party. Like a general girding for battle, she had inspected the floral arrangements, the kitchens, the dining room and the terraces. Before she was done, the caterers were cursing her, but Margerite was satisfied.
She wasn’t pleased when her daughter, along with her most important guest, was late.
Laughing and lilting, she swirled among her guests in a frothy gown of robin’s-egg blue. There was a sprinkling of politicians, theater people and the idle rich. But the Ukrainian artist was her coup de grace, and she was fretting to show him off.
And, remembering that wild sexuality, she was fretting to flirt.
The moment she spotted him, Margerite swooped.
“Mr. Stanislaski, how marvelous!” After shooting her daughter a veiled censorious look, she beamed.
“Mikhail, please.” Because he knew the game and played it at his will, Mikhail brought her hand to his lips and lingered over it. “You must forgive me for being late. I kept your daughter waiting.”
“Oh.” She fluttered, her hand resting lightly, possessively on his arm. “A smart woman will always wait for the right man.”
“Then I’m forgiven.”
“Absolutely.” Her fingers gave his an intimate squeeze. “This time. Now, you must let me introduce you around, Mikhail.” Linked with him, she glanced absently at her daughter. “Sydney, do mingle, darling.”
Mikhail shot a quick, wicked grin over his shoulder as he let Margerite haul him away.
He made small talk easily, sliding into the upper crust of New York society as seamlessly as he slid into the working class in Soho or his parents’ close-knit neighborhood in Brooklyn. They had no idea he might have preferred a beer with friends or coffee at his mother’s kitchen table.
He sipped champagne, admired the house with its cool white walls and towering windows, and complimented Margerite on her art collection.
And all the while he chatted, sipped and smiled, he watched Sydney.
Odd, he thought. He would have said that the sprawling elegance of the Long Island enclave was the perfect setting for her. Her looks, her demeanor, reminded him of glistening shaved ice in a rare porcelain bowl. Yet she didn’t quite fit. Oh, she smiled and worked the room as skillfully as her mother. Her simple black dress was as exclusive as any of the more colorful choices in the room. Her sapphires winked as brilliantly as any of the diamonds or emeralds.
But…it was her eyes, Mikhail realized. There wasn’t laughter in them, but impatience. It was as though she were thinking—let’s get this done and over with so I can get on to something important.
It made him smile. Remembering that he’d have the long drive back to Manhattan to tease her made the smile widen. It faded abruptly as he watched a tall blond man with football shoulders tucked into a silk dinner jacket kiss Sydney on the mouth.
Sydney smiled into a pair of light blue eyes under golden brows. “Hello, Channing.”
“Hello, yourself.” He offered a fresh glass of wine. “Where did Margerite find the wild horses?”
“I’m sorry?”
“To drag you out of that office.” His smile dispensed charm like penny candy. Sydney couldn’t help but respond.
“It wasn’t quite that drastic. I have been busy.”
“So you’ve told me.” He approved of her in the sleek black dress in much the same way he would have approved of a tasteful accessory for his home. “You missed a wonderful play the other night. It looks like Sondheim’s got another hit on his hands.” Never doubting her acquiescence, he took her arm to lead her into dinner. “Tell me, darling, when are you going to stop playing the career woman and take a break? I’m going up to the Hamptons for the weekend, and I’d love your company.”
Dutifully she forced her clamped teeth apart. There was no use resenting the fact he thought she was playing. Everyone did. “I’m afraid I can’t get away just now.” She took her seat beside him at the long glass table in the airy dining room. The drapes were thrown wide so that the garden seemed to spill inside with the pastel hues of early roses, late tulips and nodding columbine.
She wished the dinner had been alfresco so she could have sat among the blossoms and scented the sea air.
“I hope you don’t mind a little advice.”
Sydney nearly dropped her head into her hand. The chatter around them was convivial, glasses were clinking, and the first course of stuffed mushrooms was being served. She felt she’d just been clamped into a cell. “Of course not, Channing.”
“You can run a business or let the business run you.”
“Hmm.” He had a habit of stating his advice in clichés. Sydney reminded herself she should be used to it.
“Take it from someone with more experience in these matters.”
She fixed a smile on her face and let her mind wander.
“I hate to see you crushed under the heel of responsibility,” he went on. “And after all, we know you’re a novice in the dog-eat-dog world of real estate.” Gold cuff links, monogrammed, winked as he laid a hand on hers. His eyes were sincere, his mouth quirked in that I’m-only-looking-out-for-you smile. “Naturally, your initial enthusiasm will push you to take on more than is good for you. I’m sure you agree.”
Her mind flicked back. “Actually, Channing, I enjoy the work.”
“For the moment,” he said, his voice so patronizing she nearly stabbed him with her salad fork. “But when reality rushes in you may find yourself trampled under it. Delegate, Sydney. Hand the responsibilities over to those who understand them.”
If her spine had been any straighter, it would have snapped her neck. “My grandfather entrusted Hayward to me.”
“The elderly become sentimental. But I can’t believe he expected you to take it all so seriously.” His smooth, lightly tanned brow wrinkled briefly in what she understood was genuine if misguided concern. “Why, you’ve hardly attended a party in weeks. Everyone’s talking about it.”
“Are they?” She forced her lips to curve over her clenched teeth. If he offered one more shred of advice, she would have to upend the water goblet in his lap. “Channing, why don’t you tell me about the play?”
At the other end of the table, tucked between Margerite and Mrs. Anthony Lowell of the Boston Lowells, Mikhail kept a weather eye on Sydney. He didn’t like the way she had her head together with pretty boy. No, by God, he didn’t. The man was always touching her. Her hand, her shoulder. Her soft, white, bare shoulder. And she was just smiling and nodding, as though his words were a fascination in themselves.
Apparently the ice queen didn’t mind being pawed if the hands doing the pawing were as lily-white as her own.
Mikhail swore under his breath.
“I beg your pardon, Mikhail?”
With an effort, he turned his attention and a smile toward Margerite. “Nothing.
