did she speak when Mikhail climbed in behind her.
She hated the smell of hospitals. Layers of illness, antiseptics, fear and heavy cleaners. The memory of the last days her grandfather had lain dying were still too fresh in her mind. The Emergency Room of the downtown hospital added one more layer. Fresh blood.
Sydney steeled herself against it and walked through the crowds of the sick and injured to the admitting window.
“You had a Mrs. Wolburg just come in.”
“That’s right.” The clerk stabbed keys on her computer. “You family?”
“No, I—”
“We’re going to need some family to fill out these forms. Patient said she wasn’t insured.”
Mikhail was already leaning over, eyes dangerous, when Sydney snapped out her answer. “Hayward Industries will be responsible for Mrs. Wolburg’s medical expenses.” She reached into her bag for identification and slapped it onto the counter. “I’m Sydney Hayward. Where is Mrs. Wolburg?”
“In X ray.” The frost in Sydney’s eyes had the clerk shifting in her chair. “Dr. Cohen’s attending.”
So they waited, drinking bad coffee among the moans and tears of inner city ER. Sometimes Sydney would lay her head back against the wall and shut her eyes. She appeared to be dozing, but all the while she was thinking what it would be like to be old, and alone and helpless.
He wanted to think she was only there to cover her butt. Oh yes, he wanted to think that of her. It was so much more comfortable to think of her as the head of some bloodless company than as a woman.
But he remembered how quickly she had acted in the Wolburg apartment, how gentle she had been with the old woman. And most of all, he remembered the look in her eyes out on the street. All that misery and compassion and guilt welling up in those big eyes.
“She tripped on the linoleum,” Sydney murmured.
It was the first time she’d spoken in nearly an hour, and Mikhail turned his head to study her. Her eyes were still closed, her face pale and in repose.
“She was only walking in her own kitchen and fell because the floor was old and unsafe.”
“You’re making it safe.”
Sydney continued as if she hadn’t heard. “Then she could only lie there, hurt and alone. Her voice was so weak. I nearly walked right by.”
“You didn’t walk by.” His hand hesitated over hers. Then, with an oath, he pressed his palm to the back of her hand. “You’re only one Hayward, Sydney. Your grandfather—”
“He was ill.” Her hand clenched under Mikhail’s, and her eyes squeezed more tightly closed. “He was sick nearly two years, and I was in Europe. I didn’t know. He didn’t want to disrupt my life. My father was dead, and there was only me, and he didn’t want to worry me. When he finally called me, it was almost over. He was a good man. He wouldn’t have let things get so bad, but he couldn’t…he just couldn’t.”
She let out a short, shuddering breath. Mikhail turned her hand over and linked his fingers with hers.
“When I got to New York, he was in the hospital. He looked so small, so tired. He told me I was the only Hayward left. Then he died,” she said wearily. “And I was.”
“You’re doing what needs to be done. No one can ask for more than that.”
She opened her eyes again, met his. “I don’t know.”
They waited again, in silence.
It was nearly two hours before Mrs. Wolburg’s frantic grandson rushed in. The entire story had to be told again before he hurried off to call the rest of his family.
Four hours after they’d walked into Emergency, the doctor came out to fill them in.
A fractured hip, a mild concussion. She would be moved to a room right after she’d finished in Recovery. Her age made the break serious, but her health helped balance that. Sydney left both her office and home numbers with the doctor and the grandson, requesting to be kept informed of Mrs. Wolburg’s condition.
Unbearably weary in body and mind, Sydney walked out of the hospital.
“You need food,” Mikhail said.
“What? No, really, I’m just tired.”
Ignoring that, he grabbed her arm and pulled her down the street. “Why do you always say the opposite of what I say?”
“I don’t.”
“See, you did it again. You need meat.”
If she kept trying to drag her heels, he was going to pull her arm right out of the socket. Annoyed, she scrambled to keep pace. “What makes you think you know what I need?”
“Because I do.” He pulled up short at a light and she bumped into him. Before he could stop it, his hand had lifted to touch her face. “God, you’re so beautiful.”
While she blinked in surprise, he swore, scowled then dragged her into the street seconds before the light turned.
“Maybe I’m not happy with you,” he went on, muttering to himself. “Maybe I think you’re a nuisance, and a snob, and—”
“I am not a snob.”
He said something vaguely familiar in his native language. Sydney’s chin set when she recalled the translation. “It is not bull. You’re the snob if you think I am just because I come from a different background.”
He stopped, eyeing her with a mixture of distrust and interest. “Fine then, you won’t mind eating in here.” He yanked her into a noisy bar and grill. She found herself plopped down in a narrow booth with him, hip to hip.
There were scents of meat cooking, onions frying, spilled beer, all overlaid with grease. Her mouth watered. “I said I wasn’t hungry.”
“And I say you’re a snob, and a liar.”
The color that stung her cheeks pleased him, but it didn’t last long enough. She leaned forward. “And would you like to know what I think of you?”
Again he lifted a hand to touch her cheek. It was irresistible. “Yes, I would.”
She was saved from finding a description in her suddenly murky brain by the waitress.
“Two steaks, medium rare, and two of what you’ve got on tap.”
“I don’t like men to order for me,” Sydney said tightly.
“Then you can order for me next time and we’ll be even.” Making himself comfortable, he tossed his arm over the back of the booth and stretched out his legs. “Why don’t you take off your jacket, Hayward? You’re hot.”
“Stop telling me what I am. And stop that, too.”
“What?”
