Luring a Lady (10 page)

“That is Ivan,” Yuri said, clucking to the puppy. “He is only a baby.” He sighed a little for his old mutt Sasha who had died peacefully at the age of fifteen six months before. “Alex brings him home from pound.”

“Saved you from walking the last mile, right, Ivan?” Mikhail bent down to ruffle fur. Ivan thumped his tail while giving Sydney nervous looks. “He is named for Ivan the Terrible, but he's a coward.”

“He's just shy,” Sydney corrected, then gave in to need and crouched down. She'd always wanted a pet, but boarding schools
didn't permit them. “There, aren't you sweet?” The dog trembled visibly for a moment when she stroked him, then began to lick the toes that peeked out through her sandals.

Mikhail began to think the pup had potential.

“What kind is he?” she asked.

“He is part Russian wolfhound,” Yuri declared.

“With plenty of traveling salesmen thrown in.” The voice came from the kitchen doorway. Sydney looked over her shoulder and saw a striking woman with a sleek cap of raven hair and tawny eyes. “I'm Mikhail's sister, Rachel. You must be Sydney.”

“Yes, hello.” Sydney straightened, and wondered what miracles in the gene pool had made all the Stanislaskis so blindingly beautiful.

“Dinner'll be ready in ten minutes.” Rachel's voice carried only the faintest wisp of an accent and was as dark and smooth as black velvet. “Mikhail, you can set the table.”

“I have to take out the trash,” he told her, instantly choosing the lesser of two evils.

“I'll do it.” Sydney's impulsive offer was greeted with casual acceptance. She was nearly finished when Alex, as dark, exotic and gorgeous as the rest of the family, strolled in.

“Sorry I'm late, Papa. Just finished a double shift. I barely had time to…” He trailed off when he spotted Sydney. His mouth curved and his eyes flickered with definite interest. “Now I'm really sorry I'm late. Hi.”

“Hello.” Her lips curved in response. That kind of romantic charm could have raised the blood pressure on a corpse. Providing it was female.

“Mine,” Mikhail said mildly as he strolled back out of the kitchen.

Alex merely grinned and continued walking toward Sydney. He
took her hand, kissed the knuckles. “Just so you know, of the two of us, I'm less moody and have a steadier job.”

She had to laugh. “I'll certainly take that into account.”

“He thinks he's a cop.” Mikhail sent his brother an amused look. “Mama says to wash your hands. Dinner's ready.”

 

Sydney was certain she'd never seen more food at one table. There were mounds of chicken stuffed with rich, herbed butter. It was served with an enormous bowl of lightly browned potatoes and a platter heaped with slices of grilled vegetables that Nadia had picked from her own kitchen garden that morning. There was a tower of biscuits along with a mountain of some flaky stuffed pastries that was Alex's favorite dish.

Sydney sipped the crisp wine that was offered along with vodka and wondered. The amount and variety of food was nothing compared to the conversation.

Rachel and Alex argued over someone named Goose. After a winding explanation, Sydney learned that while Alex was a rookie cop, Rachel was in her first year with the public defender's office. And Goose was a petty thief Rachel was defending.

Yuri and Mikhail argued about baseball. Sydney didn't need Nadia's affectionate translation to realize that while Yuri was a diehard Yankee fan, Mikhail stood behind the Mets.

There was much gesturing with silverware and Russian exclamations mixed with English. Then laughter, a shouted question, and more arguing.

“Rachel is an idealist,” Alex stated. With his elbows on the table and his chin rested on his joined hands, he smiled at Sydney. “What are you?”

She smiled back. “Too smart to be put between a lawyer and a cop.”

“Elbows off,” Nadia said, and gave her son a quick rap. “Mikhail says you are a businesswoman. And that you are very smart. And fair.”

The description surprised her enough that she nearly fumbled. “I try to be.”

“Your company was in a sticky situation last week.” Rachel downed the last of her vodka with a panache Sydney admired. “You handled it well. It seemed to me that rather than trying to be fair you simply were. Have you known Mikhail long?”

