by Nora Roberts
Even with hot hammers of need pounding at him, he moved slowly, knowing he could take her soaring again and again before that last glorious release.
“I love you, Sydney.” His muscles trembled as he felt her rise to meet him. “Only you. Always you.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When the phone rang, it was pitch-dark and they were sleeping, tangled together like wrestling children. Sydney snuggled closer to Mikhail, squeezing her eyes tighter and muttered a single no, determined to ignore it.
With a grunt, Mikhail rolled over her, seriously considered staying just as he was as her body curved deliciously to his.
“Milaya,” he murmured, then with an oath, snatched the shrilling phone off the hook.
“What?” Because Sydney was pounding on his shoulder, he shifted off her. “Alexi?” The sound of his brother’s voice had him sitting straight up, firing off in Ukrainian. Only when Alex assured him there was nothing wrong with the family did the sick panic fade. “You’d better be in the hospital or jail. Neither?” He sat back, rapped his head on the brass poles of the headboard and swore again. “Why are you calling in the middle of the night?” Rubbing his hand over his face, Mikhail gave Sydney’s clock a vicious stare. The glowing dial read 4:45. “What?” Struggling to tune in, he shifted the phone to his other ear. “Damn it, when? I’ll be there.”
He slammed the phone down and was already up searching for his clothes when he realized Sydney has turned on the light. Her face was dead pale.
“Your parents.”
“No, no, it’s not the family.” He sat on the bed again to take her hand. “It’s the apartment. Vandals.”
The sharp edge of fear dulled to puzzlement. “Vandals?”
“One of the cops who answered the call knows Alex, and that I live there, so he called him. There’s been some damage.”
“To the building.” Her heart was beginning to pound, heavy and slow, in her throat.
“Yes, no one was hurt.” He watched her eyes close in relief at that before she nodded. “Spray paint, broken windows.” He bit off an oath. “Two of the empty apartments were flooded. I’m going to go see what has to be done.”
“Give me ten minutes,” Sydney said and sprang out of bed.
It hurt. It was only brick and wood and glass, but it hurt her to see it marred. Filthy obscenities were scrawled in bright red paint across the lovely old brownstone. Three of the lower windows were shattered. Inside, someone had used a knife to gouge the railings and hack at the plaster.
In Mrs. Wolburg’s apartment water was three inches deep over the old hardwood floor, ruining her rugs, soaking the skirts of her sofa. Her lacy doilies floated like soggy lily pads.
“They clogged up the sinks,” Alex explained. “By the time they broke the windows downstairs and woke anyone up, the damage here was pretty much done.”
Yes, the damage was done, Sydney thought. But it wasn’t over. “The other unit?”
“Up on two. Empty. They did a lot of painting up there, too.” He gave Sydney’s arm a squeeze. “I’m sorry. We’re getting statements from the tenants, but—”
“It was dark,” Sydney finished. “Everyone was asleep, and no one’s going to have seen anything.”
“Nothing’s impossible.” Alex turned toward the babble of voices coming from the lobby, where most of the tenants had gathered. “Why don’t you go on up to Mikhail’s place? It’s going to take a while to calm everyone down and clear them out.”
“No, it’s my building. I’d like to go talk to them.”
With a nod, he started to lead her down the hall. “Funny they didn’t bother to steal anything—and that they only broke into the two empty apartments.”
She slanted him a look. He might not have been wearing his uniform, but he was definitely a cop. “Is this an interrogation, Alex?”
“Just an observation. I guess you’d know who had access to the tenants’ list.”
“I guess I would,” she replied. “I have a pretty fair idea who’s responsible, Alex.” She touched a hand to the ruined banister. “Oh, not who tossed paint or flooded the rooms, but who arranged it. But I don’t know if I’ll be able to prove it.”
“You leave the proving up to us.”
She glanced at the streak of paint along the wall. “Would you?” She shook her head before he could reply. “Once I’m sure, I’ll turn everything over to you. That’s a promise—if you promise to say nothing to Mikhail.”
