by Anne Stuart
“You’re right, of course. Sit down.”
“No.”
“You’re in my sister’s house, and you’re damned well going to be polite.” Michael didn’t raise his voice, but the message was chillingly clear. Laura sat, jumping up again as a beaded pillow prodded her backside. His glare didn’t allow her even that much respite, and she sank back, more carefully this time, and looked around her.
The apartment looked like a movie set. Something out of Moonstruck, she decided. There wasn’t a bare section of wall. Furniture was crammed into the room, old, heavy furniture, tables draped in scarves, whatnot shelves, even a grand piano was stuck in a corner, covered with a fringed scarf and a dozen silver-framed pictures. The walls were similarly loaded, with dark portraits of gloomy-looking people, old photographs, religious icons and the like. The effect should have been overpowering and depressing. Instead, Laura felt like curling up on the surprisingly comfortable sofa and kicking off her shoes.
Michael was watching her, and probably reading her reaction. Before he had time to say anything, however, Sonya swept back in, her impressive bulk now swathed in a cotton apron that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Laura Ashley store, bearing a tray of tall glasses set in silver holders.
“Two glasses, Sonya?” Michael questioned, moving over to an overstuffed chair trimmed with antimacassars. “Aren’t you joining us?”
“You’re the one who isn’t joining us, Mischa. Father Dmitri wanted to talk with you about the afterschool program. I called him and told him you were coming. He’s expecting you.”
“Sonya...”
“Don’t worry, little brother. I’ll do exactly as you asked. I’ll show Laura how the Russians drink tea, I’ll tell her how I make jam, and we’ll talk about you. Come back in an hour.”
Laura sat there fascinated as Michael hesitated. Never would she have imagined that someone as overbearing as Michael Dubrovnik would take orders from a cozy-looking matron. But take orders he did. “An hour,” he agreed, still reluctant.
Sonya didn’t even acknowledge his departure, busying herself instead with the tall glasses of tea. “I prefer raspberry jam,” she said, stirring a teaspoon of the thick red stuff into the glass of amber-colored tea. “Though blackberry jam will do. If only Mischa had given me more warning, we could have made jam together.”
“Exactly what did Michael tell you?” Laura accepted her glass of tea with all the aplomb of a true coffee drinker. There was no potted palm conveniently close at hand to dump the tea into—she’d have to drink the stuff.
“That he was bringing a young woman up to drink Russian tea with me. Nothing more. I was hoping...but then, you know what I was hoping. Instead he says you’re his enemy. I can’t believe it.”
“Can’t believe that Michael has enemies? I’m sure that he has more than his fair share.”
Sonya nodded. “What do they call him? The Whirlwind? He was always like that, even as a little boy. Determined to get what he wanted, blowing over everything in his way. He was never deliberately cruel, though. Just a little thoughtless sometimes. When he saw that he’d inflicted pain, he always did his best to make amends. What I find hard to believe is that you’re his enemy.”
“He wants a building that I own. I won’t sell it to him.”
“Why not?”
“It was designed and built by my grandfather. My grandmother left it to me, in the hope that I would keep it intact. Any other member of my family would have sold it, the first chance they got. I’m going to hold onto it, no matter what.”
Sonya shook her head. “No, you aren’t. Not if Mischa wants it. My brother hasn’t gotten where he is today by taking no for an answer. The only one who tells him no and gets away with it is me.”
“Then tell him no for me.”
Sonya shook her head. “I don’t think it’s that easy. Even I have a battle when Mischa’s made up his mind. He was determined to move us out of the old building, the old neighborhood. He bought us a condominium on Park Avenue, twice the size of this old apartment. He wouldn’t listen when we told him we didn’t want to live on the East Side. We like it here, in the old neighborhood.”
“What happened? He must have finally accepted the fact that you didn’t want to move.”
“My Mischa is not one for fighting fairly, I warn you of this. When we refused to leave, he bought this building and served us with our eviction papers.”