She segued into the question so neatly, Sydney only blinked. “No, actually. We met last month when he barged into my office ready to crush any available Hayward under his work boot.”

“I was polite,” he corrected.

“You were not polite.” Because she could see Yuri was amused, she continued. “He was dirty, angry and ready to fight.”

“His temper comes from his mama,” Yuri informed Sydney. “She is fierce.”

“Only once,” Nadia said with a shake of her head. “Only once did I hit him over the head with a pot. He never forgets.”

“I still have the scar. And here.” Yuri pointed to his shoulder. “Where you threw the hairbrush at me.”

“You should not have said my new dress was ugly.”

“It was ugly,” he said with a shrug, then tapped a hand on his chest. “And here, where you—”

“Enough.” All dignity, she rose. “Or our guest will think I am tyrant.”

“She is a tyrant,” Yuri told Sydney with a grin.

“And this tyrant says we will clear the table and have dessert.”

 

Sydney was still chuckling over it as Mikhail crossed the bridge back into Manhattan. Sometime during the long, comfortable meal
she'd forgotten to be annoyed with him. Perhaps she'd had a half a glass too much wine. Certainly she'd eaten entirely too much kissel—the heavenly apricot pudding Nadia had served with cold, rich cream. But she was relaxed and couldn't remember ever having spent a more enjoyable Sunday evening.

“Did your father make that up?” Snuggled back in her seat, Sydney turned her head to study Mikhail's profile. “About your mother throwing things?”

“No, she throws things.” He downshifted and cruised into traffic. “Once a whole plate of spaghetti and meatballs at me because my mouth was too quick.”

Her laughter came out in a burst of enjoyment. “Oh, I would have loved to have seen that. Did you duck?”

He flicked her a grin. “Not fast enough.”

“I've never thrown anything in my life.” Her sigh was part wistful, part envious. “I think it must be very liberating. They're wonderful,” she said after another moment. “Your family. You're very lucky.”

“So you don't mind eating in Brooklyn?”

Frowning, she straightened a bit. “It wasn't that. I told you, I'm not a snob. I just wasn't prepared. You should have told me you were taking me there.”

“Would you have gone?”

She opened her mouth then closed it again. After a moment, she let her shoulders rise and fall. “I don't know. Why did you take me?”

“I wanted to see you there. Maybe I wanted you to see me there, too.”

Puzzled, she turned to look at him again. They were nearly back now. In a few more minutes he would go his way and she hers. “I don't understand why that should matter to you.”

“Then you understand much too little, Sydney.”

“I might understand if you'd be more clear.” It was suddenly important, vital, that she know. The tips of her fingers were beginning to tingle so that she had to rub them together to stop the sensation.

“I'm better with my hands than with words.” Impatient with her, with himself, he pulled into the garage beneath her building. When he yanked off his sunglasses, his eyes were dark and turbulent.

Didn't she know that her damn perfume had his nerve ends sizzling? The way she laughed, the way her hair lifted in the wind. How her eyes had softened and yearned as she'd looked at the silly little mutt of his father's.

It was worse, much worse now that he'd seen her with his family. Now that he'd watched how her initial stiffness melted away under a few kind words. He'd worried that he'd made a mistake, that she would be cold to his family, disdainful of the old house and simple meal.

Instead she'd laughed with his father, dried dishes with his mother. Alex's blatant flirting hadn't offended but rather had amused her. And when Rachel had praised her handling of the accident with Mrs. Wolburg, she'd flushed like a schoolgirl.

How the hell was he supposed to know he'd fall in love with her?

And now that she was alone with him again, all that cool reserve was seeping back. He could see it in the way her spine straightened when she stepped out of the car.

Hell, he could feel it—it surprised him that frost didn't form on his windshield.

“I'll walk you up.” He slammed the door of the car.

“That isn't necessary.” She didn't know what had spoiled the evening, but was ready to place the blame squarely on his shoulders.

“I'll walk you up,” he repeated, and pulled her over to the elevator.

“Fine.” She folded her arms and waited.

