by Nora Roberts
“It was a mistake,” Mikhail said gently.
“Yes, it was. One I made, one I was responsible for. I lost my closest friend, and before it was over, all the love was gone. There were only arguments and accusations. I was frigid, why shouldn’t he have turned to someone else for a little warmth? But we kept up appearances. That was expected. And when we divorced, we did so in a very cold, very controlled, very civilized manner. I couldn’t be a wife to him, Mikhail.”
“It’s not the same for us.” He went to her.
“No, it’s not. And I won’t let it be.”
“You’re hurt because of something that happened to you, not something you did.” He caught her face in his hands when she shook her head. “Yes. You need to let go of it, and trust what we have. I’ll give you time.”
“No.” Desperate, she clamped her hands on his wrists. “Don’t you see it’s the same thing? You love me, so you expect me to marry you, because that’s what you want—what you think is best.”
“Not best,” he said, giving her a quick shake. “Right. I need to share my life with you. I want to live with you, make babies with you. Watch them grow. There’s a family inside us, Sydney.”
She jerked away. He wouldn’t listen, she thought. He wouldn’t understand. “Marriage and family aren’t in my plans,” she said, suddenly cold. “You’re going to have to accept that.”
“Accept? You love me. I’m good enough for that. Good enough for you to take to your bed, but not for changing plans. All because you once followed rules instead of your heart.”
“What I’m following now is my common sense.” She walked by him to the door. “I’m sorry, I can’t give you what you want.”
“You will not go home alone.”
“I think it’ll be better if I leave.”
“You want to leave, you leave.” He stalked over to wrench the door open. “But I’ll take you.”
* * *
It wasn’t until she lay teary and fretful in her bed that she realized she still wore his ring.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It wasn’t that she buried herself in work over the next two days, it was that work buried her. Sydney only wished it had helped. Keeping busy was supposed to be good for the morale. So why was hers flat on its face?
She closed the biggest deal of her career at Hayward, hired a new secretary to take the clerical weight off Janine and handled a full-staff meeting. Hayward stock had climbed three full points in the past ten days. The board was thrilled with her.
And she was miserable.
“An Officer Stanislaski on two, Ms. Hayward,” her new secretary said through the intercom.
“Stan—oh.” Her spirits did a jig, then settled. Officer. “Yes, I’ll take it. Thank you.” Sydney pasted on a smile for her own peace of mind. “Alex?”
“Hey, pretty lady. Thought you’d want to be the first to know. They just brought your old pal Lloyd Bingham in for questioning.”
Her smiled faded. “I see.”
“The insurance investigator took your advice and kept an eye on him. He met with a couple of bad numbers yesterday, passed some bills. Once they were picked up, they sang better than Springsteen.”
“Then Lloyd did hire someone to vandalize the building.”
“So they say. I don’t think you’re going to have any trouble from him for a while.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“You were pretty sharp, homing in on him. Brains and beauty,” he said with a sigh that nearly made her smile again. “Why don’t we take off to Jamaica for a couple of days? Drive Mikhail crazy?”
“I think he’s already mad enough.”
“Hey, he’s giving you a hard time? Just come to Uncle Alex.” When she didn’t respond, the teasing note dropped out of his voice. “Don’t mind Mik, Sydney. He’s got moods, that’s all. It’s the artist. He’s nuts about you.”
“I know.” Her fingers worried the files on her desk. “Maybe you could give him a call, tell him the news.”
“Sure. Anything else you want me to pass on?”
“Tell him…no,” she decided. “No, I’ve already told him. Thanks for calling, Alex.”
“No problem. Let me know if you change your mind about Jamaica.”
She hung up, wishing she felt as young as Alex had sounded. As happy. As easy. But then Alex wasn’t in love. And he hadn’t punched a hole in his own dreams.
Is that what she’d done? Sydney wondered as she pushed away from her desk. Had she sabotaged her own yearnings? No, she’d stopped herself, and the man she loved from making a mistake. Marriage wasn’t always the answer. She had her own example to prove it. And her mother’s. Once Mikhail had cooled off, he’d accept her position, and they could go on as they had before.
Who was she kidding?
He was too stubborn, too bullheaded, too damn sure his way was the right way to back down for an instant.
And what if he said all or nothing? What would she do then? Snatching up a paper clip, she began to twist it as she paced the office. If it was a matter of giving him up and losing him, or giving in and risking losing him…
God, she needed someone to talk to. Since it couldn’t be Mikhail, she was left with pitifully few choices. Once she would have taken her problems to Peter, but that was…
She stopped, snapping the mangled metal in her fingers. That was the source of the problem. And maybe, just maybe, the solution.
Without giving herself time to think, she rushed out of her office and into Janine’s. “I have to leave town for a couple of days,” she said without preamble.
Janine was already rising from behind her new desk. “But—”
“I know it’s sudden, and inconvenient, but it can’t be helped. There’s nothing vital pending at the moment, so you should be able to handle whatever comes in. If you can’t, then it has to wait.”