“No!” Laura breathed, horrified.
“Yes!” Sonya declared.
“What did you do?”
“We had no choice. My Tim works for the post office. He didn’t want any of the jobs Mischa offered him. He wants to be his own man. We couldn’t afford any alternatives, so we moved into Mischa’s fancy condominium and were completely miserable. Five months later Mischa gave me the deed to this building for my birthday and sold the condo, putting the money in trust for the children. He’s a good boy, he just needs a little push every now and then. Drink your tea.”
Fascinated despite herself, Laura drank, noting with surprise that it wasn’t nearly as nasty as she’d thought it would be. As a matter of fact, it was rather good.
“I don’t think that tactic would work in my case. For one thing, he wouldn’t care if I was completely miserable months later. For another, even if he did, the Glass House would already be buried beneath the foundation of Dubrovnik Plaza.”
“Oh, dear,” Sonya murmured. “It’s in the way of the Plaza? That’s been Mischa’s dream for years. I don’t think there’s any chance of making him see reason.”
“Neither do I.”
“But I think you’re wrong about him not caring if you’re miserable. Mischa likes to leave everything tidy. If he razes a building, he relocates the tenants. If he takes over a corporation, he either makes sure everyone’s job is secure, or he has people to see that the employees find other jobs. He’s got a conscience.”
“There’s nothing he can bribe me with. I won’t give up my grandfather’s building.”
Sonya nodded. “Mischa should understand that. He knows how important family and tradition are.”
“Not when they get in the way of his ambition.” Laura found she had drained her tea and was, in fact, wishing she had more.
“Perhaps not. I think you should marry him. He needs a wife to temper that ambition. Then when you help me make raspberry jam next summer you can be carrying a baby.”
“I’d love to help you make raspberry jam. And I’d love to be pregnant. But I’m going to marry someone else.” Laura liked the cool sureness in her voice.
Sonya’s shrug was philosophical. “I’m happy for you, but sorry for Mischa. I think he needs someone like you.”
“He’s going to marry another model, like his first wife.” Laura finally remembered something from People Magazine. “Someone tall and elegant and decorative. That’s what he needs.”
“That’s what he thinks he needs,” Sonya said darkly. “He doesn’t listen to his sister, that’s his problem. Tell me about the man you’re going to marry. Not a tall, skinny model?”
“A farmer.”
Sonya’s dark blue eyes widened in surprise. “That’s not what I would have picked for you, and I’m accounted to be something of a matchmaker around here.”
“He’s big and strong and gentle,” Laura said, hoping to keep the defensiveness out of her voice. “He’s a good man.”
“So is my brother.”
“Your brother doesn’t want me.” Not strictly true, a nagging little voice whispered in Laura’s ear.
“Then he’s a fool,” Sonya said flatly. “If you’re going to marry a farmer, then it will be even more important that you know how to make jam. Come back to me in the spring with a farmer’s baby in your belly, and I’ll show you how to make jam. Unless you’ve already moved away.”
“We’ll be living in New York.”
“What will a farmer do in New York?”
Laura hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Maybe
we can have a roof garden on top of the Glass House.”
“Laura,” Sonya said gently, “you won’t own the Glass House.”
“Yes, I will.”
Sonya opened her mouth to refute Laura’s claim, then shut it again. “I hope you’re right. My brother shouldn’t get his way in all things. Come with me and we’ll set lunch on the table. Father Dmitri promised he’d keep Mischa long enough for us to talk and then send him back. He’s going to try for an hour, but I expect my brother will be back sooner. Did you like your tea?”
Laura rose, following Sonya’s graceful bulk toward the kitchen. “Yes, I did.”
“Surprised you, didn’t it? We’ll have more with lunch. Mischa says no one can make it like I do.” She pushed open the swinging door into the large, old-fashioned kitchen, and a medley of heavy aromas enveloped them. “I wish Mischa had given us more warning. Tim would have arranged to come home for lunch. He’d like to meet you.”