The moment the doors opened, they entered without speaking. Both of them were sure it was the longest elevator ride on record. Sydney swept out in front of him when they reached her floor. She had her keys out and ready two steps before they hit her door.

“I enjoyed your family,” she said, carefully polite. “Be sure to tell your parents again how much I appreciated their hospitality.” The lock snapped open. “You can reach me in the office if there are any problems this week.”

He slapped his hand on the door before she could shut it in his face. “I'm coming in.”

S
ydney considered the chances of shoving the door closed while he had his weight against it, found them slim and opted for shivery reserve.

“It's a bit early for a nightcap and a bit late for coffee.”

“I don't want a drink.” Mikhail rapped the door closed with enough force to make the foyer mirror rattle.

Though she refused to back up, Sydney felt her stomach muscles experience the same helpless shaking. “Some people might consider it poor manners for a man to bully his way into a woman's apartment.”

“I have poor manners,” he told her, and, jamming his hands into his pockets, paced into the living room.

“It must be a trial for your parents. Obviously they worked hard to instill a certain code of behavior in their children. It didn't stick with you.”

He swung back, and she was reminded of some compact and muscled cat on the prowl. Definitely a man-eater. “You liked them?”

Baffled, she pushed a hand through her disordered hair. “Of course I like them. I've already said so.”

While his hands bunched and unbunched in his pockets, he lifted
a brow. “I thought perhaps it was just your very perfect manners that made you say so.”

As an insult, it was a well-aimed shot. Indignation shivered through the ice. “Well, you were wrong. Now if we've settled everything, you can go.”

“We've settled nothing. You tell me why you are so different now from the way you were an hour ago.”

She caught herself, tightening her lips before they could move into a pout. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“With my family you were warm and sweet. You smiled so easily. Now with me, you're cold and far away. You don't smile at all.”

“That's absurd.” Though it was little more than a baring of teeth, she forced her lips to curve. “There, I've smiled at you. Satisfied?”

Temper flickered into his eyes as he began to pace again. “I haven't been satisfied since I walk into your office. You make me suffer and I don't like it.”

“Artists are supposed to suffer,” she shot back. “And I don't see how I've had anything to do with it. I've given in to every single demand you made. Replaced windows, ripped out plumbing, gotten rid of that tool-and-knot wiring.”

“Tube and knob,” he corrected, nearly amused.

“Well, it's gone, isn't it? Have you any idea just how much lumber I've authorized?”

“To last two-by-four, I know. This is not point.”

She studied him owlishly. “Do you know you drop your articles when you're angry?”

His eyes narrowed. “I drop nothing.”

“Your
the
's and
an
's and
a
's,” she pointed out. “And your sentence structure suffers. You mix your tenses.”

That wounded. “I'd like to hear you speak my language.”

She set the purse she still carried onto a table with a snap. “Baryshnikov, glasnost.”

His lips curled. “This is Russian. I am Ukrainian. This is a mistake you make, but I overlook.”

“It. You overlook
it,
” she corrected. “In any case, it's close enough.” He took a step forward, she took one back. “I'm sure we can have a fascinating discussion on the subtleties of language, but it will have to wait.” He came closer, and she—casually, she hoped—edged away. “As I said before, I enjoyed the evening. Now—” he maneuvered her around a chair “—stop stalking me.”

“You imagine things. You're not
a
rabbit, you're
a
woman.”

But she felt like a rabbit, one of those poor, frozen creatures caught in a beam of headlights. “I don't know what's put you in this mood—”

“I have many moods. You put me in this one every time I see you, or think about you.”

She shifted so that a table was between them. Because she well knew if she kept retreating her back would be against the wall, she took a stand. “All right, damn it. What do you want?”

“You. You know I want you.”

Her heart leaped into her throat, then plummeted to her stomach. “You do not.” The tremble in her voice irritated her enough to make her force ice into it. “I don't appreciate this game you're playing.”

“I play? What is a man to think when a woman blows hot, then cold? When she looks at him with passion one minute and frost the next?” His hands lifted in frustration, then slapped down on the table. “I tell you straight out when you are so upset that I don't want your mama, I want you. And you call me a liar.”

