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She arched, and her fingers dug into his back as he suckled. A deep and delicious ache tugged at the center of her body. And she wanted him there, there where the heat was most intense. There where she felt so soft, so needy.
“Please.” She could hear the whimper in her voice but felt no embarrassment. Only desperation. “Mikhail, please.”
The throaty purr of her voice burst in his blood. He came back to her mouth, assaulting it, devouring it. Crazed, he hooked one hand in the top of her dress, on the verge of ripping it from her. And he looked, looked at her face, the huge eyes, the trembling lips. Light and shadow washed over it, leaving her pale as a ghost. She was shaking like a leaf beneath his hands.
And he heard the drum of traffic from outside.
He surfaced abruptly, shaking his head to clear it and gulping in air like a diver down too long. They were driving through the city, their privacy as thin as the panel of smoked glass that separated them from her chauffeur. And he was mauling her, yes, mauling her as if he were a reckless teenager with none of the sense God had given him.
The apology stuck in his throat. An “I beg your pardon” would hardly do the trick. Eyes grim, loins aching, he tugged her dress back into place. She only stared at him and made him feel like a drooling heathen over a virgin sacrifice. And Lord help him, he wanted to plunder.
Swearing, he pushed away and yanked her upright. He leaned back in the shadows and stared out of the dark window. They were only blocks from his apartment. Blocks, and he’d very nearly…it wouldn’t do to think about what he’d nearly.
“We’re almost there.” Strain had his voice coming out clipped and hard. Sydney winced away as though it had been a slap.
What had she done wrong this time? She’d felt, and she’d wanted. Felt and wanted more than she ever had before. Yet she had still failed. For that one timeless moment she’d been willing to toss aside pride and fear. There had been passion in her, real and ready. And, she’d thought, he’d felt passion for her.
But not enough. She closed her eyes. It never seemed to be enough. Now she was cold, freezing, and wrapped her arms tight to try to hold in some remnant of heat.
Damn it, why didn’t she say something? Mikhail dragged an unsteady hand through his hair. He deserved to be slapped. Shot was more like it. And she just sat there.
As he brooded out the window, he reminded himself that it hadn’t been all his doing. She’d been as rash, pressing that wonderful body against his, letting that wide, mobile mouth make him crazy. Squirting that damnable perfume all over that soft skin until he’d been drunk with it.
He started to feel better.
Yes, there had been two people grappling in the back seat. She was every bit as guilty as he.
“Look, Sydney.” He turned and she jerked back like an over-wound spring.
“Don’t touch me.” He heard only the venom and none of the tears.
“Fine.” Guilt hammered away at him as the car cruised to the curb. “I’ll keep my big, grimy hands off you, Hayward. Call someone else when you want a little romp in the back seat.”
Her fisted hands held on to pride and composure. “I meant what I said about my mother.”
He shoved the door open. Light spilled in, splashing over his face, turning it frosty white. “So did I. Thanks for the ride.”
When the door slammed, she closed her eyes tight. She would not cry. A single tear slipped past her guard and was dashed away. She would not cry. And she would not forget.
CHAPTER FOUR
She’d put in a long day. Actually she’d put in a long week that was edging toward sixty hours between office time, luncheon meetings and evenings at home with files. This particular day had a few hours yet to run, but Sydney recognized the new feeling of relief and satisfaction that came with Friday afternoons when the work force began to anticipate Saturday mornings.
Throughout her adult life one day of the week had been the same as the next; all of them a scattershot of charity functions, shopping and lunch dates. There had been no work schedule, and weekends had simply been a time when the parties had lasted longer.
Things had changed. As she read over a new contract, she was glad they had. She was beginning to understand why her grandfather had always been so lusty and full of life. He’d had a purpose, a place, a goal.
Now they were hers.
True, she still had to ask advice on the more technical wordings of contracts and depended heavily on her board when it came to making deals. But she was starting to appreciate—more, she was starting to relish the grand chess game of buying and selling buildings.
She circled what she considered a badly worded clause then answered her intercom.
“Mr. Bingham to see you, Ms. Hayward.”
“Send him in, Janine. Oh, and see if you can reach Frank Marlowe at Marlowe, Radcliffe and Smyth.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
When Lloyd strode in a moment later, Sydney was still huddled over the contract. She held up one finger to give herself a minute to finish.
