Luring A Lady
Page 20
"I do have a weakness for flowers and growing things. Set it right there on the dresser, will you, dear? Between the roses and the carnations."
"She's getting spoiled." As Sydney moved to comply, the visiting daughter winked at her brother. "Flowers, presents, pampering. We'll be lucky to ever get home-baked cookies again." .
"Oh, I might have a batch or two left in me." Mrs. Wolburg preened in her new crocheted bed jacket. "Mik tells me I'm getting a brand-new oven. Eye level, so I won't have to bend and stoop."
"So I think I should get the first batch," Mikhail said as he sniffed the roses. "The chocolate chip."
"Please." Keely pressed a hand to her stomach. "I'm dieting. I'm getting murdered next week, and I have to look my best." She noted Sydney's stunned expression and grinned. "Death Stalk," she explained. "My first TV movie. I'm the third victim of the maniacal psychopath. I get strangled in this really terrific negligee."
"You shouldn't have left your windows unlocked," Mrs. Wolburg told her, and Keely grinned again.
"Well, that's show biz."
Sydney waited until a break in the conversation, then made her excuses. Mikhail gave her a ten-second lead before he slipped a yellow rose out of a vase. "See you later, beautiful." He kissed Mrs. Wolburg on the cheek and left her chuckling.
In a few long strides, he caught up with Sydney at the elevators. "Hey. You look like you could use this." He offered the flower.
"It couldn't hurt." After sniffing the bloom, she worked up a smile. "Thanks."
"You want to tell me why you're upset?"
"I'm not upset." She jabbed the down button again.
"Never argue with an artist about your feelings." Insistently he tipped back her chin with one finger. "I see fatigue and distress, worry and annoyance."
The ding of the elevator relieved her, though she knew he would step inside the crowded car with her. She frowned a little when she found herself pressed between Mikhail and a large woman carrying a suitcase-sized purse. Someone on the elevator had used an excess of expensive perfume. Fleetingly Sydney wondered if that shouldn't be as illegal as smoking in a closed car.
"Any Gypsies in your family?" she asked Mikhail on impulse.
"Naturally."
"I'd rather you use a crystal ball to figure out the future than analyze my feelings at the moment."
"We'll see what we can do."
The car stopped on each floor. People shuffled off or squeezed in. By the time they reached the lobby, Sydney was hard up against Mikhail's side, with his arm casually around her waist. He didn't bother to remove it after they'd stepped off. She didn't bother to mention it.
"The work's going well," he told her.
"Good." She didn't care to think how much longer she'd be directly involved with the project.
"The electrical inspection is done. Plumbing will perhaps take another week." He studied her abstracted expression. "And we have decided to make the new roof out of blue cheese."
"Hmm." She stepped outside, stopped and looked back at him. With a quick laugh, she shook her head. "That might look very distinctive—but risky with this heat."
"You were listening."
"Almost." Absently she pressed fingers to her throbbing temple as her driver pulled up to the curb. "I'm sorry. I've got a lot on my mind."
"Tell me."
It surprised her that she wanted to. She hadn't been able to talk to her mother. Margerite would only be baffled. Channing—that was a joke. Sydney doubted that any of her friends would understand how she had become so attached to Hayward in such a short time.
"There really isn't any point," she decided, and started toward her waiting car and driver.
Did she think he would let her walk away, with that worry line between her brows and the tension knotted tight in her shoulders?
"How about a lift home?"
She glanced back. The ride home from her mother's party was still a raw memory. But he was smiling at her in an easy, friendly fashion. Nonthreatening? No, he would never be that with those dark looks and untamed aura. But they had agreed on a truce, and it was only a few blocks. "Sure. We'll drop Mr. Stanislaski off in Soho, Donald."
"Yes, ma'am."
She took the precaution of sliding, casually, she hoped, all the way over to the far window. "Mrs. Wolburg looks amazingly well, considering," she began.
"She's strong." It was Mozart this tune, he noted, low and sweet through the car speakers.
"The doctor says she'll be able to go home with her son soon."
"And you've arranged for the therapist to visit." Sydney stopped passing the rose from hand to hand and looked at him. "She told me," he explained. "Also that when she is ready to go home again, there will be a nurse to stay with her, until she is well enough to be on her own."
"I'm not playing Samaritan," Sydney mumbled. "I'm just trying to do what's right."
"I realize that. I realize, too, that you're concerned for her. But there's something more on your mind. Is it the papers and the television news?"
Her eyes went from troubled to frigid. "I didn't assume responsibility for Mrs. Wolburg's medical expenses for publicity, good or bad. And I don't—"
"I know you didn't." He cupped a hand over one of her clenched ones. "Remember, I was there. I saw you with her."
Sydney drew a deep breath. She had to. She'd very nearly had a tirade, and a lost temper was hardly the answer. "The point is," she said more calmly, "an elderly woman was seriously injured. Her pain shouldn't become company politics or journalistic fodder. What I did, I did because I knew it was right. I just want to make sure the right thing continues to be done."
