in his hair, the other clamped on his shoulder.
She felt everything. Everything. And it all moved too fast. Her mind seemed to dim until she could barely hear the clatter and bustle of the bar. But she felt his mouth angle over hers, his teeth nip, his tongue seduce.
Whatever she was doing to him, he was doing to her. He knew it. He saw it in the way her eyes glazed before they closed, felt it in the hot, ready passion of her lips. It was supposed to soothe his ego, prove a point. But it did neither.
It only left him aching.
“Sorry to break this up.” The waitress slapped two frosted mugs on the table. “Steak’s on its way.”
Sydney jerked her head back. His arms were still around her, though his grip had loosened. And she, she was plastered against him. Her body molded to his as they sat in a booth in a public place. Shame and fury battled for supremacy as she yanked herself away.
“That was a despicable thing to do.”
He shrugged and picked up his beer. “I didn’t do it alone.” Over the foam, his eyes sharpened. “Not this time, or last time.”
“Last time, you…”
“What?”
Sydney lifted her mug and sipped gingerly. “I don’t want to discuss it.”
He wanted to argue, even started to, but there was a sheen of hurt in her eyes that baffled him. He didn’t mind making her angry. Hell, he enjoyed it. But he didn’t know what he’d done to make her hurt. He waited until the waitress had set the steaks in front of them.
“You’ve had a rough day,” he said so kindly Sydney gasped. “I don’t mean to make it worse.”
“It’s…” She struggled with a response. “It’s been a rough day all around. Let’s just put it behind us.”
“Done.” Smiling, he handed her a knife and fork. “Eat your dinner. We’ll have a truce.”
“Good.” She discovered she had an appetite after all.
CHAPTER FIVE
Sydney didn’t know how Mildred Wolburg’s accident had leaked to the press, but by Tuesday afternoon her office was flooded with calls from reporters. A few of the more enterprising staked out the lobby of the Hayward Building and cornered her when she left for the day.
By Wednesday rumors were flying around the offices that Hayward was facing a multimillion-dollar suit, and Sydney had several unhappy board members on her hands. The consensus was that by assuming responsibility for Mrs. Wolburg’s medical expenses, Sydney had admitted Hayward’s neglect and had set the company up for a large public settlement.
It was bad press, and bad business.
Knowing no route but the direct one, Sydney prepared a statement for the press and agreed to an emergency board meeting. By Friday, she thought as she walked into the hospital, she would know if she would remain in charge of Hayward or whether her position would be whittled down to figurehead.
Carrying a stack of paperbacks in one hand and a potted plant in the other, Sydney paused outside of Mrs. Wolburg’s room. Because it was Sydney’s third visit since the accident, she knew the widow wasn’t likely to be alone. Invariably, friends and family streamed in and out during visiting hours. This time she saw Mikhail, Keely and two of Mrs. Wolburg’s children.
Mikhail spotted her as Sydney was debating whether to slip out again and leave the books and plant she’d brought at the nurse’s station.
“You have more company, Mrs. Wolburg.”
“Sydney.” The widow’s eyes brightened behind her thick lenses. “More books.”
“Your grandson told me you liked to read.” Feeling awkward, she set the books on the table beside the bed and took Mrs. Wolburg’s outstretched hand.
“My Harry used to say I’d rather read than eat.” The thin, bony fingers squeezed Sydney’s. “That’s a beautiful plant.”
“I noticed you have several in your apartment.” She smiled, feeling slightly more relaxed as the conversation in the room picked up again to flow around them. “And the last time I was here the room looked like a florist’s shop.” She glanced around at the banks of cut flowers in vases, pots, baskets, even in a ceramic shoe. “So I settled on an African violet.”
“I do have a weakness for flowers and growing things. Set it right there on the dresser, will you, dear? Between the roses and the carnations.”
“She’s getting spoiled.” As Sydney moved to comply, the visiting daughter winked at her brother. “Flowers, presents, pampering. We’ll be lucky to ever get home-baked cookies again.”
“Oh, I might have a batch or two left in me.” Mrs. Wolburg preened in her new crocheted bed jacket. “Mik tells me I’m getting a brand-new oven. Eye level, so I won’t have to bend and stoop.”
“So I think I should get the first batch,” Mikhail said as he sniffed the roses. “The chocolate chip.”
“Please.” Keely pressed a hand to her stomach. “I’m dieting. I’m getting murdered next week, and I have to look my best.” She noted Sydney’s stunned expression and grinned. “Death Stalk,” she explained. “My first TV movie. I’m the third victim of the maniacal psychopath. I get strangled in this really terrific negligee.”
“You shouldn’t have left your windows unlocked,” Mrs. Wolburg told her, and Keely grinned again.
“Well, that’s show biz.”
Sydney waited until a break in the conversation, then made her excuses. Mikhail gave her a ten-second lead before he slipped a yellow rose out of a vase. “See you later, beautiful.” He kissed Mrs. Wolburg on the cheek and left her chuckling.
In a few long strides, he caught up with Sydney at the elevators. “Hey. You look like you could use this.” He offered the flower.
“It couldn’t hurt.” After sniffing the bloom, she worked up a smile. “Thanks.”
“You want to tell me why you’re upset?”
“I’m not upset.” She jabbed the down button again.
“Never argue with an artist about your feelings.” Insistently he tipped back her chin with one finger. “I see fatigue and distress, worry and annoyance.”
The ding of the elevator relieved her, though she knew he would step inside the crowded car with her. She frowned a little when she found herself pressed between Mikhail and a large woman carrying a suitcase-sized purse. Someone on the elevator had used an excess of expensive perfume. Fleetingly Sydney wondered if that shouldn’t be as illegal as smoking in a closed car.
“Any Gypsies in your family?” she asked Mikhail on impulse.
“Naturally.”
“I’d rather you use a crystal ball to figure out the future than analyze my feelings at the
