by Nora Roberts
“No, not before I drive.”
“Drive?”
“Yes. Do you like Sunday drives, Sydney?”
“I…” She picked up her purse to give her hands something to do. There was no reason, none at all, for her to allow him to make her feel as awkward as a teenager on a first date. “I don’t get much opportunity for them in the city.” It seemed wise to get started. She moved to the door, wondering what it would be like to be in a car with him. Alone. “I didn’t realize you kept a car.”
His grin was quick and a tad self-mocking as they moved out into the hall. “A couple of years ago, after my art had some success, I bought one. It was a little fantasy of mine. I think I pay more to keep it parked than I did for the car. But fantasies are rarely free.”
In the elevator, he pushed the button for the garage. “I think about it myself,” she admitted. “I miss driving, the independence of it, I suppose. In Europe, I could hop in and zoom off whenever I chose. But it seems more practical to keep a driver here than to go to war every time you need a parking space.”
“Sometime we’ll go up north, along the river, and you can drive.”
The image was almost too appealing, whipping along the roads toward the mountains upstate. She thought it was best not to comment. “Your report came in on Friday,” she began.
“Not today.” He reached down to take her hand as they stepped into the echoing garage. “Talking reports can wait till Monday. Here.” He opened the door of a glossy red-and-cream MG. The canvas top was lowered. “You don’t mind the top down?” he asked as she settled inside.
Sydney thought of the time and trouble she’d taken with her hair. And she thought of the freedom of having even a hot breeze blow through it. “No, I don’t mind.”
He climbed into the driver’s seat, adjusting long legs, then gunned the engine. After taking a pair of mirrored sunglasses off the dash, he pulled out. The radio was set on rock. Sydney found herself smiling as they cruised around Central Park.
“You didn’t mention where we were going.”
“I know this little place. The food is good.” He noted her foot was tapping along in time with the music. “Tell me where you lived in Europe.”
“Oh, I didn’t live in any one place. I moved around. Paris, Saint Tropez, Venice, London, Monte Carlo.”
“Perhaps you have Gypsies in your blood, too.”
“Perhaps.” Not Gypsies, she thought. There had been nothing so romantic as wanderlust in her hopscotching travels through Europe. Only dissatisfaction, and a need to hide until wounds had healed. “Have you ever been?”
“When I was very young. But I would like to go back now that I am old enough to appreciate it. The art, you see, and the atmosphere, the architecture. What places did you like best?”
“A little village in the countryside of France where they milked cows by hand and grew fat purple grapes. There was a courtyard at the inn where I stayed, and the flowers were so big and bright. In the late afternoon you could sit and drink the most wonderful white wine and listen to the doves coo.” She stopped, faintly embarrassed. “And of course, Paris,” she said quickly. “The food, the shopping, the ballet. I knew several people, and enjoyed the parties.”
Not so much, he thought, as she enjoyed sitting alone and listening to cooing doves.
“Do you ever think about going back to the Soviet Union?” she asked him.
“Often. To see the place where I was born, the house we lived in. It may not be there now. The hills where I played as a child. They would be.”
His glasses only tossed her own reflection back at her. But she thought, behind them, his eyes would be sad. His voice was. “Things have changed so much, so quickly in the last few years. Glasnost, the Berlin Wall. You could go back.”
“Sometimes I think I will, then I wonder if it’s better to leave it a memory—part bitter, part sweet, but colored through the eyes of a child. I was very young when we left.”
“It was difficult.”
“Yes. More for my parents who knew the risks better than we. They had the courage to give up everything they had ever known to give their children the one thing they had never had. Freedom.”
Moved, she laid a hand over his on the gearshift. Margerite had told her the story of escaping into Hungary in a wagon, making it seem like some sort of romantic adventure. It didn’t seem romantic to Sydney. It seemed terrifying. “You must have been frightened.”
“More than I ever hope to be again. At night I would lie awake, always cold, always hungry, and listen to my parents talk. One would reassure the other, and they would plan how far we might travel the next day—and the next. When we came to America, my father wept. And I understood it was over. I wasn’t afraid anymore.”
