Luring a Lady (5 page)

“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, wine-tipped flavor of her breath on his lips.

There was a lesson here, he thought grimly, and she was going to learn it.

“I've decided to teach you how to kiss. From what I saw from the roof, you did a poor job of it with the polo player.”

Shock and fury had her going still. She would not squirm or scream or give him the satisfaction of frightening her. His eyes were close and challenging. She thought she understood exactly how Lucifer would have looked as he walked through the gates of his own dark paradise.

“You conceited jerk.” Because she wanted to slug him, badly, she fisted her hands closed and looked haughtily down her small, straight nose. “There's nothing you can teach me.”

“No?” He wondered if he'd be better off just strangling her and having done with it. “Let's see then. Your Channing put his hands here. Yes?” He slid them over her shoulders. The quick, involuntary shudder chilled her skin. “You afraid of me,
milaya?
”

“Don't be ridiculous.” But she was, suddenly and deeply. She swallowed the fear as his thumbs caressed her bare skin.

“Tremble is good. It makes a man feel strong. I don't think you trembled for this Channing.”

She said nothing and wondered if he knew his accent had thickened. It sounded exotic, erotic. He wondered he could speak at all with her watching him and waiting.

“His way isn't mine,” he muttered. “I'll show you.”

His fingers clamped around the back of her neck, pulled her face toward his. He heard her breath catch then shudder out when he
paused only a fraction before their lips touched. Her eyes filled his vision, that wide, wary blue. Ignoring the twist in his gut, he smiled, turned his head just an inch and skimmed his lips over her jawline.

She bit back only part of the moan. Instinctively she tipped her head back, giving him access to the long, sensitive column of her throat.

What was he doing to her? Her mind raced frantically to catch up with her soaring body. Why didn't he just get it over with so she could escape with her pride intact?

She'd kill him for this. Crush him. Destroy him.

And oh, it felt wonderful, delicious. Wicked.

He could only think she tasted of morning—cool, spring mornings when the dew slicked over green, green grass and new flowers. She shivered against him, her body still held stiffly away even as her head fell back in surrender.

Who was she? He nibbled lazily over to her ear and burned for her to show him.

A thousand, a million pinpricks of pleasure danced along her skin. Shaken by them, she started to pull away. But his hands slid down her back and melted her spine. All the while his lips teased and tormented, never, never coming against hers to relieve the aching pressure.

She wanted.

The slow, flickering heat kindling in the pit of her stomach.

She yearned.

Spreading, spreading through her blood and bone.

She needed.

Wave after wave of liquid fire lapping, cruising, flowing over her skin.

She took.

In a fire flash her system exploded. Mouth to mouth she strained against him, pressing ice to heat and letting it steam until the air was
so thick with it, it clogged in her throat. Her fingers speared through his hair and fisted as she fed greedily on the stunning flavor of her own passion.

This. At last this. He was rough and restless and smelled of man instead of expensive colognes. The words he muttered were incomprehensible against her mouth. But they didn't sound like endearments, reassurances, promises. They sounded like threats.

His mouth wasn't soft and warm and eager, but hot and hard and ruthless. She wanted that, how she wanted the heedless and hasty meeting of lips and tongues.

His hands weren't hesitant or practiced, but strong and impatient. It ran giddily through her brain that he would take what he wanted, when and where it suited him. The pleasure and power of it burst through her like sunlight. She choked out his name when he tugged her bodice down and filled his calloused hands with her breasts.

He was drowning in her. The ice had melted and he was over his head, too dazed to know if he should dive deeper or scrabble for the surface. The scent, the taste, oh Lord, the texture. Alabaster and silk and rose petals. Every fine thing a man could want to touch, to steal, to claim as his own. His hands raced over her as he fought for more.

On an oath he shifted, and she was under him on the long plush seat of the car, her hair spread out like melted copper, her body moving, moving under his, her white breasts spilling out above the stark black dress and tormenting him into tasting.

She arched, and her fingers dug into his back as he suckled. A deep and delicious ache tugged at the center of her body. And she wanted him there, there where the heat was most intense. There where she felt so soft, so needy.

“Please.” She could hear the whimper in her voice but felt no embarrassment. Only desperation. “Mikhail, please.”

The throaty purr of her voice burst in his blood. He came back to her mouth, assaulting it, devouring it. Crazed, he hooked one hand in the top of her dress, on the verge of ripping it from her. And he looked, looked at her face, the huge eyes, the trembling lips. Light and shadow washed over it, leaving her pale as a ghost. She was shaking like a leaf beneath his hands.

And he heard the drum of traffic from outside.

