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Luring A Lady
Nora Roberts
THE INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLING AUTHOR‘The most successful novelist on Planet Earth’ Washington PostThe pressure leaves no room for complications… Mikhail Stanislaski is definitely a complication. The rugged carpenter comes from a world so different to her own and he challenges her on every decision she makes. Sydney likes being in control and she’s keeping her distance from Mikhail – but opposites can’t help attracting!Nora Roberts is a publishing phenomenon; this New York Times bestselling author of over 200 novels has more than 450 million of her books in print worldwide.Praise for Nora Roberts‘A storyteller of immeasurable diversity and talent’ Publisher’s Weekly‘You can’t bottle wish fulfilment, but Nora Roberts certainly knows how to put it on the page.’ New York Times‘Everything Nora Roberts writes turns to gold.’ Romantic Times.‘Roberts’ bestselling novels are… thoughtfully plotted, well-written stories featuring fascinating characters.’ USA Today
Luring a Lady
The Stanislaskis
Book Two
Nora Roberts
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
The Stanislaskis: an unforgettable family saga by #1 New York Times bestselling author Nora Roberts
Nothing in Sydney Hayward’s background of wealth and privilege prepared her to take the helm of her family’s corporation, and her new responsibilities left no room for complications. Mikhail Stanislaski was definitely a complication. Earthy and entirely masculine, Mikhail came from a world utterly different from her own. But the way she felt when he put his strong, work-hardened hands on her was wreaking havoc with Sydney’s resolve.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
CHAPTER ONE
She wasn’t a patient woman. Delays and excuses were barely tolerated, and never tolerated well. Waiting—and she was waiting now—had her temper dropping degree by degree toward ice. With Sydney Hayward icy anger was a great deal more dangerous than boiling rage. One frigid glance, one frosty phrase could make the recipient quake. And she knew it.
Now she paced her new office, ten stories up in midtown Manhattan. She swept from corner to corner over the deep oatmeal-colored carpet. Everything was perfectly in place, papers, files, coordinated appointment and address books. Even her brass-and-ebony desk set was perfectly aligned, the pens and pencils marching in a straight row across the polished mahogany, the notepads carefully placed beside the phone.
Her appearance mirrored the meticulous precision and tasteful elegance of the office. Her crisp beige suit was all straight lines and starch, but didn’t disguise the fact that there was a great pair of legs striding across the carpet. With it she wore a single strand of pearls, earrings to match and a slim gold watch, all very discreet and exclusive. As a Hayward, she’d been raised to be both.
Her dark auburn hair was swept off her neck and secured with a gold clip. The pale freckles that went with the hair were nearly invisible after a light dusting of powder. Sydney felt they made her look too young and too vulnerable. At twenty-eight she had a face that reflected her breeding. High, slashing cheekbones, the strong, slightly pointed chin, the small straight nose. An aristocratic face, it was pale as porcelain, with a softly shaped mouth she knew could sulk too easily, and large smoky-blue eyes that people often mistook for guileless.
Sydney glanced at her watch again, let out a little hiss of breath, then marched over to her desk. Before she could pick up the phone, her intercom buzzed.
“Yes.”
“Ms. Hayward. There’s a man here who insists on seeing the person in charge of the Soho project. And your four-o’clock appointment—”
“It’s now four-fifteen,” Sydney cut in, her voice low and smooth and final. “Send him in.”
“Yes, ma’am, but he’s not Mr. Howington.”
So Howington had sent an underling. Annoyance hiked Sydney’s chin up another fraction. “Send him in,” she repeated, and flicked off the intercom with one frosted pink nail. So, they thought she’d be pacified with a junior executive. Sydney took a deep breath and prepared to kill the messenger.
It was years of training that prevented her mouth from dropping open when the man walked in. No, not walked, she corrected. Swaggered. Like a black-patched pirate over the rolling deck of a boarded ship.
She wished she’d had the foresight to have fired a warning shot over his bow.
Her initial shock had nothing to do with the fact that he was wildly handsome, though the adjective suited perfectly. A mane of thick, curling black hair flowed just beyond the nape of his neck, to be caught by a leather thong in a short ponytail that did nothing to detract from rampant masculinity. His face was rawboned and lean, with skin the color of an old gold coin. Hooded eyes were nearly as black as his hair. His full lips were shadowed by a day or two’s growth of beard that gave him a rough and dangerous look.
Though he skimmed under six foot and was leanly built, he made her delicately furnished office resemble a doll’s house.