Her own eyes had filled. She turned away to let the wind dry them. “But coming here must have been frightening, too. A different place, different language, different culture.”
He heard the emotion in her voice. Though touched, he didn’t want to make her sad. Not today. “The young adjust quickly. I had only to give the boy in the next house a bloody nose to feel at home.”
She turned back, saw the grin and responded with a laugh. “Then, I suppose, you became inseparable friends.”
“I was best man at his wedding only two years ago.”
With a shake of her head, she settled back. It was then she noticed they were crossing the bridge over to Brooklyn. “You couldn’t find a place to have dinner in Manhattan?”
His grin widened. “Not like this one.”
A few minutes later, he was cruising through one of the old neighborhoods with its faded brick row houses and big, shady trees. Children scrambled along the sidewalks, riding bikes, jumping rope. At the curb where Mikhail stopped, two boys were having a deep and serious transaction with baseball cards.
“Hey, Mik!” Both of them jumped up before he’d even climbed out of the car. “You missed the game. We finished an hour ago.”
“I’ll catch the next one.” He glanced over to see that Sydney had already gotten out and was standing in the street, studying the neighborhood with baffled and wary eyes. He leaned over and winked. “I got a hot date.”
“Oh, man.” Twelve-year-old disgust prevented either of them from further comment.
Laughing, Mikhail walked over to grab Sydney’s hand and pull her to the sidewalk. “I don’t understand,” she began as he led her across the concrete heaved up by the roots of a huge old oak. “This is a restaurant?”
“No.” He had to tug to make her keep up with him as he climbed the steps. “It’s a house.”
“But you said—”
“That we were going to dinner.” He shoved the door open and took a deep sniff. “Smells like Mama made Chicken Kiev. You’ll like.”
“Your mother?” She nearly stumbled into the narrow entranceway. Scattered emotions flew inside her stomach like a bevy of birds. “You bought me to your parents’ house?”
“Yes, for Sunday dinner.”
“Oh, good Lord.”
He lifted a brow. “You don’t like Chicken Kiev?”
“No. Yes. That isn’t the point. I wasn’t expecting—”
“You’re late,” Yuri boomed. “Are you going to bring the woman in or stand in the doorway?”
Mikhail kept his eyes on Sydney’s. “She doesn’t want to come in,” he called back.
“That’s not it,” she whispered, mortified. “You might have told me about this so I could have…oh, never mind.” She brushed past him to take the couple of steps necessary to bring her into the living room. Yuri was just hauling himself out of a chair.
“Mr. Stanislaski, it’s so nice of you to have me.” She offered a hand and had it swallowed whole by his.
“You are welcome here. You will call me Yuri.”
“Thank you.”
“We are happy Mikhail shows good taste.” Grinning, he used a stage whisper. “His mama, she didn’t like the dancer with the blond hair.”
&nb
sp; “Thanks, Papa.” Casually Mikhail draped an arm over Sydney’s shoulders—felt her resist the urge to shrug it off. “Where is everyone?”
“Mama and Rachel are in the kitchen. Alex is later than you. Alex sees all the girls, at the same time,” Yuri told Sydney. “It should confuse him, but it does not.”
“Yuri, you have not taken the trash out yet.” A small woman with an exotic face and graying hair came out of the kitchen, carrying silverware in the skirt of her apron.
Yuri gave his son an affectionate thump on the back that nearly had Sydney pitching forward. “I wait for Mikhail to come and take it.”
“And Mikhail will wait for Alex.” She set the flatware down on a heavy table at the other end of the room, then came to Sydney. Her dark eyes were shrewd, not unfriendly, but quietly probing. She smelled of spice and melted butter. “I am Nadia, Mikhail’s mother.” She offered a hand. “We are happy to have you with us.”
“Thank you. You have a lovely home.”
