one hand, palm up. “I have a contractor’s license. I’ve made my living in construction since I was sixteen. What difference does it make to you if people now buy my sculpture?”
“None.” She snatched up the bids again. He probably produced primitive, ugly pieces in any case, she thought. The man was too rough and unmannered to be an artist. All that mattered was that he could do the job she was hiring him to do.
But she hated being duped. To make him pay for it, she forced him to go over every detail of the bid, wasting over an hour of his time and hers.
“All right then.” She pushed aside her own meticulous notes. “Your contract will be ready for signing on Friday.”
“Good.” He rose. “You can bring it when you pick me up. We should make it seven.”
“Excuse me?”
“For dinner.” He leaned forward. For a shocking moment, she thought he was actually going to kiss her. She went rigid as a spear, but he only rubbed the lapel of her suit between his thumb and forefinger. “You must wear something with color.”
She pushed the chair back and stood. “I have no intention of taking you to my mother’s home for dinner.”
“You’re afraid to be with me.” He said so with no little amount of pride.
Her chin jutted out. “Certainly not.”
“What else could it be?” With his eyes on hers, he strolled around the desk until they were face-to-face. “A woman like you could not be so ill-mannered without a reason.”
The breath was backing up in her lungs. Sydney forced it out in one huff. “It’s reason enough that I dislike you.”
He only smiled and toyed with the pearls at her throat. “No. Aristocrats are predictable, Hayward. You would be taught to tolerate people you don’t like. For them, you would be the most polite.”
“Stop touching me.”
“I’m putting color in your cheeks.” He laughed and let the pearls slide out of his fingers. Her skin, he was sure, would be just as smooth, just as cool. “Come now, Sydney, what will you tell your charming mother when you go to her party without me? How will you explain that you refused to bring me?” He could see the war in her eyes, the one fought between pride and manners and temper, and laughed again. “Trapped by your breeding,” he murmured. “This is not something I have to worry about myself.”
“No doubt,” she said between her teeth.
“Friday,” he said, and infuriated her by flicking a finger down her cheek. “Seven o’clock.”
“Mr. Stanislaski,” she murmured when he reached the door. As he turned back, she offered her coolest smile. “Try to find something in your closet without holes in it.”
She could hear him laughing at her as he walked down the hallway. If only, she thought as she dropped back into her chair. If only she hadn’t been so well-bred, she could have released some of this venom by throwing breakables at the door.
She wore black quite deliberately. Under no circumstances did she want him to believe that she would fuss through her wardrobe, looking for something colorful because he’d suggested it. And she thought the simple tube of a dress was both businesslike, fashionable and appropriate.
On impulse, she had taken her hair down so that it fluffed out to skim her shoulders—only because she’d tired of wearing it pulled back. As always, she had debated her look for the evening carefully and was satisfied that she had achieved an aloof elegance.
She could hear the music blasting through his door before she knocked. It surprised her to hear the passionate strains of Carmen. She rapped harder, nearly gave in to the urge to shout over the aria, when the door swung open. Behind it was the blond knockout in a skimpy T-shirt and skimpier shorts.
“Hi.” Keely crunched a piece of ice between her teeth and swallowed. “I was just borrowing an ice tray from Mik—my freezer’s set on melt these days.” She managed to smile and forced herself not to tug on her clothes. She felt like a peasant caught poaching by the royal princess. “I was just leaving.” Before Sydney could speak, she dashed back inside to scoop up a tray of ice. “Mik, your date’s here.”
Sydney winced at the term date as the blond bullet streaked past her. “There’s no need for you to rush off—”
“Three’s a crowd,” Keely told her on the run and, with a quick fleeting grin, kept going.
“Did you call me?” Mikhail came to the bedroom doorway. There was one, very small white towel anchored at his waist. He used another to rub at his wet, unruly hair. He stopped when he spotted Sydney. Something flickered in his eyes as he let his gaze roam down the long, cool lines of the dress. Then he smiled. “I’m late,” he said simply.
She was grateful she’d managed not to let her mouth fall open. His body was all lean muscle, long bones and bronzed skin—skin that was gleaming with tiny drops of water that made her feel unbearably thirsty. The towel hung dangerously low on his hips. Dazed, she watched a drop of water slide down his chest, over his stomach and disappear beneath the terry cloth.
The temperature in the room, already steamy, rose several degrees.
“You’re…” She knew she could speak coherently—in a minute. “We said seven.”
“I was busy.” He shrugged. The towel shifted. Sydney swallowed. “I won’t be long. Fix a drink.” A smile, wicked around the edges, tugged at his mouth. A man would have to be dead not to see her reaction—not to be pleased by it. “You look…hot, Sydney.” He took a step forward, watching her eyes widen, watching her mouth tremble open. With his gaze on hers, he turned on a small portable fan. Steamy air stirred. “That will help,” he said mildly.
She nodded. It was cooling, but it also brought the scent of his shower, of his skin into the room. Because she could see the knowledge and the amusement in his eyes, she got a grip on herself. “Your contracts.” She set the folder down on a table. Mikhail barely glanced at them.
“I’ll look and sign later.”
“Fine. It would be best if you got dressed.” She had to swallow another obstruction in her throat when he smiled at her. Her voice was edgy and annoyed. “We’ll be late.”
“A little. There’s cold drink in the refrigerator,” he added as he turned back to the bedroom. “Be at home.”
Alone, she managed to take three normal breaths. Degree by degree she felt her system level. Any man who looked like that in a towel should be arrested, she thought, and turned to study the room.
She’d been too annoyed to take stock of it on her other visit. And too preoccupied, she admitted with a slight frown. A man like that had a way of keeping a woman preoccupied. Now she noted the hunks of wood, small and large, the tools, the jars stuffed with brushes. There was a long worktable beneath the living room window. She wandered toward it, seeing that a few of those hunks of wood were works in progress.
Shrugging, she ran a finger over a piece of cherry that was scarred with grooves and gouges. Rude and primitive, just as she’d thought. It soothed her ruffled ego to be assured she’d been right about his lack of talent.