“Why?” Laura kept her voice deliberately suspicious as she accepted the enveloping apron Sonya handed her. “I told you there’s nothing between your brother and me.”
“I think he’d like to see a woman who could say no to Mischa and get away with it.” She lifted the lid off a pot on the old-fashioned white porcelain stove and took a deep, appreciative sniff. “I would like to give you one piece of advice. I probably shouldn’t...”
“Please,” Laura said, hoping for a key to Michael’s character, a clue to besting him. “Anything.”
Sonya looked at her, planting meaty hands on her ample hips. “Those clothes are terrible on you. Throw them out when you get home.”
Laura was still laughing when Michael walked in moments later. They made it through lunch peacefully enough, the three of them seated around the old white metal table in the middle of the kitchen. Laura waded through borscht, some sort of meat and rice dish, and even a third, totally optional glass of Russian tea, this time with blackberry jam. She could feel Michael’s eyes on her, but she ignored his gaze, knowing from experience that she’d be unable to interpret it. It wasn’t until they were ready to leave, and she was loaded down with half a dozen jars of homemade jam, that things got a little iffy.
“Come back and see me again, Laura,” Sonya said at the door. “Don’t wait for Mischa. He forgets his family.”
“I do not!” Michael protested.
“You could do better, Mischa,” Sonya said sternly. She turned her back on him. “Bring your husband next time, Laura. I’d like to see who you’d prefer to this businessman of mine.”
“Husband?” Michael didn’t raise his voice, but the walls seemed to shake anyway.
“She’s marrying a farmer,” Sonya said, not bothering to look at him. She smiled at Laura, and to her amazement, winked. “She knows what’s important in this life. Family is important. And the land.”
“For a woman who’s spent her entire sixty years in New York City, you’re a fine one to talk about the land,” Michael drawled, putting a hand under Laura’s elbow and steering her out the door.
“Women understand these things.”
Michael’s response was short and to the point, but his sister was unruffled. “Show some respect, Mischa. If your mother was alive, she’d wash your mouth out with soap.”
She pushed her brother aside and enveloped Laura in her maternal embrace. “I wish you’d change your mind,” she whispered. “My brother needs you more than any farmer.”
Laura simply shook her head, returning the hug. Michael had stomped past the two women, heading down the narrow stairs in a patently foul mood. With a shrug and a smile, Laura followed. “Don’t let him win,” Sonya called after her. “He needs to learn about losing sometimes.”
Laura paused at the top of the stairs. “I’ll do my best to teach him a lesson,” she said. “Count on it.”
When she arrived back down on the sidewalk Michael was leaning against the Bentley, his hands in his pockets, his gaze abstracted, staring at his old neighborhood without seeing. “What did she say to you?”
“That I shouldn’t wear Laura Ashley,” Laura replied with complete truthfulness.
Michael snorted with laughter before following her into the back seat of the Bentley. “I’ve got to get you back downtown. I’m late for a meeting, and I’m taking Marita out tonight.”
“So I gather.” Her voice was completely tranquil as her beringed fingers clutched the jars of jam she was still carrying. “As a matter of fact, I’ve got quite an evening planned myself.”
“With the farmer?”
“Exactly.”
“Don’t you know you shouldn’t get involved with someone on the rebound?”
“Then why are you going out with Marita?” she countered.
“I hadn’t noticed that Marita’s heart was broken. I’m not convinced she even has a heart.”
“That’ll be convenient for you. Nothing to entangle you with untidy emotions. You can have your bloodless marriage.”
He said nothing for a moment, but Laura could see a pulse ticking at the base of his neck. Not too thick, not too thin, smoothly tanned, it was a nice neck that rose above the crisp white linen collar. She had the odd, totally irrational desire to press her mouth against that pulse.
“I can’t see you with a farmer,” he said finally.
“It’s none of your business.”
“I don’t want to see you make a mess of your life.”
“Why?”
He looked at her, his dark blue eyes wintry. “You’re going to have a hard enough time living without the Glass House.”
