The Stanislaskis ( Books 1-6). Nora Roberts

of the properties, in order of priority. We’ll have a meeting Friday, ten o’clock, to finalize.”

      “All right.” He tapped out his cigarette before he rose. “Sydney, I hope you won’t take offense, but a woman who’s spent most of her life traveling and buying clothes doesn’t know much about business, or making a profit.”

      She did take offense, but she’d be damned if she’d show it. “Then I’d better learn, hadn’t I? Good night, Lloyd.”

      Not until the door closed did she look down at her hands. They were shaking. He was right, absolutely right to point out her inadequacies. But he couldn’t know how badly she needed to prove herself here, to make something out of what her grandfather had left her. Nor could he know how terrified she was that she would let down the family name. Again.

      Before she could change her mind, she tucked the file into her briefcase and left the office. She walked down the wide pastel corridor with its tasteful watercolors and thriving ficus trees, through the thick glass doors that closed in her suite of offices. She took her private elevator down to the lobby, where she nodded to the guard before she walked outside.

      The heat punched like a fist. Though it was only mid-June, New York was in the clutches of a vicious heat wave with temperatures and humidity spiraling gleefully. She had only to cross the sidewalk to be cocooned in the waiting car, sheltered from the dripping air and noise. After giving her driver the address, she settled back for the ride to Soho.

      Traffic was miserable, snarling and edgy. But that would only give her more time to think. She wasn’t certain what she was going to do when she got there. Nor was she sure what she would do if she ran into Mikhail Stanislaski again.

      He’d made quite an impression on her, Sydney mused. Exotic looks, hot eyes, a complete lack of courtesy. The worst part was the file had shown that he’d had a perfect right to be rude and impatient. He’d written letter after letter during the past year, only to be put off with half-baked promises.

      Perhaps if her grandfather hadn’t been so stubborn about keeping his illness out of the press. Sydney rubbed a finger over her temple and wished she’d taken a couple of aspirin before she’d left the office.

      Whatever had happened before, she was in charge now. She intended to respect her inheritance and all the responsibilities that went with it. She closed her eyes and fell into a half doze as her driver fought his way downtown.

      Inside his apartment, Mikhail carved a piece of cherrywood. He wasn’t sure why he continued. His heart wasn’t in it, but he felt it more productive to do something with his hands.

      He kept thinking about the woman. Sydney. All ice and pride, he thought. One of the aristocrats it was in his blood to rebel against. Though he and his family had escaped to America when he had still been a child, there was no denying his heritage. His ancestors had been Gypsies in the Ukraine, hot-blooded, hot tempered and with little respect for structured authority.

      Mikhail considered himself to be American—except when it suited him to be Russian.

      Curls of wood fell on the table or the floor. Most of his cramped living space was taken up with his work—blocks and slabs of wood, even an oak burl, knives, chisels, hammers, drills, calipers. There was a small lathe in the corner and jars that held brushes. The room smelled of linseed oil, sweat and sawdust.

      Mikhail took a pull from the beer at his elbow and sat back to study the cherry. It wasn’t ready, as yet, to let him see what was inside. He let his fingers roam over it, over the grain, into the grooves, while the sound of traffic and music and shouts rose up and through the open window at his back.

      He had had enough success in the past two years that he could have moved into bigger and more modern dwellings. He liked it here, in this noisy neighborhood, with the bakery on the corner, the bazaarlike atmosphere on Canal, only a short walk away, the women who gossiped from their stoops in the morning, the men who sat there at night.

      He didn’t need wall-to-wall carpet or a sunken tub or a big stylish kitchen. All he wanted was a roof that didn’t leak, a shower that offered hot water and a refrigerator that would keep the beer and cold cuts cold. At the moment, he didn’t have any of those things. And Miss Sydney Hayward hadn’t seen the last of him.

      He glanced up at the three brisk knocks on his door, then grinned as his down-the-hall neighbor burst in. “What’s the story?”

      Keely O’Brian slammed the door, leaned dramatically against it, then did a quick jig. “I got the part.” Letting out a whoop, she raced to the table to throw her arms around Mikhail’s neck. “I got it.” She gave him a loud, smacking kiss on one cheek. “I got it.” Then the other.

      “I told you you would.” He reached back to ruffle her short cap of dusty blond hair. “Get a beer. We’ll celebrate.”

      “Oh, Mik.” She crossed to the tiny refrigerator on long, slim legs left stunningly revealed by a pair of neon green shorts. “I was so nervous before the audition I got the hiccups, then I drank a gallon of water and sloshed my way through the reading.” She tossed the cap into the trash before toasting herself. “And I still got it. A movie of the week. I’ll probably only get like sixth or seventh billing, but I don’t get murdered till the third act.” She took a sip, then let out a long, bloodcurdling scream. “That’s what I have to do when the serial killer corners me in the alley. I really think my scream turned the tide.”

      “No doubt.” As always, her quick, nervous speech amused him. She was twenty-three, with an appealing coltish body, lively green eyes and a heart as wide as the Grand Canyon. If Mikhail hadn’t felt so much like her brother right from the beginning of their relationship, he would have long since attempted to talk her into bed.

      Keely took a sip of beer. “Hey, do you want to order some Chinese or pizza or something? I’ve got a frozen pizza, but my oven is on the blink again.”

      The simple statement made his eyes flash and his lips purse. “I went today to see Hayward.”

      The bottle paused on the way to her lips. “In person? You mean like, face-to-face?”

      “Yes.” Mikhail set aside his carving tools, afraid he would gouge the wood.

      Impressed, Keely walked over to sit on the windowsill. “Wow. So, what’s he like?”

      “He’s dead.”

      She choked on the beer, watching him wide-eyed as she pounded on her chest. “Dead? You didn’t…”

      “Kill him?” This time Mikhail smiled. Another thing he enjoyed about Keely was her innate flare for the dramatic. “No, but I considered killing the new Hayward—his granddaughter.”

      “The new landlord’s a woman? What’s she like?”

      “Very beautiful, very cold.” He was frowning as he skimmed his fingertips over the wood grain. “She has red hair and white skin. Blue eyes like frost on a lake. When she speaks, icicles form.”

      Keely grimaced and sipped. “Rich people,” she said, “can afford to be cold.”

      “I told her she has two days before I go to the building commissioner.”

      This time Keely smiled. As much as she admired Mikhail, she felt he was naive in a lot of ways. “Good luck. Maybe we should take Mrs. Bayford’s idea about a rent strike. Of course, then we risk eviction, but…hey.” She leaned out the open window. “You should see this car. It’s like a Lincoln or something—with a driver. There’s a woman getting out of the back.” More fascinated than envious, she let out a long, appreciative breath. “Harper’s Bazaar’s version of the executive woman.” Grinning, she shot a glance over her shoulder. “I think your ice princess has come slumming.”

      Outside, Sydney studied the building. It was really quite lovely, she thought. Like an old woman who had maintained her dignity and a shadow of her youthful beauty. The red brick had faded to a soft pink, smudged here and there by soot and exhaust. The trimming paint was peeling