Luring a Lady (7 page)

She clamped her teeth on the delicious shudder that followed it down her spine. “I wish you'd move over.”

“Okay.” He shifted closer. “Better?”

Calm, she told herself. She would be calm. After a cleansing breath, she turned her head. “If you don't…” And his lips brushed over hers, stopping the words and the thought behind them.

“I want you to kiss me back.”

She started to shake her head, but couldn't manage it.

“I want to watch you when you do,” he murmured. “I want to know what's there.”

“There's nothing there.”

But his mouth closed over hers and proved her a liar. She fell into the kiss, one hand lost in his hair, the other clamped on his shoulder.

She felt everything. Everything. And it all moved too fast. Her mind seemed to dim until she could barely hear the clatter and bustle of the bar. But she felt his mouth angle over hers, his teeth nip, his tongue seduce.

Whatever she was doing to him, he was doing to her. He knew it. He saw it in the way her eyes glazed before they closed, felt it in the hot, ready passion of her lips. It was supposed to soothe his ego, prove a point. But it did neither.

It only left him aching.

“Sorry to break this up.” The waitress slapped two frosted mugs on the table. “Steak's on its way.”

Sydney jerked her head back. His arms were still around her, though his grip had loosened. And she, she was plastered against him. Her body molded to his as they sat in a booth in a public place. Shame and fury battled for supremacy as she yanked herself away.

“That was a despicable thing to do.”

He shrugged and picked up his beer. “I didn't do it alone.” Over the foam, his eyes sharpened. “Not this time, or last time.”

“Last time, you…”

“What?”

Sydney lifted her mug and sipped gingerly. “I don't want to discuss it.”

He wanted to argue, even started to, but there was a sheen of hurt in her eyes that baffled him. He didn't mind making her angry. Hell, he enjoyed it. But he didn't know what he'd done to make her hurt. He waited until the waitress had set the steaks in front of them.

“You've had a rough day,” he said so kindly Sydney gasped. “I don't mean to make it worse.”

“It's…” She struggled with a response. “It's been a rough day all around. Let's just put it behind us.”

“Done.” Smiling, he handed her a knife and fork. “Eat your dinner. We'll have a truce.”

“Good.” She discovered she had an appetite after all.

S
ydney didn't know how Mildred Wolburg's accident had leaked to the press, but by Tuesday afternoon her office was flooded with calls from reporters. A few of the more enterprising staked out the lobby of the Hayward Building and cornered her when she left for the day.

By Wednesday rumors were flying around the offices that Hayward was facing a multimillion-dollar suit, and Sydney had several unhappy board members on her hands. The consensus was that by assuming responsibility for Mrs. Wolburg's medical expenses, Sydney had admitted Hayward's neglect and had set the company up for a large public settlement.

It was bad press, and bad business.

Knowing no route but the direct one, Sydney prepared a statement for the press and agreed to an emergency board meeting. By Friday, she thought as she walked into the hospital, she would know if she would remain in charge of Hayward or whether her position would be whittled down to figurehead.

Carrying a stack of paperbacks in one hand and a potted plant in the other, Sydney paused outside of Mrs. Wolburg's room. Because it was Sydney's third visit since the accident, she knew the widow
wasn't likely to be alone. Invariably, friends and family streamed in and out during visiting hours. This time she saw Mikhail, Keely and two of Mrs. Wolburg's children.

Mikhail spotted her as Sydney was debating whether to slip out again and leave the books and plant she'd brought at the nurse's station.

“You have more company, Mrs. Wolburg.”

“Sydney.” The widow's eyes brightened behind her thick lenses. “More books.”

“Your grandson told me you liked to read.” Feeling awkward, she set the books on the table beside the bed and took Mrs. Wolburg's outstretched hand.

“My Harry used to say I'd rather read than eat.” The thin, bony fingers squeezed Sydney's. “That's a beautiful plant.”

“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 swal
lowed, 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.”