“I’m not going to live without the Glass House. You are.”
The Bentley had accomplished the ride back downtown with admirable speed. They’d already stopped outside the building on East Sixty-sixth Street, but Michael made no move to open the door. “I’m tired of arguing with you,” he said quietly.
“Then give up. Admit when you’re defeated.”
He grinned then, a sudden, oddly lighthearted upturning of his mouth. “I never give up.”
“Neither do I.”
“Have fun with your farmer.”
Laura gave him her sexiest smile. “I have every intention of doing so. Enjoy your model.” And she slid out of the car, still clutching her jam jars to her breast.
Susan was alone in the twelfth-floor offices, looking only marginally more cheerful than she had that morning. At least her eyes weren’t currently red-rimmed. “Anyone call?”
“Emelia’s got her screen test,” Susan said.
“She must be bouncing off the walls.” Laura set the jam jars on the table and ran her fingers through her thick black hair.
“She told me to tell you she loves you. I sent Jacki, Marlann and Melvin over to see the people at Wampuss. They called and are going to take them.”
“You don’t even need me,” Laura murmured, wandering over to the windows and looking down at the construction site beside them. The huge pieces of machinery were just where they’d been left, a swarm of technicians working on them with the intensity of a team of brain surgeons.
“I need you.”
“What about Frank? Any word?”
“Nothing.” Susan quickly changed the subject. “This came for you.” She held up a sealed envelope marked PRIVATE.
“What is it?”
“I didn’t open it. I thought you deserved some secrets.”
“I don’t. Deserve them, or have them.” She took the envelope from her assistant’s hand, staring at it for a moment before tearing it open. “It’s probably just an advertisement for a new deli or...” Her voice trailed off as she stared at the flimsy piece of paper in front of her. The words were cut from a newspaper; their message was horrifyingly clear.
“What is it?” Susan demanded. “You look white as a ghost.”
“I guess I do have some secrets after all,” Laura said numbly, crumpling the paper in her hand.
“Are you going to tell me what’s in that letter?” Susan dem
anded. “Or am I going to have to wrestle you for it? I’m five inches taller than you and God knows how many pounds heavier.”
“Yes, but I fight dirty,” her boss replied with a ghost of a smile. “I’ll tell you tomorrow. I have to think about it first.”
“Laura...”
“Tomorrow, Susan. In the meantime, you can help me find a place for all this jam.”
Susan knew when to let something be. “What are you going to do with all this, for heaven’s sake?”
“Make tea,” Laura said with a ghost of a smile. “Make tea.”
Chapter Thirteen
This damned building was getting to him, Michael thought three hours later as he rode upward in solitary splendor. He looked around him at the ornate art deco brass swirls in the elevator, the polished oak floor beneath him, and cursed. He didn’t trust any elevator made before 1950, but the Otis was out of order, and he wasn’t in the mood to hike up nine flights of stairs to the floor he was using as his headquarters.
He leaned back against the walls, feeling the vibrations pulse through him as the cage bore him upward. He had to admit, as far as elevators went, that it was a pretty one. He wasn’t a complete philistine—he could appreciate beauty in functional objects. But he couldn’t afford to be distracted by beauty, by the beauty of an elevator, of an old, obsolete building, of a feisty young woman dressed in little girl’s clothes.
She didn’t realize how damned sexy she was in those ridiculous clothes, Michael thought, stepping off into his hallway and unlocking the door that still said Swimming Pool News. He already had a very good idea of what her body looked like beneath all that voluminous cotton—he’d seen her in micromini skirts, in scanty night clothes, in low-cut blouses. He knew she had surprisingly long legs, nice breasts, a small waist, and the most distracting ass.
He’d been sitting in a meeting, a meeting he’d been late for, much to the shock of everyone there who knew his obsession for promptness, and instead of listening to the all-important six-month projections, he’d been fantasizing about those long legs wrapped around him, the calico skirts spread beneath her.