She had said it automatically, meaningless politeness. But the moment the words were out, Sydney realized they were true. The entire house would probably fit into one wing of her mother’s Long Island estate, and the furniture was old rather than antique. Doilies as charming and intricate as those she had seen at Mrs. Wolburg’s covered the arms of chairs. The wallpaper was faded, but that only made the tiny rosebuds scattered over it seem more lovely.
The strong sunlight burst through the window and showed every scar, every mend. Just as it showed how lovingly the woodwork and table surfaces had been polished.
Out of the corner of her eye she caught a movement. As she glanced over, she watched a plump ball of gray fur struggling, whimpering from under a chair.
“That is Ivan,” Yuri said, clucking to the puppy. “He is only a baby.” He sighed a little for his old mutt Sasha who had died peacefully at the age of fifteen six months before. “Alex brings him home from pound.”
“Saved you from walking the last mile, right, Ivan?” Mikhail bent down to ruffle fur. Ivan thumped his tail while giving Sydney nervous looks. “He is named for Ivan the Terrible, but he’s a coward.”
“He’s just shy,” Sydney corrected, then gave in to need and crouched down. She’d always wanted a pet, but boarding schools didn’t permit them. “There, aren’t you sweet?” The dog trembled visibly for a moment when she stroked him, then began to lick the toes that peeked out through her sandals.
Mikhail began to think the pup had potential.
“What kind is he?” she asked.
“He is part Russian wolfhound,” Yuri declared.
“With plenty of traveling salesmen thrown in.” The voice came from the kitchen doorway. Sydney looked over her shoulder and saw a striking woman with a sleek cap of raven hair and tawny eyes. “I’m Mikhail’s sister, Rachel. You must be Sydney.”
“Yes, hello.” Sydney straightened, and wondered what miracles in the gene pool had made all the Stanislaskis so blindingly beautiful.
“Dinner’ll be ready in ten minutes.” Rachel’s voice carried only the faintest wisp of an accent and was as dark and smooth as black velvet. “Mikhail, you can set the table.”
“I have to take out the trash,” he told her, instantly choosing the lesser of two evils.
“I’ll do it.” Sydney’s impulsive offer was greeted with casual acceptance. She was nearly finished when Alex, as dark, exotic and gorgeous as the rest of the family, strolled in.
“Sorry I’m late, Papa. Just finished a double shift. I barely had time to…” He trailed off when he spotted Sydney. His mouth curved and his eyes flickered with definite interest. “Now I’m really sorry I’m late. Hi.”
“Hello.” Her lips curved in response. That kind of romantic charm could have raised the blood pressure on a corpse. Providing it was female.
“Mine,” Mikhail said mildly as he strolled back out of the kitchen.
Alex merely grinned and continued walking toward Sydney. He took her hand, kissed the knuckles. “Just so you know, of the two of us, I’m less moody and have a steadier job.”
She had to laugh. “I’ll certainly take that into account.”
“He thinks he’s a cop.” Mikhail sent his brother an amused look. “Mama says to wash your hands. Dinner’s ready.”
* * *
Sydney was certain she’d never seen more food at one table. There were mounds of chicken stuffed with rich, herbed butter. It was served with an enormous bowl of lightly browned potatoes and a platter heaped with slices of grilled vegetables that Nadia had picked from her own kitchen garden that morning. There was a tower of biscuits along with a mountain of some flaky stuffed pastries that was Alex’s favorite dish.
Sydney sipped the crisp wine that was offered along with vodka and wondered. The amount and variety of food was nothing compared to the conversation.
Rachel and Alex argued over someone named Goose. After a winding explanation, Sydney learned that while Alex was a rookie cop, Rachel was in her first year with the public defender’s office. And Goose was a petty thief Rachel was defending.
Yuri and Mikhail argued about baseball. Sydney didn’t need Nadia’s affectionate translation to realize that while Yuri was a diehard Yankee fan, Mikhail stood behind the Mets.
There was much gesturing with silverware and Russian exclamations mixed with English. Then laughter, a shouted question, and more arguing.
“Rachel is an idealist,” Alex stated. With his elbows on the table and his chin rested on his joined hands, he smiled at Sydney. “What are you?”