“Sydney, you have three appointments tomorrow.”
“You take them. You have the files, you have my viewpoint. As soon as I get to where I’m going, I’ll call in.”
“But, Sydney.” Janine scurried to the door as Sydney strode away. “Where are you going?”
“To see an old friend.”
* * *
Less than an hour after Sydney had rushed from her office, Mikhail stormed in. He’d had it. He’d given the woman two days to come to her senses, and she was out of time. They were going to have this out and have it out now.
He breezed by the new secretary with a curt nod and pushed open Sydney’s door.
“Excuse me. Sir, excuse me.”
Mikhail whirled on the hapless woman. “Where the hell is she?”
“Ms. Hayward is not in the office,” she said primly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to—”
“If not here, where?”
“I’ll handle this, Carla,” Janine murmured from the doorway.
“Yes, ma’am.” Carla made her exit quickly and with relief.
“Ms. Hayward’s not here, Mr. Stanislaski. Is there something I can do for you?”
“Tell me where she is.”
“I’m afraid I can’t.” The look in his eyes had her backing up a step. “I only know she’s out of town for a day or two. She left suddenly and didn’t tell me where she was going.”
“Out of town?” He scowled at the empty desk, then back at Janine. “She doesn’t leave her work like this.”
“I admit it’s unusual. But I got the impression it was important. I’m sure she’ll call in. I’ll be happy to give her a message for you.”
He said something short and hard in Ukrainian and stormed out again.
“I think I’d better let you tell her that yourself,” Janine murmured to the empty room.
* * *
Twenty-four hours after leaving her office, Sydney stood on a shady sidewalk in Georgetown, Washington, D.C. A headlong rush of adrenaline had brought her this far, far enough to have her looking at the home where Peter had settled when he’d relocated after the divorce.<
br />
The impulsive drive to the airport, the quick shuttle from city to city had been easy enough. Even the phone call to request an hour of Peter’s time hadn’t been so difficult. But this, this last step was nearly impossible.
She hadn’t seen him in over three years, and then it had been across a wide table in a lawyer’s office. Civilized, God, yes, they’d been civilized. And strangers.
It was foolish, ridiculous, taking off on this kind of tangent. Talking to Peter wouldn’t change anything. Nothing could. Yet she found herself climbing the stairs to the porch of the lovely old row house, lifting the brass knocker and letting it rap on the door.
He answered himself, looking so much the same that she nearly threw out her hands to him as she would have done once. He was tall and leanly built, elegantly casual in khakis and a linen shirt. His sandy hair was attractively rumpled. But the green eyes didn’t light with pleasure, instead remaining steady and cool.
“Sydney,” he said, backing up to let her inside.
The foyer was cool and light, speaking subtly in its furnishings and artwork of discreet old money. “I appreciate you seeing me like this, Peter.”
“You said it was important.”
“To me.”
“Well, then.” Knowing nothing else to say, he ushered her down the hall and into a sitting room. Manners sat seamlessly on both of them, causing her to make the right comments about the house, and him to parry them while offering her a seat and a drink.
“You’re enjoying Washington, then.”
“Very much.” He sipped his own wine while she simply turned her glass around and around in her hand. She was nervous. He knew her too well not to recognize the signs. And she was as lovely as ever. It hurt. He hated the fact that it hurt just to look at her. And the best way to get past the pain was to get to the point.
“What is it I can do for you, Sydney?”
Strangers, she thought again as she looked down at her glass. They had known each other all of their lives, had been married for nearly three years, and were strangers. “It’s difficult to know where to start.”
He leaned back in his chair and gestured. “Pick a spot.”
“Peter, why did you marry me?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“I want to know why you married me.”
Whatever he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been this. Shifting, he drank again. “For several of the usual reasons, I suppose.”
“You loved me?”
His eyes flashed to hers. “You know I loved you.”
“I know we loved each other. You were my friend.” She pressed her lips together. “My best friend.”
He got up to pour more wine. “We were children.”
“Not when we married. We were young, but we weren’t children. And we were still friends. I don’t know how it all went so wrong, Peter, or what I did to ruin it so completely, but—”
“You?” He stared, the bottle in one hand, the glass in the other. “What do you mean you ruined it?”
“I made you unhappy, miserably unhappy. I know I failed in bed, and it all spilled over into the rest until you couldn’t even bear to be around me.”
“You didn’t want me to touch you,” he shot back. “Damn it, it was like making love to—”
“An iceberg,” she finished flatly. “So you said.”
Fighting guilt, he set his glass down. “I said a lot of things, so did you. I thought I’d gotten past most of it until I heard your voice this afternoon.”
“I’m sorry.” She rose, her body and voice stiff to compensate for shattered pride. “I’ve just made it worse coming here. I am sorry, Peter, I’ll go.”
“It was like making love with my sister.” The words burst out and stopped her before she crossed the room. “My pal. Damn, Sydney, I couldn’t…” The humiliation of it clawed at him again. “I could never get beyond that, and make you, well, a wife. It unmanned me. And I took it out on you.”
