by Nora Roberts
“She told me, ah, two days ago. We had a drink uptown.”
Sydney turned completely around so that he was standing on one side of the threshold, she on the other. “You had drinks with my mother?” she asked, spacing each word carefully.
“Yes.” Lazily he leaned on the jamb. “Before you try to turn me into an iceberg, understand that I have no sexual interest in Margerite.”
“That’s lovely. Just lovely.” If she hadn’t already put the figurine into her purse, she might have thrown it in his face. “We agreed you’d leave my mother alone.”
“We agreed nothing,” he corrected. “And I don’t bother your mother.” There was little to be gained by telling her that Margerite had called him three times before he’d given in and met her. “It was a friendly drink, and after it was done, I think Margerite understood we are unsuitable for anything but friendship. Particularly,” he said, holding up a finger to block her interruption, “since I am very sexually interested in her daughter.”
That stopped her words cold. She swallowed, struggled for composure and failed. “You are not, all you’re interested in is scoring a few macho points.”
Something flickered in his eyes. “Would you like to come back inside so that I can show you exactly what I’m interested in?”
“No.” Before she could stop herself, she’d taken a retreating step. “But I would like you to have the decency not to play games with my mother.”
He wondered if Margerite would leap so quickly to her daughter’s defense, or if Sydney would understand that her mother was only interested in a brief affair with a younger man—something he’d made very clear he wanted no part in.
“Since I would hate for your headache to come back after I went to the trouble to rid you of it, I will make myself as clear as I can. I have no intention of becoming romantically, physically or emotionally involved with your mother. Does that suit you?”
“It would if I could believe you.”
He didn’t move, not a muscle, but she sensed he had cocked, like the hammer on a gun. His voice was low and deadly. “I don’t lie.”
She nodded, cool as an ice slick. “Just stick to hammering nails, Mikhail. We’ll get along fine. And I can find my own way down.” She didn’t whirl away, but turned slowly and walked to the elevator. Though she didn’t look back as she stepped inside, she was well aware that he watched her go.
* * *
At noon sharp, Sydney sat at the head of the long walnut table of the boardroom. Ten men and two women were ranged down either side with crystal tumblers at their elbows, pads and pens at the ready. Heavy brocade drapes were drawn back to reveal a wall of window, tinted to cut the glare of sunlight—had there been any. Instead there was a thick curtain of rain, gray as soot. She could just make out the silhouette of the Times Building. Occasionally a murmur of thunder sneaked in through the stone and glass.
The gloom suited her. Sydney felt exactly like the reckless child summoned to the principal’s office.
She scanned the rows of faces, some of whom had belonged in this office, at this very table, since before she’d been born. Perhaps they would be the toughest to sway, those who thought of her as the little girl who had come to Hayward to bounce on Grandfather’s knee.
Then there was Lloyd, halfway down the gleaming surface, his face so smug, so confident, she wanted to snarl. No, she realized as his gaze flicked to hers and held. She wanted to win.
“Ladies, gentlemen.” The moment the meeting was called to order she rose. “Before we begin discussion of the matter so much on our minds, I’d like to make a statement.”
“You’ve already made your statement to the press, Sydney,” Lloyd pointed out. “I believe everyone here is aware of your position.”
There was a rippling murmur, some agreement, some dissent. She let it fade before she spoke again. “Nonetheless, as the president, and the major stockholder of Hayward, I will have my say, then the meeting will open for discussion.”
Her throat froze as all eyes fixed on her. Some were patient, some indulgent, some speculative.
“I understand the board’s unease with the amount of money allocated to the Soho project. Of Hayward’s holdings, this building represents a relatively small annual income. However, this small income has been steady. Over the last ten years, this complex has needed—or I should say received—little or no maintenance. You know, of course, from the quarterly reports just how much this property has increased in value in this space of time. I believe, from a purely practical standpoint, that the money I allocated is insurance to protect our investment.”