“Lloyd. I’m sorry, if I lose my concentration on all these whereases, I have to start over.” She scrawled a note to herself, set it and the contract aside, then smiled at him. “What can I do for you?”
“This Soho project. It’s gotten entirely out of hand.”
Her lips tightened. Thinking of Soho made her think of Mikhail. Mikhail reminded her of the turbulent ride from Long Island and her latest failure as a woman. She didn’t care for it.
“In what way?”
“In every way.” With fury barely leashed, he began to pace her office. “A quarter of a million. You earmarked a quarter of a million to rehab that building.”
Sydney stayed where she was and quietly folded her hands on the desk. “I’m aware of that, Lloyd. Considering the condition of the building, Mr. Stanislaski’s bid was very reasonable.”
“How would you know?” he shot back. “Did you get competing bids?”
“No.” Her fingers flexed, then relaxed again. It was difficult, but she reminded herself that he’d earned his way up the ladder while she’d been hoisted to the top rung. “I went with my instincts.”
“Instincts?” Eyes narrowed, he spun back to her. The derision in his voice was as thick as the pile of her carpet. “You’ve been in the business for a matter of months, and you have instincts.”
“That’s right. I’m also aware that the estimate for rewiring, the plumbing and the carpentry were well in line with other, similar rehabs.”
“Damn it, Sydney, we didn’t put much more than that into this building last year.”
One slim finger began to tap on the desk. “What we did here in the Hayward Building was little more than decorating. A good many of the repairs in Soho are a matter of safety and bringing the facilities up to code.”
“A quarter of a million in repairs.” He slapped his palms on the desk and leaned forward. Sydney was reminded of Mikhail making a similar gesture. But of course Lloyd’s hands would leave no smudge of dirt. “Do you know what our annual income is from those apartments?”
“As a matter of fact I do.” She rattled off a figure, surprising him. It was accurate to the penny. “On one hand, it will certainly take more than a year of full occupancy to recoup the principal on this investment. On the other, when people pay rent in good faith, they deserve decent housing.”
“Decent, certainly,” Lloyd said stiffly. “You’re mixing morals with business.”
“Oh, I hope so. I certainly hope so.”
He drew back, infuriated that she would sit so smug and righteous behind a desk that should have been his. “You’re naive, Sydney.”
“That may be. But as long as I run this company, it will be run by my standards.”
“You think you run it because you sign a few contracts and make phone calls. You’ve put a quarter million into what you yourself termed your pet project, and you don’t have a clue what this Stanislaski’s up to. How do you know he isn’t buying inferior grades and pocketing the excess?”
“That’s absurd.”
“As I said, you’re naive. You put some Russian artist in charge of a major project, then don’t even bother to check the work.”
“I intend to inspect the project myself. I’ve been tied up. And I have Mr. Stanislaski’s weekly report.”
He sneered. Before Sydney’s temper could fray, she realized Lloyd was right. She’d hired Mikhail on impulse and instinct, then because of personal feelings, had neglected to follow through with her involvement on the project.
That wasn’t naive. It was gutless.
“You’re absolutely right, Lloyd, and I’ll correct it.” She leaned back in her chair. “Was there anything else?”
“You’ve made a mistake,” he said. “A costly one in this case. The board won’t tolerate another.”
With her hands laid lightly on the arms of her chair, she nodded. “And you’re hoping to convince them that you belong at this desk.”
“They’re businessmen, Sydney. And though sentiment might prefer a Hayward at the head of the table, profit and loss will turn the tide.”
Her expression remained placid, her voice steady. “I’m sure you’re right again. And if the board continues to back me, I want one of two things from you. Your resignation or your loyalty. I won’t accept anything in between. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”
When the door slammed behind him, she reached for the phone. But her hand was trembling, and she drew it back. She plucked up a paper clip and mangled it. Then another, then a third. Between that and the two sheets of stationery she shredded, she felt the worst of the rage subside.
Clearheaded, she faced the facts.
Lloyd Bingham was an enemy, and he was an enemy with experience and influence. She had acted in haste with Soho. Not that she’d been wrong; she didn’t believe she’d been wrong. But if there were mistakes, Lloyd would capitalize on them and drop them right in her lap.
Was it possible that she was risking everything her grandfather had given her with one project? Could she be forced to step down if she couldn’t prove the worth and right of what she had done?
She wasn’t sure, and that was the worst of it.