“I don't…” She could hardly get her breath. Deliberately she
walked away, moving behind a chair and gripping the back hard. It had been a mistake to look into his eyes. There was a ruthlessness there that brought a terrible pitch of excitement to her blood. “You didn't want me before.”

“Before? I think I wanted you before I met you. What is this before?”

“In the car.” Humiliation washed her cheeks of color. “When I—when we were driving back from Long Island. We were…” Her fingers dug into the back of the chair. “It doesn't matter.”

In two strides he was in front of the chair, his hands gripped over hers. “You tell me what you mean.”

Pride, she told herself. She would damn well keep her pride. “All right then, to clarify, and to see that we don't have this conversation again. You started something in the car that night. I didn't ask for it, I didn't encourage it, but you started it.” She took a deep breath to be certain her voice remained steady. “And you just stopped because…well, because I wasn't what you wanted after all.”

For a moment he could only stare, too stunned for speech. Then his face changed, so quickly, Sydney could only blink at the surge of rage. When he acted, she gave a yip of surprise. The chair he yanked from between them landed on its side two feet away.

He swore at her. She didn't need to understand the words to appreciate the sentiment behind them. Before she could make an undignified retreat, his hands were clamped hard on her arms. For an instant she was afraid she was about to take the same flight as the chair. He was strong enough and certainly angry enough. But he only continued to shout.

It took her nearly a full minute to realize her feet were an inch above the floor and that he'd started using English again.

“Idiot. How can so smart a woman have no brains?”

“I'm not going to stand here and be insulted.” Of course, she wasn't standing at all, she thought, fighting panic. She was dangling.

“It is not insult to speak truth. For weeks I have tried to be gentleman.”

“
A
gentleman,” she said furiously. “You've tried to be
a
gentleman. And you've failed miserably.”

“I think you need time, you need me to show you how I feel. And I am sorry to have treated you as I did in the car that night. It makes me think you will have…” He trailed off, frustrated that the proper word wasn't in him. “That you will think me…”

“A heathen,” she tossed out, with relish. “Barbarian.”

“No, that's not so bad. But a man who abuses a woman for pleasure. Who forces and hurts her.”

“It wasn't a matter of force,” Sydney said coldly. “Now put me down.”

He hiked her up another inch. “Do you think I stopped because I don't want you?”

“I'm well aware that my sexuality is under par.”

He didn't have a clue what she was talking about, and plowed on. “We were in a car, in the middle of the city, with your driver in the front. And I was ready to rip your clothes away and take you, there. It made me angry with myself, and with you because you could make me forget.”

She tried to think of a response. But he had set her back on her feet, and his hands were no longer gripping but caressing. The rage in his eyes had become something else, and it took her breath away.

“Every day since,” he murmured. “Every night, I remember how you looked, how you felt. So I want more. And I wait for you to offer what I saw in your eyes that night. But you don't. I can't wait longer.”

His fingers streaked into her hair, then fisted there, drawing her
head back as his mouth crushed down on hers. The heat seared through her skin, into blood and bone. Her moan wasn't borne of pain but of tormented pleasure. Willing, desperately willing, her mouth parted under his, inviting him, accepting him. This time when her heart rose to her throat, there was a wild glory in it.

On an oath, he tore his mouth from hers and buried it against her throat. She had not asked, she had not encouraged. Those were her words, and he wouldn't ignore the truth of them. Whatever slippery grip he had on control, he clamped tight now, fighting to catch his breath and hold to sanity.

“Damn me to hell or take me to heaven,” he muttered. “But do it now.”

Her arms locked around his neck. He would leave, she knew, just as he had left that first time. And if he did she might never feel this frenzied stirring again. “I want you.”
I'm afraid, I'm afraid.
“Yes, I want you. Make love to me.”

And his mouth was on hers again, hard, hot, hungry, while his hands flowed like molten steel down her body. Not a caress now, but a branding. In one long, possessive stroke he staked a claim. It was too late for choices.