She wanted to stop, to pick up her glass and drain it, but knew the gesture would make her seem as nervous as she was.
“In addition, I believe Hayward has a moral, an ethical and a legal obligation to insure that our tenants receive safe and decent housing.”
“That property could have been made safe and decent for half of the money budgeted,” Lloyd put in.
Sydney barely glanced at him. “You’re quite right. I believe my grandfather wanted more than the minimum required for Hayward. He wanted it to be the best, the finest. I know I do. I won’t stand here and quote you figures. They’re in your folders and can be discussed at length in a few moments. Yes, the budget for the Soho project is high, and so are Hayward standards.”
“Sydney.” Howard Keller, one of her grandfather’s oldest associates spoke gently. “None of us here doubt your motives or your enthusiasm. Your judgment, however, in this, and in the Wolburg matter, is something we must consider. The publicity over the past few days has been extremely detrimental. Hayward stock is down a full three percent. That’s in addition to the drop we suffered when you took your position as head of the company. Our stockholders are, understandably, concerned.”
“The Wolburg matter,” Sydney said with steel in her voice, “is an eighty-year-old woman with a fractured hip. She fell because the floor in her kitchen, a floor we neglected to replace, was unsafe.”
“It’s precisely that kind of reckless statement that will open Hayward up to a major lawsuit,” Lloyd put in. He kept his tone the quiet sound of calm reason. “Isn’t it the function of insurance investigators and legal to come to a decision on this, after a careful, thoughtful overview of the situation? We can’t run our company on emotion and impulse. Miss Hayward’s heart might have been touched by the Wolburg matter, but there are procedures, channels to be used. Now that the press has jumped on this—”
“Yes,” she broke in. “It’s very interesting how quickly the press learned about the accident. It’s hard to believe that only days after an unknown, unimportant old lady falls in her downtown apartment, the press is slapping Hayward in the headlines.”
“I would imagine she called them herself,” Lloyd said.
Her smile was icy. “Would you?”
“I don’t think the issue is how the press got wind of this,” Mavis Trelane commented. “The point is they did, and the resulting publicity has been shaded heavily against us, putting Hayward in a very vulnerable position. The stockholders want a solution quickly.”
“Does anyone here believe Hayward is not culpable for Mrs. Wolburg’s injuries?”
“It’s not what we believe,” Mavis corrected. “And none of us could make a decision on that until a full investigation into the incident. What is relevant is how such matters are handled.”
She frowned when a knock interrupted her.
“I’m sorry,” Sydney said, and moved away from the table to walk stiffly to the door. “Janine, I explained we weren’t to be interrupted.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The secretary, who had thrown her loyalty to Sydney five minutes after hearing the story, kept her voice low. “This is important. I just got a call from a friend of mine. He works on Channel 6. Mrs. Wolburg’s going to make a statement on the Noon News. Any minute now.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Sydney nodded. “Thank you, Janine.”
“Good luck, Ms. Haywa
rd.”
Sydney smiled and shut the door. She was going to need it. Face composed, she turned back to the room. “I’ve just been told that Mrs. Wolburg is about to make a televised statement. I’m sure we’re all interested in what she has to say. So with your permission, I’ll turn on the set.” Rather than waiting for the debate to settle it, Sydney picked up the remote and aimed it at the console in the corner.
While Lloyd was stating that the board needed to concern themselves with the facts and not a publicity maneuver, Channel 6 cut from commercial to Mrs. Wolburg’s hospital bed.
The reporter, a pretty woman in her early twenties with eyes as sharp as nails, began the interview by asking the patient to explain how she came by her injury.
Several members of the board shook their heads and muttered among themselves as she explained about tripping on the ripped linoleum and how the noise of the construction had masked her calls for help.
Lloyd had to stop his lips from curving as he imagined Sydney’s ship springing another leak.
“And this floor,” the reporter continued. “Had the condition of it been reported to Hayward?”