What was worse was the fact that he wore work clothes. Dusty jeans and a sweaty T-shirt with a pair of scarred boots that left a trail of dirt across her pale carpet. They hadn’t even bothered with the junior executive, she thought as her lips firmed, but had sent along a common laborer who hadn’t had the sense to clean up before the interview.
“You’re Hayward?” The insolence in the tone and the slight hint of a Slavic accent had her imagining him striding up to a camp fire with a whip tucked in his belt.
The misty romance of the image made her tone unnecessarily sharp. “Yes, and you’re late.”
His eyes narrowed fractionally as they studied each other across the desk. “Am I?”
“Yes. You might find it helpful to wear a watch. My time is valuable if yours is not. Mr….”
“Stanislaski.” He hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans, shifting his weight easily, arrogantly onto one hip. “Sydney’s a man’s name.”
She arched a brow. “Obviously you’re mistaken.”
He skimmed his gaze over her slowly, with as much interest as annoyance. She was pretty as a frosted cake, but he hadn’t come straight and sweaty from a job to waste time with a female. “Obviously. I thought Hayward was an old man with a bald head and a white mustache.”
“You’re thinking of my grandfather.”
“Ah, then it’s your grandfather I want to see.”
“That won’t be possible, Mr. Stanislaski, as my grandfather’s been dead for nearly two months.”
The arrogance in his eyes turned quickly to compassion. “I’m sorry. It hurts to lose family.”
She couldn’t say why, of all the condolences she had received, these few words from a stranger touched her. “Yes, it does. Now, if you’ll take a seat, we can get down to business.”
Cold, hard and distant as the moon. Just as well, he thought. It would keep him from thinking of her in more personal ways—at least until he got what he wanted.
“I have sent your grandfather letters,” he began as he settled into one of the trim Queen Anne chairs in front of the desk. “Perhaps the last were misplaced during the confusion of death.”
An odd way to put it, Sydney thought, but apt. Her life had certainly been turned upside down in the past few months. “Correspondence should be addressed to me.” She sat, folding her hands on the desk. “As you know Hayward Enterprises is considering several firms—”
“For what?”
She struggled to shrug off the irritation of being interrupted. “I beg your pardon?”
“For what are you considering several firms?”
If she had been alone, she would have sighed and shut her eyes. Instead, she drummed her fingers on the desk. “What position do you hold, Mr. Stanislaski?”
“Position?”
“Yes, yes, what is it you do?”
The impatience in her voice made him grin. His teeth were very white, and not quite straight. “You mean, what is it I do? I work with wood.”
“You’re a carpenter?”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes,” she repeated, and sat back. Behind her, buildings punched into a hard blue sky. “Perhaps you can tell me why Howington Construction sent a sometimes carpenter to represent them in this interview.”
The room smelled of lemon and rosemary and only reminded him that he was hot, thirsty and as impatient as she. “I could—if they had sent me.”
It took her a moment to realize he wasn’t being deliberately obtuse. “You’re not from Howington?”
“No. I’m Mikhail Stanislaski, and I live in one of your buildings.” He propped a dirty boot on a dusty knee. “If you’re thinking of hiring Howington, I would think again. I once worked for them, but they cut too many corners.”
“Excuse me.” Sydney gave the intercom a sharp jab. “Janine, did Mr. Stanislaski tell you he represented Howington?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. He just asked to see you. Howington called about ten minutes ago to reschedule. If you—”
“Never mind.” Sitting back again, she studied the man who was grinning at her. “Apparently I’ve been laboring under a misconception.”
“If you mean you made a mistake, yes. I’m here to talk to you about your apartment building in Soho.”
She wanted, badly, to drag her hands through her hair. “You’re here with a tenant complaint.”
“I’m here with many tenants’ complaints,” he corrected.
“You should be aware that there’s a certain procedure one follows in this kind of matter.”
He lifted one black brow. “You own the building, yes?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then it’s your responsibility.”
She stiffened. “I’m perfectly aware of my responsibilities, Mr. Stanislaski. And now…”
He rose as she did, and didn’t budge an inch. “Your grandfather made promises. To honor him, you must keep them.”
“What I must do,” she said in a frigid voice, “is run my business.” And she was trying desperately to learn how. “You may tell the other tenants that Hayward is at the point of hiring a contractor as we’re quite aware that many of our properties are in need of repair or renovation. The apartments in Soho will be dealt with in turn.”
His expression didn’t change at the dismissal, nor did the tone of his voice or the spread-legged, feet-planted stance. “We’re tired 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.”
