The Stanislaskis: Taming Natasha. Нора Робертс

      Sydney 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