“Oh, sure. Mik—that’s Mikhail Stanislaski, the sweet boy up on the fifth floor wrote letters about the whole building.”
“And nothing was done?”
“Nope, not a thing. Why Mr. and Mrs. Kowalski, the young couple in 101, had a piece of plaster as big as a pie plate fall out of their ceiling. Mik fixed it.”
“So the tenants were forced to take on the repairs themselves, due to Hayward’s neglect.”
“I guess you could say that. Up until the last few weeks.”
“Oh, and what happened in the last few weeks?”
“That would be when Sydney—that’s Miss Hayward—took over the company. She’s the granddaughter of old man Hayward. Heard he’d been real sick the last couple years. Guess things got away from him. Anyway, Mik went to see her, and she came out herself that very day to take a look. Not two weeks later, and the building was crawling with construction workers. We got new windows. Got a new roof going on right this minute. All the plumbing’s being fixed, too. Every single thing Mik put on the list is going to be taken care of.”
“Really? And did all this happen before or after your injury?”
“Before,” Mrs. Wolburg said, a bit impatient with the sarcasm. “I told you all that hammering and sawing was the reason nobody heard me when I fell. And I want you to know that Miss Hayward was there checking the place out again that day. She and Mik found me. She sat right there on the floor and talked to me, brought me a pillow and a blanket and stayed with me until the ambulance came. Came to the hospital, too, and took care of all my medical bills. Been to visit me three times since I’ve been here.”
“Wouldn’t you say that Hayward, and therefore Sydney Hayward, is responsible for you being here?”
“Bad eyes and a hole in the floor’s responsible,” she said evenly. “And I’ll tell you just what I told those ambulance chasers who’ve been calling my family. I’ve got no reason to sue Hayward. They’ve been taking care of me since the minute I was hurt. Now maybe if they’d dallied around and tried to make like it wasn’t any of their doing, I’d feel differently. But they did what was right, and you can’t ask for better than that. Sydney’s got ethics, and as long as she’s in charge I figure Hayward has ethics, too. I’m pleased to live in a building owned by a company with a conscience.”
Sydney stayed where she was after the interview ended. Saying nothing, she switched off the set and waited.
“You can’t buy that kind of goodwill,” Mavis decided. “Your method may have been unorthodox, Sydney, and I don’t doubt there will still be some backwash to deal with, but all in all, I think the stockholders will be pleased.”
The discussion labored on another thirty minutes, but the crisis had passed.
The moment Sydney was back in her own office, she picked up the phone. The receiver rang in her ear twelve times, frustrating her, before it was finally picked up on the other end.
“Yeah?”
“Mikhail?”
“Nope, he’s down the hall.”
“Oh, well then, I—”
“Hang on.” The phone rattled, clanged then clattered as the male voice boomed out Mikhail’s name. Feeling like a fool, Sydney stayed on the line.
“Hello?”
“Mikhail, it’s Sydney.”
He grinned and grabbed the jug of ice water out of the refrigerator. “Hello, anyway.”
“I just saw the news. I suppose you knew.”
“Caught it on my lunch break. So?”
“You asked her to do it?”
“No, I didn’t.” He paused long enough to gulp down about a pint of water. “I told her how things were, and she came up with the idea herself. It was a good one.”
“Yes, it was a good one. And I owe you.”
“Yeah?” He thought about it. “Okay. Pay up.”
Why she’d expected him to politely refuse to take credit was beyond her. “Excuse me?”
“Pay up, Hayward. You can have dinner with me on Sunday.”
“Really, I don’t see how one has to do with the other.”
“You owe me,” he reminded her, “and that’s what I want. Nothing fancy, okay? I’ll pick you up around four.”
“Four? Four in the afternoon for dinner?”
“Right.” He pulled a carpenter’s pencil out of his pocket. “What’s your address?”
He let out a low whistle as she reluctantly rattled it off. “Nice.” He finished writing it on the wall. “Got a phone number? In case something comes up.”