“I thought you hated me.”
He slapped the bottle back on the table. “It was easier to try to hate you than admit I couldn’t arouse either one of us. That I was inadequate.”
“But I was.” Baffled, she took a step toward him. “I know I was useless to you in bed—before you told me, I knew it. And you had to go elsewhere for what I couldn’t give you.”
“I cheated on you,” he said flatly. “I lied and cheated my closest friend. I hated the way you’d started to look at me, the way I started to look at myself. So I went out to prove my manhood elsewhere, and hurt you. When you found out, I did the manly thing and turned the blame on you. Hell, Sydney, we were barely speaking to each other by that time. Except in public.”
“I know. And I remember how I reacted, the hateful things I said to you. I let pride cost me a friend.”
“I lost a friend, too. I’ve never been sorrier for anything in my life.” It cost him to walk to her, to take her hand. “You didn’t ruin anything, Syd. At least not alone.”
“I need a friend, Peter. I very badly need a friend.”
He brushed a tear away with his thumb. “Willing to give me another shot?” Smiling a little, he took out his handkerchief. “Here. Blow your nose and sit down.”
She did, clinging to his hand. “Was that the only reason it didn’t work. Because we couldn’t handle the bedroom?”
“That was a big one. Other than that, we’re too much alike. It’s too easy for us to step behind breeding and let a wound bleed us dry. Hell, Syd, what were we doing getting married?”
“Doing what everyone told us.”
“There you go.”
Comforted, she brought his hand to her cheek. “Are you happy, Peter?”
“I’m getting there. How about you? President Hayward.”
She laughed. “Were you surprised?”
“Flabbergasted. I was so proud of you.”
“Don’t. You’ll make me cry again.”
“I’ve got a better idea.” He kissed her forehead. “Come out in the kitchen. I’ll fix us a sandwich and you can tell me what you’ve been up to besides big business.”
It was almost easy. There was some awkwardness, little patches of caution, but the bond that had once held them together had stretched instead of broken. Slowly, carefully, they were easing the tension on it.
Over rye bread and coffee, she tried to tell him the rest. “Have you ever been in love, Peter?”
“Marsha Rosenbloom.”
“That was when we were fourteen.”
“And she’d already given up a training bra,” he said with his mouth full. “I was deeply in love.” Then he smiled at her. “No, I’ve escaped that particular madness.”
“If you were, if you found yourself in love with someone, would you consider marriage again?”
“I don’t know. I’d like to think I’d do a better job of it, but I don’t know. Who is he?”
Stalling, she poured more coffee. “He’s an artist. A carpenter.”
“Which?”
“Both. He sculpts, and he builds. I’ve only known him a little while, just since June.”
“Moving quick, Sydney?”
“I know. That’s part of the problem. Everything moves fast with Mikhail. He’s so bold and sure and full of emotion. Like his work, I suppose.”
As two and two began to make four, his brows shot up. “The Russian?”
“Ukrainian,” she corrected automatically.
“Good God, Stanislaski, right? There’s a piece of his in the White House.”
“Is there?” She gave Peter a bemused smile. “He didn’t mention it. He took me home to meet his family, this wonderful family, but he didn’t tell me his work’s in the White House. It shows you where his priorities lie.”
“And you’re in love with him.”
“Yes. He wants to marry me.” She shook her head. “I got two proposals in the same night. One from Mikhail, and one from Channing Warfield.”
“Lord, Sydney, not Channing. He’
s not your type.”
She shoved the coffee aside to lean closer. “Why?”
“In the first place he’s nearly humorless. He’d bore you mindless. The only thing he knows about Daddy’s business is how to take clients to lunch. And his only true love is his tailor.”
She really smiled. “I’ve missed you, Peter.”
He took her hand again. “What about your big, bold artist?”
“He doesn’t have a tailor, or take clients to lunch. And he makes me laugh. Peter, I couldn’t bear to marry him and have it fall apart on me again.”
“I can’t tell you if it’s right. And if I were you, I wouldn’t listen to anyone’s good-intentioned advice this time around.”
“But you’ll give me some anyway?”
“But I’ll give you some anyway,” he agreed, and felt years drop away. “Don’t judge whatever you have with him by the mess we made. Just ask yourself a couple of questions. Does he make you happy? Do you trust him? How do you imagine your life with him? How do you imagine it without him?”
“And when I have the answers?”
“You’ll know what to do.” He kissed the hand joined with his. “I love you, Sydney.”
“I love you, too.”
* * *
Answer the questions, she thought as she pushed the elevator button in Mikhail’s lobby. It was twenty-four hours since Peter had listed them, but she hadn’t allowed herself to think of them. Hadn’t had to, she corrected as she stepped inside the car. She already knew the answers.
Did he make her happy? Yes, wildly happy.
Did she trust him? Without reservation.
Her life with him? A roller coaster of emotions, demands, arguments, laughter, frustration.