of waiting for our turn. We want what was promised to us, now.”
“If you’ll send me a list of your demands—”
“We have.”
She set her teeth. “Then I’ll look over the files this evening.”
“Files aren’t people. You take the rent money every month, but you don’t think of the people.” He placed his hands on the desk and leaned forward. Sydney caught a wisp of sawdust and sweat that was uncomfortably appealing. “Have you seen the building, or the people who live in it?”
“I have reports,” she began.
“Reports.” He swore—it wasn’t in a language she understood, but she was certain it was an oath. “You have your accountants and your lawyers, and you sit up here in your pretty office and look through papers.” With one quick slash of the hand, he dismissed her office and herself. “But you know nothing. It’s not you who’s cold when the heat doesn’t work, or who must climb five flights of stairs when the elevator is broken. You don’t worry that the water won’t get hot or that the wiring is too old to be safe.”
No one spoke to her that way. No one. Her own temper was making her heart beat too fast. It made her forget that she was facing a very dangerous man. “You’re wrong. I’m very concerned about all of those things. And I intend to correct them as soon as possible.”
His eyes flashed and narrowed, like a sword raised and turned on its edge. “This is a promise we’ve heard before.”
“Now, it’s my promise, and you haven’t had that before.”
“And we’re supposed to trust you. You, who are too lazy or too afraid to even go see what she owns.”
Her face went dead white, the only outward sign of fury. “I’ve had enough of your insults for one afternoon, Mr. Stanislaski. Now, you can either find your way out, or I’ll call security to help you find it.”
“I know my way,” he said evenly. “I’ll tell you this, Miss Sydney Hayward, you will begin to keep those promises within two days, or we’ll go to the building commissioner, and the press.”
Sydney waited until he had stalked out before she sat again. Slowly she took a sheet of stationery from the drawer then methodically tore it into shreds. She stared at the smudges his big wide-palmed hands had left on her glossy desk and chose and shredded another sheet. Calmer, she punched the intercom. “Janine, bring me everything you’ve got on the Soho project.”
An hour later, Sydney pushed the files aside and made two calls. The first was to cancel her dinner plans for the evening. The second was to Lloyd Bingham, her grandfather’s—now her—executive assistant.
“You just caught me,” Lloyd told her as he walked into Sydney’s office. “I was on my way out. What can I do for you?”
Sydney shot him a brief glance. He was a handsome, ambitious man who preferred Italian tailors and French food. Not yet forty, he was on his second divorce and liked to escort society women who were attracted to his smooth blond looks and polished manners. Sydney knew that he had worked hard and long to gain his position with Hayward and that he had taken over the reins during her grandfather’s illness the past year.
She also knew that he resented her because she was sitting behind a desk he considered rightfully his.
“For starters, you can explain why nothing has been done about the Soho apartments.”
“The unit in Soho?” Lloyd took a cigarette from a slim gold case. “It’s on the agenda.”
“It’s been on the agenda for nearly eighteen months. The first letter in the file, signed by the tenants, was dated almost two years ago and lists twenty-seven specific complaints.”
“And I believe you’ll also see in the file that a number of them were addressed.” He blew out a thin stream of smoke as he made himself comfortable on one of the chairs.
“A number of them,” Sydney repeated. “Such as the furnace repairs. The tenants seemed to think a new furnace was required.”
Lloyd made a vague gesture. “You’re new to the game, Sydney. You’ll find that tenants always want new, better and more.”
“That may be. However, it hardly seems cost-effective to me to repair a thirty-year-old furnace and have it break down again two months later.” She held up a finger before he could speak. “Broken railings in stairwells, peeling paint, an insufficient water heater, a defective elevator, cracked porcelain…” She glanced up. “I could go on, but it doesn’t seem necessary. There’s a memo here, from my grandfather to you, requesting that you take over the repairs and maintenance of this building.”
“Which I did,” Lloyd said stiffly. “You know very well that your grandfather’s health turned this company upside down over the last year. That apartment complex is only one of several buildings he owned.”
“You’re absolutely right.” Her voice was quiet but without warmth. “I also know that we have a responsibility, a legal and a moral responsibility to our tenants, whether the building is in Soho or on Central Park West.” She closed the folder, linked her hands over it and, in that gesture, stated ownership. “I don’t want to antagonize you, Lloyd, but I want you to understand that I’ve decided to handle this particular property myself.”
“Why?”
She granted him a small smile. “I’m not entirely sure. Let’s just say I want to get my feet wet, and I’ve decided to make this property my pet project. In the meantime, I’d like you to look over the reports on the construction firms, and give me your recommendations.” She offered him another file. “I’ve included a list of the properties, in order of priority. We’ll have a meeting Friday, ten o’clock, to finalize.”
“All right.” He tapped out his cigarette before he rose. “Sydney, I hope you won’t take offense, but a woman who’s spent most of her life traveling and buying clothes doesn’t know much about business, or making a profit.”
She did take offense, but she’d be damned if she’d show it. “Then I’d better learn, hadn’t I? Good night, Lloyd.”
Not until the door closed did she look down at her hands. They were shaking. He was right, absolutely right to point out her inadequacies. But he couldn’t know how badly she needed to prove herself here, to make something out of what her grandfather had left her. Nor could he know how terrified she was that she would let down the family name. Again.
Before she could change her mind, she tucked the file into her briefcase and left the office. She walked down the wide pastel corridor with its tasteful watercolors and thriving ficus trees, through the thick glass doors that closed in her suite of offices. She took her private elevator down to the lobby, where she nodded to the guard before she walked outside.
The heat punched like a fist. Though it was only mid-June, New York was in the clutches of a vicious heat wave with temperatures and humidity spiraling gleefully. She had only to cross the sidewalk to be cocooned in the waiting car, sheltered from the dripping air and noise. After giving her driver the address, she settled back for the ride to Soho.
Traffic was miserable, snarling and edgy. But that would only give her more time to think. She wasn’t certain what she