“That’s a tough bargain, Sydney.”
“I’m a tough lady,” she said steadily, and walked down to talk to her tenants.
By eight o’clock she was in her office poring over every word in Lloyd Bingham’s personnel file. By ten, she’d made several phone calls, consumed too many cups of coffee and had a structured plan.
She’d authorized Mikhail to hire more men, had spoken with the insurance investigator personally and was now prepared for a little psychological warfare.
She put the call through to Lloyd Bingham herself and waited three rings.
“Hello.”
“Lloyd, Sydney Hayward.”
She heard the rasp of a lighter. “Got a problem?”
“Not that can’t be fixed. It was really a very pitiful gesture, Lloyd.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t.” The sarcasm was brisk, almost careless. “Next time, I’d suggest you do more thorough research.”
“You want to come to the point?”
“The point is my building, my tenants and your mistake.”
“It’s a little early in the day for puzzles.” The smug satisfaction in his voice had her fingers curling.
“It’s not a puzzle when the solution is so clear. I don’t imagine you were aware of just how many service people live in the building. And how early some of those service people get up in the morning, have their coffee, glance out the window. Or how cooperative those people would be in giving descriptions to the police.”
“If something happened to your building, that’s your problem.” He drew hard on his cigarette. “I haven’t been near it.”
“I never thought you had been,” she said easily. “You’ve always been good at delegating. But once certain parties are picked up by the police, I think you’ll discover how unsettling it is not to have loyal employees.”
She could have sworn she heard him sweat. “I don’t have to listen to this.”
“No, of course you don’t. And I won’t keep you. Oh, Lloyd, don’t let them talk you into a bonus. They didn’t do a very thorough job. Ciao.”
She hung up, immensely satisfied. If she knew her quarry, he wouldn’t wait long to meet with his hirelings and pay them off. And since the investigator had been very interested in Sydney’s theory, she doubted that meeting would go unobserved.
She flicked her intercom. “Janine, I need food before we start interviewing the new secretaries. Order anything the deli says looks good today and double it.”
“You got it. I was about to buzz you, Sydney. Your mother’s here.”
The little bubble of success burst in her throat. “Tell her I’m…” Coward. “No, tell her to come in.” But she took a deep breath before she rose and walked to the door. “Mother.”
“Sydney, dear.” Lovely in ivory linen and smelling of Paris, she strolled in and bussed Sydney’s cheek. “I’m so sorry.”
“I—what?”
“I’ve had to wait all weekend to contact you and apologize.” Margerite took a steadying breath herself, twisting her envelope bag in her hands. “May I sit?”
“Of course. I’m sorry. Would you like anything?”
“To completely erase Friday evening from my life.” Seated, Margerite gave her daughter an embarrassed glance. “This isn’t easy for me, Sydney. The simple fact is, I was jealous.”
“Oh, Mother.”
“No, please.” Margerite waved her daughter to the chair beside her. “I don’t enjoy the taste of crow
and hope you’ll let me get it done in one large swallow.”
As embarrassed as her mother, Sydney sat and reached for her hand. “It isn’t necessary that you swallow at all. We’ll just forget it.”
Margerite shook her head. “I hope I’m big enough to admit my failings. I like thinking I’m still an attractive and desirable woman.”
“You are.”
Margerite smiled fleetingly. “But certainly not an admirable one when I find myself eaten up with envy to see that a man I’d hoped to, well, enchant, was instead enchanted by my daughter. I regret, very much, my behavior and my words. There,” she said on a puff of breath. “Will you forgive me?”
“Of course I will. And I’ll apologize, too, for speaking to you the way I did.”
Margerite took a little square of lace from her bag and dabbed at her eyes. “You surprised me, I admit. I’ve never seen you so passionate about anything. He’s a beautiful man, dear. I won’t say I approve of a relationship between you, but I can certainly understand it.” She sighed as she tucked the handkerchief back into her bag. “Your happiness is important to me, Sydney.”