He surfaced abruptly, shaking his head to clear it and gulping in air like a diver down too long. They were driving through the city, their privacy as thin as the panel of smoked glass that separated them from her chauffeur. And he was mauling her, yes, mauling her as if he were a reckless teenager with none of the sense God had given him.

The apology stuck in his throat. An “I beg your pardon” would hardly do the trick. Eyes grim, loins aching, he tugged her dress back into place. She only stared at him and made him feel like a drooling heathen over a virgin sacrifice. And Lord help him, he wanted to plunder.

Swearing, he pushed away and yanked her upright. He leaned back in the shadows and stared out of the dark window. They were only blocks from his apartment. Blocks, and he'd very nearly…it wouldn't do to think about what he'd nearly.

“We're almost there.” Strain had his voice coming out clipped and hard. Sydney winced away as though it had been a slap.

What had she done wrong this time? She'd felt, and she'd wanted. Felt and wanted more than she ever had before. Yet she had still failed. For that one timeless moment she'd been willing to toss aside pride and fear. There had been passion in her, real and ready. And, she'd thought, he'd felt passion for her.

But not enough. She closed her eyes. It never seemed to be enough. Now she was cold, freezing, and wrapped her arms tight to try to hold in some remnant of heat.

Damn it, why didn't she say something? Mikhail dragged an unsteady hand through his hair. He deserved to be slapped. Shot was more like it. And she just sat there.

As he brooded out the window, he reminded himself that it hadn't been all his doing. She'd been as rash, pressing that wonderful body against his, letting that wide, mobile mouth make him crazy. Squirting that damnable perfume all over that soft skin until he'd been drunk with it.

He started to feel better.

Yes, there had been two people grappling in the back seat. She was every bit as guilty as he.

“Look, Sydney.” He turned and she jerked back like an over-wound spring.

“Don't touch me.” He heard only the venom and none of the tears.

“Fine.” Guilt hammered away at him as the car cruised to the curb. “I'll keep my big, grimy hands off you, Hayward. Call someone else when you want a little romp in the back seat.”

Her fisted hands held on to pride and composure. “I meant what I said about my mother.”

He shoved the door open. Light spilled in, splashing over his face, turning it frosty white. “So did I. Thanks for the ride.”

When the door slammed, she closed her eyes tight. She would not cry. A single tear slipped past her guard and was dashed away. She would not cry. And she would not forget.

S
he'd put in a long day. Actually she'd put in a long week that was edging toward sixty hours between office time, luncheon meetings and evenings at home with files. This particular day had a few hours yet to run, but Sydney recognized the new feeling of relief and satisfaction that came with Friday afternoons when the work force began to anticipate Saturday mornings.

Throughout her adult life one day of the week had been the same as the next; all of them a scattershot of charity functions, shopping and lunch dates. There had been no work schedule, and weekends had simply been a time when the parties had lasted longer.

Things had changed. As she read over a new contract, she was glad they had. She was beginning to understand why her grandfather had always been so lusty and full of life. He'd had a purpose, a place, a goal.

Now they were hers.

True, she still had to ask advice on the more technical wordings of contracts and depended heavily on her board when it came to making deals. But she was starting to appreciate—more, she was starting to relish the grand chess game of buying and selling buildings.

She circled what she considered a badly worded clause then answered her intercom.

“Mr. Bingham to see you, Ms. Hayward.”

“Send him in, Janine. Oh, and see if you can reach Frank Marlowe at Marlowe, Radcliffe and Smyth.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

When Lloyd strode in a moment later, Sydney was still huddled over the contract. She held up one finger to give herself a minute to finish.

“Lloyd. I'm sorry, if I lose my concentration on all these
whereas
es, I have to start over.” She scrawled a note to herself, set it and the contract aside, then smiled at him. “What can I do for you?”

“This Soho project. It's gotten entirely out of hand.”

Her lips tightened. Thinking of Soho made her think of Mikhail. Mikhail reminded her of the turbulent ride from Long Island and her latest failure as a woman. She didn't care for it.

“In what way?”

“In every way.” With fury barely leashed, he began to pace her office. “A quarter of a million. You earmarked a quarter of a million to rehab that building.”

Sydney stayed where she was and quietly folded her hands on the desk. “I'm aware of that, Lloyd. Considering the condition of the building, Mr. Stanislaski's bid was very reasonable.”

“How would you know?” he shot back. “Did you get competing bids?”

“No.” Her fingers flexed, then relaxed again. It was difficult, but she reminded herself that he'd earned his way up the ladder while she'd been hoisted to the top rung. “I went with my instincts.”

“Instincts?” Eyes narrowed, he spun back to her. The derision in his voice was as thick as the pile of her carpet. “You've been in the business for a matter of months, and you have instincts.”