She smiled back. “Too smart to be put between a lawyer and a cop.”
“Elbows off,” Nadia said, and gave her son a quick rap. “Mikhail says you are a businesswoman. And that you are very smart. And fair.”
The description surprised her enough that she nearly fumbled. “I try to be.”
“Your company was in a sticky situation last week.” Rachel downed the last of her vodka with a panache Sydney admired. “You handled it well. It seemed to me that rather than trying to be fair you simply were. Have you known Mikhail long?”
She segued into the question so neatly, Sydney only blinked. “No, actually. We met last month when he barged into my office ready to crush any available Hayward under his work boot.”
“I was polite,” he corrected.
“You were not polite.” Because she could see Yuri was amused, she continued. “He was dirty, angry and ready to fight.”
“His temper comes from his mama,” Yuri informed Sydney. “She is fierce.”
“Only once,” Nadia said with a shake of her head. “Only once did I hit him over the head with a pot. He never forgets.”
“I still have the scar. And here.” Yuri pointed to his shoulder. “Where you threw the hairbrush at me.”
“You should not have said my new dress was ugly.”
“It was ugly,” he said with a shrug, then tapped a hand on his chest. “And here, where you—”
“Enough.” All dignity, she rose. “Or our guest will think I am tyrant.”
“She is a tyrant,” Yuri told Sydney with a grin.
“And this tyrant says we will clear the table and have dessert.”
* * *
Sydney was still chuckling over it as Mikhail crossed the bridge back into Manhattan. Sometime during the long, comfortable meal she’d forgotten to be annoyed with him. Perhaps she’d had a half a glass too much wine. Certainly she’d eaten entirely too much kissel—the heavenly apricot pudding Nadia had served with cold, rich cream. But she was relaxed and couldn’t remember ever having spent a more enjoyable Sunday evening.
“Did your father make that up?” Snuggled back in her seat, Sydney turned her head to study Mikhail’s profile. “About your mother throwing things?”
“No, she throws things.” He downshifted and cruised into traffic. “Once a whole plate of spaghetti and meatballs at me because my mouth was too quick.”
Her laughter came out in a burst of enjoyment. �
�Oh, I would have loved to have seen that. Did you duck?”
He flicked her a grin. “Not fast enough.”
“I’ve never thrown anything in my life.” Her sigh was part wistful, part envious. “I think it must be very liberating. They’re wonderful,” she said after another moment. “Your family. You’re very lucky.”
“So you don’t mind eating in Brooklyn?”
Frowning, she straightened a bit. “It wasn’t that. I told you, I’m not a snob. I just wasn’t prepared. You should have told me you were taking me there.”
“Would you have gone?”
She opened her mouth then closed it again. After a moment, she let her shoulders rise and fall. “I don’t know. Why did you take me?”
“I wanted to see you there. Maybe I wanted you to see me there, too.”
Puzzled, she turned to look at him again. They were nearly back now. In a few more minutes he would go his way and she hers. “I don’t understand why that should matter to you.”
“Then you understand much too little, Sydney.”
“I might understand if you’d be more clear.” It was suddenly important, vital, that she know. The tips of her fingers were beginning to tingle so that she had to rub them together to stop the sensation.
“I’m better with my hands than with words.” Impatient with her, with himself, he pulled into the garage beneath her building. When he yanked off his sunglasses, his eyes were dark and turbulent.
Didn’t she know that her damn perfume had his nerve ends sizzling? The way she laughed, the way her hair lifted in the wind. How her eyes had softened and yearned as she’d looked at the silly little mutt of his father’s.
It was worse, much worse now that he’d seen her with his family. Now that he’d watched how her initial stiffness melted away under a few kind words. He’d worried that he’d made a mistake, that she would be cold to his family, disdainful of the old house and simple meal.
Instead she’d laughed with his father, dried dishes with his mother. Alex’s blatant flirting hadn’t offended but rather had amused her. And when Rachel had praised her handling of the accident with Mrs. Wolburg, she’d flushed like a schoolgirl.