She was scowling, but she gave it to him. “I want to make it clear that—”
“Make it clear when I pick you up. I’m on the clock, and you’re paying.” On impulse he outlined her address and phone number with a heart. “See you Sunday. Boss.”
CHAPTER SIX
Sydney studied her reflection in the cheval glass critically and cautiously. It wasn’t as if it were a date. She’d reminded herself of that several hundred times over the weekend. It was more of a payment, and no matter how she felt about Mikhail, she owed him. Haywards paid their debts.
Nothing formal. She’d taken him at his word there. The little dress was simple, its scooped neck and thin straps a concession to the heat. The nipped in waist was flattering, the flared skirt comfortable. The thin, nearly weightless material was teal blue. Not that she’d paid any attention to his suggestion she wear brighter colors.
Maybe the dress was new, purchased after a frantic two hours of searching—but that was only because she’d wanted something new.
The short gold chain with its tiny links and the hoops at her ears were plain but elegant. She’d spent longer than usual on her makeup, but that was only because she’d been experimenting with some new shades of eyeshadow.
After much debate, she’d opted to leave her hair down. Then, of course, she’d had to fool with it until the style suited her. Fluffed out, skimming just above her shoulders seemed casual enough to her. And sexy. Not that she cared about being sexy tonight, but a woman was entitled to a certain amount of vanity.
She hesitated over the cut-glass decanter of perfume, remembering how Mikhail had described her scent. With a shrug, she touched it to pulse points. It hardly mattered if it appealed to him. She was wearing it for herself.
Satisfied, she checked the contents of her purse, then her watch. She was a full hour early. Blowing out a long breath, she sat down on the bed. For the first time in her life, she actively wished for a drink.
An hour and fifteen minutes later, after she had wandered through the apartment, plumping pillows, rearranging statuary then putting it back where it had been in the first place, he knocked on the door. She stopped in the foyer, found she had to fuss with her hair another moment, then pressed a hand to her nervous stomach. Outwardly composed, she opened the door.
It didn’t appear he’d worried overmuch about his atti
re. The jeans were clean but faded, the high-tops only slightly less scuffed than his usual work boots. His shirt was tucked in—a definite change—and was a plain, working man’s cotton the color of smoke. His hair flowed over the collar, so black, so untamed no woman alive could help but fantasize about letting her fingers dive in.
He looked earthy, a little wild, and more than a little dangerous.
And he’d brought her a tulip.
“I’m late.” He held out the flower, thinking she looked as cool and delicious as a sherbert parfait in a crystal dish. “I was working on your face.”
“You were—what?”
“Your face.” He slid a hand under her chin, his eyes narrowing in concentration. “I found the right piece of rosewood and lost track of time.” As he studied, his fingers moved over her face as they had the wood, searching for answers. “You will ask me in?”
Her mind, empty as a leaky bucket, struggled to fill again. “Of course. For a minute.” She stepped back, breaking contact. “I’ll just put this in water.”
When she left him, Mikhail let his gaze sweep the room. It pleased him. This was not the formal, professionally decorated home some might have expected of her. She really lived here, among the soft colors and quiet comfort. Style was added by a scattering of Art Nouveau, in the bronzed lamp shaped like a long, slim woman, and the sinuous etched flowers on the glass doors of a curio cabinet displaying a collection of antique beaded bags.
He noted his sculpture stood alone in a glossy old shadow box, and was flattered.
She came back, carrying the tulip in a slim silver vase.
“I admire your taste.”
She set the vase atop the curio. “Thank you.”
“Nouveau is sensuous.” He traced a finger down the flowing lines of the lamp. “And rebellious.”
She nearly frowned before she caught herself. “I find it attractive. Graceful.”
“Graceful, yes. Also powerful.”
She didn’t care for the way he was smiling at her, as if he knew a secret she didn’t. And that the secret was her. “Yes, well, I’m sure as an artist you’d agree art should have power. Would you like a drink before we go?”