“That's right. I'm also aware that the estimate for rewiring, the plumbing and the carpentry were well in line with other, similar rehabs.”

“Damn it, Sydney, we didn't put much more than that into this building last year.”

One slim finger began to tap on the desk. “What we did here in the Hayward Building was little more than decorating. A good many of the repairs in Soho are a matter of safety and bringing the facilities up to code.”

“A quarter of a million in repairs.” He slapped his palms on the desk and leaned forward. Sydney was reminded of Mikhail making a similar gesture. But of course Lloyd's hands would leave no smudge of dirt. “Do you know what our annual income is from those apartments?”

“As a matter of fact I do.” She rattled off a figure, surprising him. It was accurate to the penny. “On one hand, it will certainly take more than a year of full occupancy to recoup the principal on this investment. On the other, when people pay rent in good faith, they deserve decent housing.”

“Decent, certainly,” Lloyd said stiffly. “You're mixing morals with business.”

“Oh, I hope so. I certainly hope so.”

He drew back, infuriated that she would sit so smug and righteous behind a desk that should have been his. “You're naive, Sydney.”

“That may be. But as long as I run this company, it will be run by my standards.”

“You think you run it because you sign a few contracts and make phone calls. You've put a quarter million into what you yourself termed your pet project, and you don't have a clue what this Stanislaski's up to. How do you know he isn't buying inferior grades and pocketing the excess?”

“That's absurd.”

“As I said, you're naive. You put some Russian artist in charge of a major project, then don't even bother to check the work.”

“I intend to inspect the project myself. I've been tied up. And I have Mr. Stanislaski's weekly report.”

He sneered. Before Sydney's temper could fray, she realized Lloyd was right. She'd hired Mikhail on impulse and instinct, then because of personal feelings, had neglected to follow through with her involvement on the project.

That wasn't naive. It was gutless.

“You're absolutely right, Lloyd, and I'll correct it.” She leaned back in her chair. “Was there anything else?”

“You've made a mistake,” he said. “A costly one in this case. The board won't tolerate another.”

With her hands laid lightly on the arms of her chair, she nodded. “And you're hoping to convince them that you belong at this desk.”

“They're businessmen, Sydney. And though sentiment might prefer a Hayward at the head of the table, profit and loss will turn the tide.”

Her expression remained placid, her voice steady. “I'm sure you're right again. And if the board continues to back me, I want one of two things from you. Your resignation or your loyalty. I won't accept anything in between. Now, if you'll excuse me?”

When the door slammed behind him, she reached for the phone. But her hand was trembling, and she drew it back. She plucked up a paper clip and mangled it. Then another, then a third. Between that and the two sheets of stationery she shredded, she felt the worst of the rage subside.

Clearheaded, she faced the facts.

Lloyd Bingham was an enemy, and he was an enemy with experience
and influence. She had acted in haste with Soho. Not that she'd been wrong; she didn't believe she'd been wrong. But if there were mistakes, Lloyd would capitalize on them and drop them right in her lap.

Was it possible that she was risking everything her grandfather had given her with one project? Could she be forced to step down if she couldn't prove the worth and right of what she had done?

She wasn't sure, and that was the worst of it.

One step at a time. That was the only way to go on. And the first step was to get down to Soho and do her job.

 

The sky was the color of drywall. Over the past few days, the heat had ebbed, but it had flowed back into the city that morning like a river, flooding Manhattan with humidity. The pedestrian traffic surged through it, streaming across the intersections in hot little packs.

Girls in shorts and men in wilted business suits crowded around the sidewalk vendors in hopes that an ice-cream bar or a soft drink would help them beat the heat.

When Sydney stepped out of her car, the sticky oppression of the air punched like a fist. She thought of her driver sitting in the enclosed car and dismissed him for the day. Shielding her eyes, she turned to study her building.

Scaffolding crept up the walls like metal ivy. Windows glittered, their manufacturer stickers slashed across the glass. She thought she saw a pair of arthritic hands scraping away at a label at a third-floor window.

There were signs in the doorway, warning of construction in progress. She could hear the sounds of it, booming hammers, buzzing saws, the clang of metal and the tinny sound of rock and roll through portable speakers.

At the curb she saw the plumber's van, a dented pickup and a scat
tering of interested onlookers. Since they were all peering up, she followed their direction. And saw Mikhail.

For an instant, her heart stopped dead. He stood outside the top floor, five stories up, moving nimbly on what seemed to Sydney to be a very narrow board.

“Man, get a load of those buns,” a woman beside her sighed. “They are class A.”

Sydney swallowed. She supposed they were. And his naked back wasn't anything to sneeze at, either. The trouble was, it was hard to enjoy it when she had a hideous flash of him plummeting off the scaffolding and breaking that beautiful back on the concrete below.