“I know that.”
Her eyes still glistened when she looked at her daughter. “I’m so glad we cleared the air. And I want to do something for you, something to make up for all of this.”
“You don’t have to do anything.”
“I want to, really. Have dinner with me tonight.”
Sydney thought of the dozens of things she had to do, of the quiet meal she’d hoped for at the end of it all with Mikhail. Then she looked at her mother’s anxious eyes. “I’d love to.”
“Wonderful.” The spring was back in her step as Margerite got to her feet. “Eight o’clock. Le Cirque.” She gave Sydney a quick and genuine hug before she strolled out.
By eight, Sydney would have preferred a long, solitary nap, but stepped from her car dressed for the evening in a sleeveless silk jumpsuit of icy blue.
“My mother’s driver will take me home, Donald.”
“Very good, Ms. Hayward. Enjoy your evening.”
“Thank you.”
The maître d’ recognized her the moment she walked in and gracefully led her to her table himself. As she passed through the elegant restaurant filled with sparkling people and exotic scents, she imagined Mikhail, sitting at his scarred workbench with a bottle of beer and a bowl of goulash.
She tried not to sigh in envy.
When she spotted her mother—with Channing—at the corner table, she tried not to grit her teeth.
“There you are, darling.” So certain her surprise was just what her daughter needed, Margerite didn’t notice the lights of war in Sydney’s eyes. “Isn’t this lovely?”
“Lovely.” Sydney’s voice was flat as Channing rose to pull out her chair. She said nothing when he bent close to kiss her cheek.
“You look beautiful tonight, Sydney.”
The champagne was already chilled and open. She waited while hers was poured, but the first sip did nothing to clear the anger from her throat. “Mother didn’t mention you’d be joining us tonight.”
“That was my surprise,” Margerite bubbled like the wine in her glass. “My little make-up present.” Following a prearranged signal, she set her napkin aside and rose. “I’m sure you two will excuse me while I powder my nose.”
Knowing he only had fifteen minutes to complete his mission, Channing immediately took Sydney’s hand. “I’ve missed you, darling. It seems like weeks since I’ve had a moment alone with you.”
Skillfully Sydney slipped her hand from him. “It has been weeks. How have you been, Channing?”
“Desolate without you.” He skimmed a fingertip up her bare arm. She really had exquisite skin. “When are we going to stop playing these games, Sydney?”
“I haven’t been playing.” She took a sip of wine. “I’ve been working.”
A trace of annoyance clouded his eyes then cleared. He was sure Margerite was right. Once they were married, she would be too busy with him to bother with a career. It was best to get right to the point. “Darling, we’ve been seeing each other for months now. And of course, we’ve known each other for years. But things have changed.”
She met his eyes. “Yes, they have.”
Encouraged, he took her hand again. “I haven’t wanted to rush you, but I feel it’s time we take the next step. I care for you very much, Sydney. I find you lovely and amusing and sweet.”
“And suitable,” she muttered.
“Of course. I want you to be my wife.” He slipped a box from his pocket, opened the lid so that the round icy diamond could flash in the candlelight.
“Channing—”
“It reminded me of you,” he interrupted. “Regal and elegant.”
“It’s beautiful, Channing,” she said carefully. And cold, she thought. So very cold. “And I’m sorry, but I can’t accept it. Or you.”
Shock came first, then a trickle of annoyance. “Sydney, we’re both adults. There’s no need to be coy.”
“What I’m trying to be is honest.” She shifted in her chair, and this time it was she who took his hands. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am that my mother led you to believe I’d feel differently. By doing so, she’s put us both in an embarrassing position. Let’s be candid, Channing. You don’t love me, and I don’t love you.”
Insulted, he pokered up. “I hardly think I’d be offering marriage otherwise.”