One step at a time. That was the only way to go on. And the first step was to get down to Soho and do her job.
The sky was the color of drywall. Over the past few days, the heat had ebbed, but it had flowed back into the city that morning like a river, flooding Manhattan with humidity. The pedestrian traffic surged through it, streaming across the intersections in hot little packs.
Girls in shorts and men in wilted business suits crowded around the sidewalk vendors in hopes that an ice-cream bar or a soft drink would help them beat the heat.
When Sydney stepped out of her car, the sticky oppression of the air punched like a fist. She thought of her driver sitting in the enclosed car and dismissed him for the day. Shielding her eyes, she turned to study her building.
Scaffolding crept up the walls like metal ivy. Windows glittered, their manufacturer stickers slashed across the glass. She thought she saw a pair of arthritic hands scraping away at a label at a third-floor window.
There were signs in the doorway, warning of construction in progress. She could hear the sounds of it, booming hammers, buzzing saws, the clang of metal and the tinny sound of rock and roll through portable speakers.
At the curb she saw the plumber’s van, a dented pickup and a scattering of interested onlookers. Since they were all peering up, she followed their direction. And saw Mikhail.
For an instant, her heart stopped dead. He stood outside the top floor, five stories up, moving nimbly on what seemed to Sydney to be a very narrow board.
“Man, get a load of those buns,” a woman beside her sighed. “They are class A.”
Sydney swallowed. She supposed they were. And his naked back wasn’t anything to sneeze at, either. The trouble was, it was hard to enjoy it when she had a hideous flash of him plummeting off the scaffolding and breaking that beautiful back on the concrete below.
Panicked, she rushed inside. The elevator doors were open, and a couple of mechanics were either loading or unloading their tools inside it. She didn’t stop to ask but bolted up the steps.
Sweaty men were replastering the stairwell between two and three. They took the time to whistle and wink, but she kept climbing. Someone had the television up too loud, probably to drown out the sound of construction. A baby was crying fitfully. She smelled chicken frying.
Without pausing for breath, she dashed from four to five. There was music playing here. Tough and gritty rock, poorly accompanied by a laborer in an off-key tenor.
Mikhail’s door was open, and Sydney streaked through. She nearly tumbled over a graying man with arms like tree trunks. He rose gracefully from his crouched position where he’d been sorting tools and steadied her.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”
“Is all right. I like women to fall at my feet.”
She registered the Slavic accent even as she glanced desperately around the room for Mikhail. Maybe everybody in the building was Russian, she thought frantically. Maybe he’d imported plumbers from the mother country.
“Can I help you?”
“No. Yes.” She pressed a hand to her heart when she realized she was completely out of breath. “Mikhail.”
“He is just outside.” Intrigued, he watched her as he jerked a thumb toward the window.
She could see him there—at least she could see the flat, tanned torso. “Outside. But, but—”
“We are finishing for the day. You will sit?”
“Get him in,” Sydney whispered. “Please, get him in.”
Before he could respond, the window was sliding up, and Mikhail was tossing one long, muscled leg inside. He said something in his native tongue, laughter in his voice as the rest of his body followed. When he saw Sydney, the laughter vanished.
“Hayward.” He tapped his caulking gun against his palm.
“What were you doing out there?” The question came out in an accusing rush.
“Replacing windows.” He set the caulking gun aside. “Is there a problem?”
“No, I…” She couldn’t remember ever feeling more of a fool. “I came by to check the progress.”
“So. I’ll take you around in a minute.” He walked into the kitchen, stuck his head into the sink and turned the faucet on full cold.
“He’s a hothead,” the man behind her said, chuckling at his own humor. When Sydney only managed a weak smile, he called out to Mikhail, speaking rapidly in that exotic foreign tongue.
“Tak” was all he said. Mikhail came up dripping, hair streaming over the bandanna he’d tied around it. He shook it back, splattering water, then shrugged and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. He was wet, sweaty and half-naked. Sydney had to fold her tongue inside her mouth to keep it from hanging out.
“My son is rude.” Yuri Stanislaski shook his head. “I raised him better.”
“Your—oh.” Sydney looked back at the man with the broad face and beautiful hands. Mikhail’s hands. “How do you do, Mr. Stanislaski.”
“I do well. I am Yuri. I ask my son if you are the Hayward who owns this business. He only says yes and scowls.”
“Yes, well, I am.”