Panicked, she rushed inside. The elevator doors were open, and a couple of mechanics were either loading or unloading their tools inside it. She didn't stop to ask but bolted up the steps.

Sweaty men were replastering the stairwell between two and three. They took the time to whistle and wink, but she kept climbing. Someone had the television up too loud, probably to drown out the sound of construction. A baby was crying fitfully. She smelled chicken frying.

Without pausing for breath, she dashed from four to five. There was music playing here. Tough and gritty rock, poorly accompanied by a laborer in an off-key tenor.

Mikhail's door was open, and Sydney streaked through. She nearly tumbled over a graying man with arms like tree trunks. He rose gracefully from his crouched position where he'd been sorting tools and steadied her.

“I'm sorry. I didn't see you.”

“Is all right. I like women to fall at my feet.”

She registered the Slavic accent even as she glanced desperately around the room for Mikhail. Maybe everybody in the building was
Russian, she thought frantically. Maybe he'd imported plumbers from the mother country.

“Can I help you?”

“No. Yes.” She pressed a hand to her heart when she realized she was completely out of breath. “Mikhail.”

“He is just outside.” Intrigued, he watched her as he jerked a thumb toward the window.

She could see him there—at least she could see the flat, tanned torso. “Outside. But, but—”

“We are finishing for the day. You will sit?”

“Get him in,” Sydney whispered. “Please, get him in.”

Before he could respond, the window was sliding up, and Mikhail was tossing one long, muscled leg inside. He said something in his native tongue, laughter in his voice as the rest of his body followed. When he saw Sydney, the laughter vanished.

“Hayward.” He tapped his caulking gun against his palm.

“What were you doing out there?” The question came out in an accusing rush.

“Replacing windows.” He set the caulking gun aside. “Is there a problem?”

“No, I…” She couldn't remember ever feeling more of a fool. “I came by to check the progress.”

“So. I'll take you around in a minute.” He walked into the kitchen, stuck his head into the sink and turned the faucet on full cold.

“He's a hothead,” the man behind her said, chuckling at his own humor. When Sydney only managed a weak smile, he called out to Mikhail, speaking rapidly in that exotic foreign tongue.

“Tak”
was all he said. Mikhail came up dripping, hair streaming over the bandanna he'd tied around it. He shook it back, splattering water,
then shrugged and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. He was wet, sweaty and half-naked. Sydney had to fold her tongue inside her mouth to keep it from hanging out.

“My son is rude.” Yuri Stanislaski shook his head. “I raised him better.”

“Your—oh.” Sydney looked back at the man with the broad face and beautiful hands. Mikhail's hands. “How do you do, Mr. Stanislaski.”

“I do well. I am Yuri. I ask my son if you are the Hayward who owns this business. He only says yes and scowls.”

“Yes, well, I am.”

“It's a good building. Only a little sick. And we are the doctors.” He grinned at his son, then boomed out something else in Ukrainian.

This time an answering smile tugged at Mikhail's mouth. “No, you haven't lost a patient yet, Papa. Go home and have your dinner.”

Yuri hauled up his tool chest. “You come and bring the pretty lady. Your mama makes enough.”

“Oh, well, thank you, but—”

“I'm busy tonight, Papa.” Mikhail cut off Sydney's polite refusal.

Yuri raised a bushy brow. “You're stupid tonight,” he said in Ukrainian. “Is this the one who makes you sulk all week?”

Annoyed, Mikhail picked up a kitchen towel and wiped his face. “Women don't make me sulk.”

Yuri only smiled. “This one would.” Then he turned to Sydney. “Now I am rude, too, talking so you don't understand. He is bad influence.” He lifted her hand and kissed it with considerable charm. “I am glad to meet you.”

“I'm glad to meet you, too.”

“Put on a shirt,” Yuri ordered his son, then left, whistling.

“He's very nice,” Sydney said.

“Yes.” Mikhail picked up the T-shirt he'd peeled off hours before, but only held it. “So, you want to see the work?”

“Yes, I thought—”

“The windows are done,” he interrupted. “The wiring is almost done. That and the plumbing will take another week. Come.”

He moved out, skirting her by a good two feet, then walked into the apartment next door without knocking.

“Keely's,” he told her. “She is out.”

The room was a clash of sharp colors and scents. The furniture was old and sagging but covered with vivid pillows and various articles of female attire.

The adjoining kitchen was a mess—not with dishes or pots and pans—but with walls torn down to studs and thick wires snaked through.

“It must be inconvenient for her, for everyone, during the construction.”

“Better than plugging in a cake mixer and shorting out the building. The old wire was tube and knob, forty years old or more, and frayed. This is Romex. More efficient, safer.”