash has three children now. So pain is balanced with joy. Here.” He put the glass in her hand, then shook two aspirin out of the bottle. “You have a headache.”

  She frowned down at the pills he dropped into her palm. True, her head was splitting, but she hadn’t mentioned it. “I might have a little one,” she muttered. “How do you know?”

  “I can see it in your eyes.” He waited until she’d sipped and swallowed, then walked behind the chair to circle her temples with his fingers. “It’s not such a little one, either.”

  There was no doubt she should tell him to stop. And she would. Any minute. Unable to resist, she leaned back, letting her eyes close as his fingers stroked away the worst of the pain.

  “Is this what you had for me? Headache remedies?”

  Her voice was so quiet, so tired that his heart twisted a little. “No, I have something else for you. But it can wait until you’re feeling better. Talk to me, Sydney. Tell me what’s wrong. Maybe I can help.”

  “It’s something I have to take care of myself.”

  “Okay. Will that change if you talk to me?”

  No, she thought. It was her problem, her future. But what harm would it do to talk it out, to say it all out loud and hear someone else’s viewpoint?

  “Office politics.” She sighed as he began to massage the base of her neck. His rough, calloused fingers were as gentle as a mother’s. “I imagine they can be tricky enough when you have experience. All I have is the family name and my grandfather’s last wishes. The publicity on Mrs. Wolburg has left my position in the company very shaky. I assumed responsibility without going through channels or consulting legal. The board isn’t pleased with me.”

  His eyes had darkened, but his hands remained gentle. “Because you have integrity?”

  “Because I jumped the gun, so to speak. The resulting publicity only made things worse. The consensus is that someone with more savvy could have handled the Wolburg matter—that’s how it’s referred to at Hayward. The Wolburg matter in a quiet, tidy fashion. There’s a board meeting at noon on Friday, and they could very well request that I step down as president.”

  “And will you?”

  “I don’t know.” He was working on her shoulders now, competently, thoroughly. “I’d like to fight, draw the whole thing out. Then again, the company’s been in upheaval for over a year, and having the president and the board as adversaries won’t help Hayward. Added to that, my executive vice president and I are already on poor terms. He feels, perhaps justifiably, that he should be in the number one slot.” She laughed softly. “There are times I wish he had it.”

  “No, you don’t.” He resisted the urge to bend down and press his lips to the long, slender column of her neck. Barely. “You like being in charge, and I think you’re good at it.”

  She stopped rocking to turn her head and stare at him. “You’re the first person who’s ever said that to me. Most of the people who know me think I’m playing at this, or that I’m experiencing a kind of temporary insanity.”

  His hand slid lightly down her arm as he came around to crouch in front of her. “Then they don’t know you, do they?”

  There were so many emotions popping through her as she kept her eyes on his. But pleasure, the simple pleasure of being understood was paramount. “Maybe they don’t,” she murmured. “Maybe they don’t.”

  “I won’t give you advice.” He picked up one of her hands because he enjoyed examining it, the long, ringless fingers, the slender wrist, the smooth, cool skin. “I don’t know about office politics or board meetings. But I think you’ll do what’s right. You have a good brain and a good heart.”

  Hardly aware that she’d turned her hand over under his and linked them, she smiled. The connection was more complete than joined fingers, and she couldn’t understand it. This was support, a belief in her, and an encouragement she’d never expected to find.

  “Odd that I’d have to come to a Ukrainian carpenter for a pep talk. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” He looked back into her eyes. “Your headache’s gone.”

  Surprised, she touched her fingers to her temple. “Yes, yes it is.” In fact, she couldn’t remember ever feeling more relaxed. “You could make a fortune with those hands.”

  He grinned and slid them up her arms, pushing the sleeves of her jacket along so he could feel the bare flesh beneath. “It’s only a matter of knowing what to do with them, and when.” And he knew exactly how he wanted to use those hands on her. Unfortunately, the timing was wrong.

  “Yes, well…” It was happening again, those little licks of fire in the pit of her stomach, the trembling heat along her skin. “I really am grateful, for everything. I should be going.”

  “You have time yet.” His fingers glided back down her arms to link with hers. “I haven’t given you your present.”

  “Present?” He was drawing her slowly to her feet. Now they were thigh to thigh, her eyes level with his mouth. It was curved and close, sending her system into overdrive.

  He had only to lean down. Inches, bare inches. Imagining it nearly drove him crazy. Not an altogether unpleasant feeling, he discovered, this anticipation, this wondering. If she offered, and only when she offered, would he take.

  “Don’t you like presents, milaya?”

  His voice was like hot cream, pouring richly over her. “I…the report,” she said, remembering. “Weren’t
you going to give me your report?”

  His thumbs skimmed over her wrist and felt the erratic beat of her pulse. It was tempting, very tempting. “I can send the report. I had something else in mind.”

  “Something…” Her own mind quite simply shut down.

  He laughed, so delighted with her he wanted to kiss her breathless. Instead he released her hands and walked away. She didn’t move, not an inch as he strolled over to the shelves and tossed up the drop cloth. In a moment he was back, pressing the little Cinderella into her hand.

  “I’d like you to have this.”

  “Oh, but…” She tried, really tried to form a proper refusal. The words wouldn’t come.

  “You don’t like?”

  “No. I mean, yes, of course I like it, it’s exquisite. But why?” Her fingers were already curving possessively around it when she lifted her eyes to his. “Why would you give it to me?”

  “Because she reminds me of you. She’s lovely, fragile, unsure of herself.”

  The description had Sydney’s pleasure dimming. “Most people would term her romantic.”

  “I’m not most. Here, as she runs away, she doesn’t believe enough.” He stroked a finger down the delicate folds of the ball gown. “She follows the rules, without question. It’s midnight, and she was in the arms of her prince, but she breaks away and runs. Because that was the rule. And she is afraid, afraid to let him see beneath the illusion to the woman.”

  “She had to leave. She’d promised. Besides, she’d have been humiliated to have been caught there in rags and bare feet.”

  Tilting his head, Mikhail studied her. “Do you think he cared about her dress?”

  “Well, no, I don’t suppose it would have mattered to him.” Sydney let out an impatient breath as he grinned at her. It was ridiculous, standing here debating the psychology of a fairy-tale character. “In any case, it ended happily, and though I’ve nothing in common with Cinderella, the figurine’s beautiful. I’ll treasure it.”

  “Good. Now, I’ll walk you downstairs. You don’t want to be late for dinner with your mother.”

  “She won’t be there until eight-thirty. She’s always late.” Halfway through the door, Sydney stopped. “How did you know I was meeting my mother?”