The Stanislaskis: Taming Natasha. Нора Робертс

was the first time she’d spoken in nearly an hour, and Mikhail turned his head to study her. Her eyes were still closed, her face pale and in repose.

      “She was only walking in her own kitchen and fell because the floor was old and unsafe.”

      “You’re making it safe.”

      Sydney continued as if she hadn’t heard. “Then she could only lie there, hurt and alone. Her voice was so weak. I nearly walked right by.”

      “You didn’t walk by.” His hand hesitated over hers. Then, with an oath, he pressed his palm to the back of her hand. “You’re only one Hayward, Sydney. Your grandfather—”

      “He was ill.” Her hand clenched under Mikhail’s, and her eyes squeezed more tightly closed. “He was sick nearly two years, and I was in Europe. I didn’t know. He didn’t want to disrupt my life. My father was dead, and there was only me, and he didn’t want to worry me. When he finally called me, it was almost over. He was a good man. He wouldn’t have let things get so bad, but he couldn’t…he just couldn’t.”

      She let out a short, shuddering breath. Mikhail turned her hand over and linked his fingers with hers.

      “When I got to New York, he was in the hospital. He looked so small, so tired. He told me I was the only Hayward left. Then he died,” she said wearily. “And I was.”

      “You’re doing what needs to be done. No one can ask for more than that.”

      She opened her eyes again, met his. “I don’t know.”

      They waited again, in silence.

      It was nearly two hours before Mrs. Wolburg’s frantic grandson rushed in. The entire story had to be told again before he hurried off to call the rest of his family.

      Four hours after they’d walked into Emergency, the doctor came out to fill them in.

      A fractured hip, a mild concussion. She would be moved to a room right after she’d finished in Recovery. Her age made the break serious, but her health helped balance that. Sydney left both her office and home numbers with the doctor and the grandson, requesting to be kept informed of Mrs. Wolburg’s condition.

      Unbearably weary in body and mind, Sydney walked out of the hospital.

      “You need food,” Mikhail said.

      “What? No, really, I’m just tired.”

      Ignoring that, he grabbed her arm and pulled her down the street. “Why do you always say the opposite of what I say?”

      “I don’t.”

      “See, you did it again. You need meat.”

      If she kept trying to drag her heels, he was going to pull her arm right out of the socket. Annoyed, she scrambled to keep pace. “What makes you think you know what I need?”

      “Because I do.” He pulled up short at a light and she bumped into him. Before he could stop it, his hand had lifted to touch her face. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

      While she blinked in surprise, he swore, scowled then dragged her into the street seconds before the light turned.

      “Maybe I’m not happy with you,” he went on, muttering to himself. “Maybe I think you’re a nuisance, and a snob, and—”

      “I am not a snob.”

      He said something vaguely familiar in his native language. Sydney’s chin set when she recalled the translation. “It is not bull. You’re the snob if you think I am just because I come from a different background.”

      He stopped, eyeing her with a mixture of distrust and interest. “Fine then, you won’t mind eating in here.” He yanked her into a noisy bar and grill. She found herself plopped down in a narrow booth with him, hip to hip.

      There were scents of meat cooking, onions frying, spilled beer, all overlaid with grease. Her mouth watered. “I said I wasn’t hungry.”

      “And I say you’re a snob, and a liar.”

      The color that stung her cheeks pleased him, but it didn’t last long enough. She leaned forward. “And would you like to know what I think of you?”

      Again he lifted a hand to touch her cheek. It was irresistible. “Yes, I would.”

      She was saved from finding a description in her suddenly murky brain by the waitress.

      “Two steaks, medium rare, and two of what you’ve got on tap.”

      “I don’t like men to order for me,” Sydney said tightly.

      “Then you can order for me next time and we’ll be even.” Making himself comfortable, he tossed his arm over the back of the booth and stretched out his legs. “Why don’t you take off your jacket, Hayward? You’re hot.”

      “Stop telling me what I am. And stop that, too.”

      “What?”

      “Playing with my hair.”

      He grinned. “I was playing with your neck. I like your neck.” To prove it, he skimmed a finger down it again.

      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.”