The Stanislaskis ( Books 1-6). Nora Roberts

The answer was absent as he stared down at Sydney. The moonlight made her hair gleam like polished mahogany.

      Margerite shifted, just enough so that their thighs brushed. Mikhail wasn’t sure if he was more surprised or more amused. But to save her pride, he smiled, easing away slowly. “You have a lovely home. It suits you.”

      “I’d love to see your studio.” Margerite let the invitation melt into her eyes. “Where you create.”

      “I’m afraid you’d find it cramped, hot and boring.”

      “Impossible.” Smiling, she traced a fingertip over the back of his hand. “I’m sure I’d find nothing about you boring.”

      Good God, the woman was old enough to be his mother, and she was coming on to him like a misty-eyed virgin primed for her first tumble. Mikhail nearly sighed, then reminded himself it was only a moment out of his life. He took her hand between both of his hands.

      “Margerite, you’re charming. And I’m—” he kissed her fingers lightly “—unsuitable.”

      She lifted a finger and brushed it over his cheek. “You underestimate yourself, Mikhail.”

      No, but he realized how he’d underestimated her.

      On the terrace below, Sydney was trying to find a graceful way to discourage Channing. He was attentive, dignified, solicitous, and he was boring her senseless.

      It was her lack, she was sure. Any woman with half a soul would be melting under the attraction of a man like Channing. There was moonlight, music, flowers. The breeze in the leafy trees smelled of the sea and murmured of romance. Channing was talking about Paris, and his hand was skimming lightly over her bare back.

      She wished she was home, alone, with her eyes crossing over a fat file of quarterly reports.

      Taking a deep breath, she turned. She would have to tell him firmly, simply and straight out that he needed to look elsewhere for companionship. It was Sydney’s bad luck that she happened to glance up to see Mikhail on the rooftop with her mother just when he took Margerite’s hand to his lips.

      Why the…she couldn’t think of anything vile enough to call him. Slime was too simple. Gigolo too slick. He was nuzzling up to her mother. Her mother. When only hours before he’d been…

      Nothing, Sydney reminded herself and dismissed the tense scene in the Soho hallway from her mind. He’d been posturing and preening, that was all.

      And she could have killed him for it.

      As she watched, Mikhail backed away from Margerite, laughing. Then he looked down. The instant their eyes met, Sydney declared war.

      She whirled on Channing, her face so fierce he nearly babbled. “Kiss me,” she demanded.

      “Why, Sydney.”

      “I said kiss me.” She grabbed him by the lapels and hauled him against her.

      “Of course, darling.” Pleased with her change of heart, he cupped her shoulders in his hands and leaned down to her.

      His lips were soft, warm, eager. They slanted over hers with practiced precision while his hands slid down her back. He tasted of after-dinner mints. Her body fit well against his.

      And she felt nothing, nothing but an empty inner rage. Then a chill that was both fear and despair.

      “You’re not trying, darling,” he whispered. “You know I won’t hurt you.”

      No, he wouldn’t. There was nothing at all to fear from Channing. Miserable, she let him deepen the kiss, ordered herself to feel and respond. She felt his withdrawal even before his lips left hers. The twinges of annoyance and puzzlement.

      “Sydney, dear, I’m not sure what the problem is.” He smoothed down his crinkled lapels. Marginally frustrated, he lifted his eyes. “That was like kissing my sister.”

      “I’m tired, Channing,” she said to the air between them. “I should go in and get ready to go.”

      Twenty minutes later, the driver turned the car toward Manhattan. In the back seat Sydney sat ramrod straight well over in her corner, while Mikhail sprawled in his. They didn’t bother to speak, not even the polite nonentities of two people who had attended the same function.

      He was boiling with rage.

      She was frigid with disdain.

      She’d done it to annoy him, Mikhail decided. She’d let that silk-suited jerk all but swallow her whole just to make him suffer.

      Why was he suffering? he asked himself. She was nothing to him.

      No, she was something, he corrected, and brooded into the dark. His only problem was figuring out exactly what that something was.

      Obviously, Sydney reflected, the man had no ethics, no morals, no shame. Here he was, just sitting there, all innocence and quiet reflection, after his disgraceful behavior. She frowned at the pale image of her own face in the window glass and tried to listen to the Chopin prelude on the stereo. Flirting so blatantly with a woman twenty years older. Sneering, yes positively sneering down from the rooftop.

      And she’d hired him. Sydney let out a quiet, hissing breath from between her teeth. Oh, that was something she regretted. She’d let her concern, her determination to do the right thing, blind her into hiring some oversexed, amoral Russian carpenter.

      Well, if he thought he was going to start playing patty-cake with her mother, he was very much mistaken.

      She drew a breath, turned and aimed one steady glare. Mikhail would have sworn the temperature in the car dropped fifty degrees in a snap.

      “You stay away from my mother.”

      He slanted her a look from under his lashes and gracefully crossed his legs. “Excuse me?”

      “You heard me, Boris. If you think I’m going to stand by and watch you put the moves on my mother, think again. She’s lonely and vulnerable. Her last divorce upset her and she isn’t over it.”

      He said something short and sharp in his native tongue and closed his eyes.

      Temper had Sydney sliding across the seat until she could poke his arm. “What the hell does that mean?”

      “You want translation? The simplest is bullshit. Now shut up. I’m going to sleep.”

      “You’re not going anywhere until we settle this. You keep your big, grimy hands off my mother, or I’ll turn that building you’re so fond of into a parking lot.”

      His eyes slitted open. She found the glitter of angry eyes immensely satisfying. “A big threat from a small woman,” he said in a deceptively lazy voice. She was entirely too close for his comfort, and her scent was swimming in his senses, tangling his temper with something more basic. “You should concentrate on the suit, and let your mother handle her own.”

      “Suit? What suit?”

      “The banker who spent the evening sniffing your ankles.”

      Her face flooded with color. “He certainly was not. He’s entirely too well mannered to sniff at my ankles or anything else. And Channing is my business.”

      “So. You have your business, and I have mine. Now, let’s see what we have together.” One moment he was stretched out, and the next he had her twisted over his lap. Stunned, Sydney pressed her hands against his chest and tried to struggle out of his hold. He tightened it. “As you see, I have no manners.”

      “Oh, I know it.” She tossed her head back, chin jutting. “What do you think you’re doing?”

      He wished to hell he knew. She was rigid as an ice floe, but there was something incredible, and Lord, inevitable, about the way she fit into his arms. Though he was cursing himself, he held her close, close enough that he felt the uneven rise and fall of her breasts against his chest, tasted the sweet,