Fears and pleasures battered her, rough waves of emotion that had her trembling even as she absorbed delights. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, took greedy handfuls of his hair. Through the thin layers of cotton, she could feel the urgent drum of his heart and knew it beat for her.

More. He could only think he needed more, even as her scent swam in his head and her taste flooded his mouth. She moved against him, that small, slim body restless and eager. When he touched her, when his artist's hands sculpted her, finding the curves and planes of her already perfect, her low, throaty whimpers pounded in his ears like thunder.

More.

He tugged the straps from her shoulders, snapping one in his hurry to remove even that small obstacle. While his mouth raced over the smooth, bare curve, he dragged at the zipper, yanking and pulling until the dress pooled at her feet.

Beneath it. Oh, Lord, beneath it.

The strapless little fancy frothed over milk-white breasts, flowed down to long, lovely thighs. She lifted a trembling hand as if to cover herself, but he caught it, held it. He didn't see the nerves in her eyes as he filled himself on how she looked, surrounded in the last flames of sunset that warmed the room.

“Mikhail.” Because he wasn't quite ready to speak, he only nodded. “I…the bedroom.”

He'd been tempted to take her where they stood, or to do no more than drag her to the floor. Checking himself, he had her up in his arms in one glorious sweep. “It better be close.”

On an unsteady laugh, she gestured. No man had ever carried her to bed before, and she found it dazzlingly romantic. Unsure of what part she should play, Sydney pressed her lips tentatively to his throat. He trembled. Encouraged, she skimmed them up to his ear. He groaned. On a sigh of pleasure, she continued to nibble while her fingers slipped beneath his shirt to stroke over his shoulder.

His arms tightened around her. When she turned her head, his mouth was there, taking greedily from hers as he tumbled with her onto the bed.

“Shouldn't we close the drapes?” The question ended on a gasp as he began doing things to her, wonderful things, shattering things. There was no room for shyness in this airless, spinning world.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. She'd always thought lovemak
ing to be either awkwardly mechanical or quietly comforting. It wasn't supposed to be so urgent, so turbulent. So incredible. Those rough, clever hands rushed over flesh, over silk, then back to flesh, leaving her a quivering mass of sensation. His mouth was just as hurried, just as skilled as it made the same erotic journey.

He was lost in her, utterly, irretrievably lost in her. Even the air was full of her, that quiet, restrained, gloriously seductive scent. Her skin seemed to melt, like liquid flowers, under his fingers, his lips. Each quick tremble he brought to her racked through him until he thought he would go mad.

Desire arced and spiked and hummed even as she grew softer, more pliant. More his.

Impatient, he brought his mouth to her breast to suckle through silk while his hands slid up her thighs to find her, wet and burning.

When he touched her, her body arched in shock. Her arm flew back until her fingers locked over one of the rungs of the brass headboard. She shook her head as pleasure shot into her, hot as a bullet. Suddenly fear and desire were so twisted into a single emotion she didn't know whether to beg him to stop or plead with him to go on. On and on.

Helpless, stripped of control, she gasped for breath. It seemed her system had contracted until she was curled into one tight hot ball. Even as she sobbed out his name, the ball imploded and she was left shattered.

A moan shuddered out as her body went limp again.

Unbearably aroused, he watched her, the stunned, glowing pleasure that flushed her cheeks, the dark, dazed desire that turned her eyes to blue smoke. For her, for himself, he took her up again, driving her higher until her breath was ragged and her body on fire.

“Please,” she managed when he tugged the silk aside.

“I will please you.” He flicked his tongue over her nipple. “And me.”

There couldn't be more. But he showed her there was. Even when she began to drag frantically at his clothes, he continued to assault her system and to give her, give her more than she had ever believed she could hold. His hands were never still as he rolled over the bed with her, helping her to rid him of every possible barrier.

He wanted her crazed for him, as crazed as he for her. He could feel the wild need in the way she moved beneath him, in the way her hands searched. And yes, in the way she cried out when he found some secret she'd been keeping just for him.