“You’re offering it because you find me attractive, you think I’d make an excellent hostess, and because I come from the same circle as you. Those are reasons for a merger, not a marriage.” She closed the lid on the diamond and pressed the box into his hands. “I make a poor wife, Channing, that much I know. And I have no intention of becoming one again.”
He relaxed a little. “I understand you might still be a bit raw over what happened between you and Peter.”
“No, you don’t understand at all what happened between me and Peter. To be honest, that has nothing to do with my refusing you. I don’t love you, Channing, and I’m very much in love with someone else.”
His fair skin flushed dark red. “Then I find it worse than insulting that you would pretend an affection for me.”
“I do have an affection for you,” she said wearily. “But that’s all I have. I can only apologize if I failed to make that clear before this.”
“I don’t believe an apology covers it, Sydney.” Stiffly he rose to his feet. “Please give my regrets to your mother.”
Straight as a poker, he strode out, leaving Sydney alone with a miserable mix of temper and guilt. Five minutes later, Margerite came out of the ladies’ room, beaming. “Well now.” She leaned conspiratorially toward her daughter, pleased to see that Channing had given them a few moments alone. “Tell me everything.”
“Channing’s gone, Mother.”
“Gone?” Bright eyed, Margerite glanced around. “What do you mean gone?”
“I mean he’s left, furious, I might add, because I declined his proposal of marriage.”
“Declined?” Margerite blinked. “You— Sydney, how could you?”
“How could I?” Her voice rose and, catching herself, she lowered it to a whisper. “How could you? You set this entire evening up.”
“Of course I did.” Frazzled, Margerite waved the oncoming waiter away and reached for her wine. “I’ve planned for months to see you and Channing together. And since it was obvious that Mikhail had brought you out of your shell, the timing was perfect. Channing is exactly what you need. He’s eligible, his family is above reproach, he has a beautiful home and excellent bearing.”
“I don’t love him.”
“Sydney, for heaven’s sake, be sensible.”
“I’ve never been anything else, and perhaps that’s been the problem. I believed you when you came to see me this morning. I believed you were sorry, that you cared, and that you wanted something more than polite words between us.”
Margerite’s ey
es filled. “Everything I said this morning was true. I’d been miserable all weekend, thinking I’d driven you away. You’re my daughter, I do care. I want what’s best for you.”
“You mean it,” Sydney murmured, suddenly, unbearably weary. “But you also believe that you know what’s best for me. I don’t mean to hurt you, but I’ve come to understand you’ve never known what’s best for me. By doing this tonight, you caused me to hurt Channing in a way I never meant to.”
A tear spilled over. “Sydney, I only thought—”
“Don’t think for me.” She was perilously close to tears herself. “Don’t ever think for me again. I let you do that before, and I ruined someone’s life.”
“I don’t want you to be alone,” Margerite choked out. “It’s hateful being alone.”
“Mother.” Though she was afraid she might weaken too much, too soon, she took Margerite’s hands. “Listen to me, listen carefully. I love you, but I can’t be you. I want to know that we can have an honest, caring relationship. It’ll take time. But it can’t ever happen unless you try to understand me, unless you respect me for who I am, and not for what you want me to be. I can’t marry Channing to please you. I can’t marry anyone.”
“Oh, Sydney.”
“There are things you don’t know. Things I don’t want to talk about. Just please trust me. I know what I’m doing. I’ve been happier in the last few weeks than I’ve ever been.”
“Stanislaski,” Margerite said on a sigh.
“Yes, Stanislaski. And Hayward,” she added. “And me. I’m doing something with my life, Mother. It’s making a difference. Now let’s go fix your makeup and start over.”
At his workbench, Mikhail polished the rosewood bust. He hadn’t meant to work so late, but Sydney had simply emerged in his hands. There was no way to explain the way it felt to have her come to life there. It wasn’t powerful. It was humbling. He’d barely had to think. Though his fingers were cramped, proving how long he had carved and sanded and polished, he could barely remember the technique he’d used.
