The Stanislaskis ( Books 1-6). Nora Roberts

did Margerite find the wild horses?”

      “I’m sorry?”

      “To drag you out of that office.” His smile dispensed charm like penny candy. Sydney couldn’t help but respond.

      “It wasn’t quite that drastic. I have been busy.”

      “So you’ve told me.” He approved of her in the sleek black dress in much the same way he would have approved of a tasteful accessory for his home. “You missed a wonderful play the other night. It looks like Sondheim’s got another hit on his hands.” Never doubting her acquiescence, he took her arm to lead her into dinner. “Tell me, darling, when are you going to stop playing the career woman and take a break? I’m going up to the Hamptons for the weekend, and I’d love your company.”

      Dutifully she forced her clamped teeth apart. There was no use resenting the fact he thought she was playing. Everyone did. “I’m afraid I can’t get away just now.” She took her seat beside him at the long glass table in the airy dining room. The drapes were thrown wide so that the garden seemed to spill inside with the pastel hues of early roses, late tulips and nodding columbine.

      She wished the dinner had been alfresco so she could have sat among the blossoms and scented the sea air.

      “I hope you don’t mind a little advice.”

      Sydney nearly dropped her head into her hand. The chatter around them was convivial, glasses were clinking, and the first course of stuffed mushrooms was being served. She felt she’d just been clamped into a cell. “Of course not, Channing.”

      “You can run a business or let the business run you.”

      “Hmm.” He had a habit of stating his advice in clichés. Sydney reminded herself she should be used to it.

      “Take it from someone with more experience in these matters.”

      She fixed a smile on her face and let her mind wander.

      “I hate to see you crushed under the heel of responsibility,” he went on. “And after all, we know you’re a novice in the dog-eat-dog world of real estate.” Gold cuff links, monogrammed, winked as he laid a hand on hers. His eyes were sincere, his mouth quirked in that I’m-only-looking-out-for-you smile. “Naturally, your initial enthusiasm will push you to take on more than is good for you. I’m sure you agree.”

      Her mind flicked back. “Actually, Channing, I enjoy the work.”

      “For the moment,” he said, his voice so patronizing she nearly stabbed him with her salad fork. “But when reality rushes in you may find yourself trampled under it. Delegate, Sydney. Hand the responsibilities over to those who understand them.”

      If her spine had been any straighter, it would have snapped her neck. “My grandfather entrusted Hayward to me.”

      “The elderly become sentimental. But I can’t believe he expected you to take it all so seriously.” His smooth, lightly tanned brow wrinkled briefly in what she understood was genuine if misguided concern. “Why, you’ve hardly attended a party in weeks. Everyone’s talking about it.”

      “Are they?” She forced her lips to curve over her clenched teeth. If he offered one more shred of advice, she would have to upend the water goblet in his lap. “Channing, why don’t you tell me about the play?”

      At the other end of the table, tucked between Margerite and Mrs. Anthony Lowell of the Boston Lowells, Mikhail kept a weather eye on Sydney. He didn’t like the way she had her head together with pretty boy. No, by God, he didn’t. The man was always touching her. Her hand, her shoulder. Her soft, white, bare shoulder. And she was just smiling and nodding, as though his words were a fascination in themselves.

      Apparently the ice queen didn’t mind being pawed if the hands doing the pawing were as lily-white as her own.

      Mikhail swore under his breath.

      “I beg your pardon, Mikhail?”

      With an effort, he turned his attention and a smile toward Margerite. “Nothing. The pheasant is excellent.”

      “Thank you. I wonder if I might ask what Sydney’s commissioned you to sculpt.”

      He flicked a black look down the length of the table. “I’ll be working on the project in Soho.”

      “Ah.” Margerite hadn’t a clue what Hayward might own in Soho. “Will it be an indoor or outdoor piece?”

      “Both. Who is the man beside Sydney? I don’t think I met him.”

      “Oh, that’s Channing, Channing Warfield. The Warfields are old friends.”

      “Friends,” he repeated, slightly mollified.

      Conspiratorially Margerite leaned closer. “If I can confide, Wilhelmina Warfield and I are hoping they’ll make an announcement this summer. They’re such a lovely couple, so suitable. And since Sydney’s first marriage is well behind her—”

      “First marriage?” He swooped down on that tidbit of information like a hawk on a dove. “Sydney was married before?”

      “Yes, but I’m afraid she and Peter were too young and impetuous,” she told him, conveniently overlooking the family pressure that had brought the marriage about. “Now, Sydney and Channing are mature, responsible people. We’re looking forward to a spring wedding.”

      Mikhail picked up his wine. There was an odd and annoying scratching in his throat. “What does this Channing Warfield do?”

      “Do?” The question baffled her. “Why, the Warfields are in banking, so I suppose Channing does whatever one does in banking. He’s a devil on the polo field.”

      “Polo,” Mikhail repeated with a scowl so dark Helena Lowell choked on her pheasant. Helpfully Mikhail gave her a sharp slap between the shoulder blades, then offered her her water goblet.

      “You’re, ah, Russian, aren’t you, Mr. Stanislaski?” Helena asked. Images of Cossacks danced in her head.

      “I was born in the Ukraine.”

      “The Ukraine, yes. I believe I read something about your family escaping over the border when you were just a child.”

      “We escaped in a wagon, over the mountains into Hungary, then into Austria and finally settled in New York.”

      “A wagon.” Margerite sighed into her wine. “How romantic.”

      Mikhail remembered the cold, the fear, the hunger. But he only shrugged. He doubted romance was always pretty, or comfortable.

      Relieved that he looked approachable again, Helena Lowell began to ask him questions about art.

      After an hour, he was glad to escape from the pretensions of the society matron’s art school jargon. Guests were treated to violin music, breezy terraces and moon-kissed gardens. His hostess fluttered around him like a butterfly, lashes batting, laughter trilling.

      Margerite’s flirtations were patently obvious and didn’t bother him. She was a pretty, vivacious woman currently between men. Though he had privately deduced she shared little with her daughter other than looks, he considered her harmless, even entertaining. So when she offered to show him the rooftop patio, he went along.

      The wind off the sound was playful and fragrant. And it was blessedly quiet following the ceaseless after-dinner chatter. From the rail, Mikhail could see the water, the curve of beach, the serene elegance of other homes tucked behind walls and circling gardens.

      And he could see Sydney as she strolled to the shadowy corner of the terrace below with her arm tucked through Channing’s.

      “My third husband built this house,” Margerite was saying. “He’s an architect. When we divorced, I had my choice between this house and the little villa in Nice. Naturally, with so many of my friends here, I chose this.” With a sigh, she turned to face him, leaning prettily on the rail. “I