"You are president of Hayward."
"For the moment." She turned to look out the window as they pulled up in front of the apartment building. "I see we're making progress on the roof."
"Among other things." Because he was far from finished, he leaned over her and opened the door on her side. For a moment, they were so close, his body pressed lightly to hers. She had an urge, almost desperate, to rub her fingers over his cheek, to feel the rough stubble he'd neglected to shave away. "I'd like you to come up," he told her. "I have something for you."
"She's getting spoiled." As Sydney moved to comply, the visiting daughter winked at her brother. "Flowers, presents, pampering. We'll be lucky to ever get home-baked cookies again." .
"Oh, I might have a batch or two left in me." Mrs. Wolburg preened in her new crocheted bed jacket. "Mik tells me I'm getting a brand-new oven. Eye level, so I won't have to bend and stoop."
"So I think I should get the first batch," Mikhail said as he sniffed the roses. "The chocolate chip."
"Please." Keely pressed a hand to her stomach. "I'm dieting. I'm getting murdered next week, and I have to look my best." She noted Sydney's stunned expression and grinned. "Death Stalk," she explained. "My first TV movie. I'm the third victim of the maniacal psychopath. I get strangled in this really terrific negligee."
"You shouldn't have left your windows unlocked," Mrs. Wolburg told her, and Keely grinned again.
"Well, that's show biz."
Sydney waited until a break in the conversation, then made her excuses. Mikhail gave her a ten-second lead before he slipped a yellow rose out of a vase. "See you later, beautiful." He kissed Mrs. Wolburg on the cheek and left her chuckling.
In a few long strides, he caught up with Sydney at the elevators. "Hey. You look like you could use this." He offered the flower.
"It couldn't hurt." After sniffing the bloom, she worked up a smile. "Thanks."
"You want to tell me why you're upset?"
"I'm not upset." She jabbed the down button again.
"Never argue with an artist about your feelings." Insistently he tipped back her chin with one finger. "I see fatigue and distress, worry and annoyance."
The ding of the elevator relieved her, though she knew he would step inside the crowded car with her. She frowned a little when she found herself pressed between Mikhail and a large woman carrying a suitcase-sized purse. Someone on the elevator had used an excess of expensive perfume. Fleetingly Sydney wondered if that shouldn't be as illegal as smoking in a closed car.
"Any Gypsies in your family?" she asked Mikhail on impulse.
"Naturally."
"I'd rather you use a crystal ball to figure out the future than analyze my feelings at the moment."
"We'll see what we can do."
The car stopped on each floor. People shuffled off or squeezed in. By the time they reached the lobby, Sydney was hard up against Mikhail's side, with his arm casually around her waist. He didn't bother to remove it after they'd stepped off. She didn't bother to mention it.
"The work's going well," he told her.
"Good." She didn't care to think how much longer she'd be directly involved with the project.
"The electrical inspection is done. Plumbing will perhaps take another week." He studied her abstracted expression. "And we have decided to make the new roof out of blue cheese."
"Hmm." She stepped outside, stopped and looked back at him. With a quick laugh, she shook her head. "That might look very distinctive—but risky with this heat."
"You were listening."
"Almost." Absently she pressed fingers to her throbbing temple as her driver pulled up to the curb. "I'm sorry. I've got a lot on my mind."
"Tell me."
It surprised her that she wanted to. She hadn't been able to talk to her mother. Margerite would only be baffled. Channing—that was a joke. Sydney doubted that any of her friends would understand how she had become so attached to Hayward in such a short time.
"There really isn't any point," she decided, and started toward her waiting car and driver.
Did she think he would let her walk away, with that worry line between her brows and the tension knotted tight in her shoulders?
"How about a lift home?"
She glanced back. The ride home from her mother's party was still a raw memory. But he was smiling at her in an easy, friendly fashion. Nonthreatening? No, he would never be that with those dark looks and untamed aura. But they had agreed on a truce, and it was only a few blocks. "Sure. We'll drop Mr. Stanislaski off in Soho, Donald."
"Yes, ma'am."
She took the precaution of sliding, casually, she hoped, all the way over to the far window. "Mrs. Wolburg looks amazingly well, considering," she began.
"She's strong." It was Mozart this tune, he noted, low and sweet through the car speakers.
"The doctor says she'll be able to go home with her son soon."
"And you've arranged for the therapist to visit." Sydney stopped passing the rose from hand to hand and looked at him. "She told me," he explained. "Also that when she is ready to go home again, there will be a nurse to stay with her, until she is well enough to be on her own."
"I'm not playing Samaritan," Sydney mumbled. "I'm just trying to do what's right."
"I realize that. I realize, too, that you're concerned for her. But there's something more on your mind. Is it the papers and the television news?"
Her eyes went from troubled to frigid. "I didn't assume responsibility for Mrs. Wolburg's medical expenses for publicity, good or bad. And I don't—"
"I know you didn't." He cupped a hand over one of her clenched ones. "Remember, I was there. I saw you with her."
Sydney drew a deep breath. She had to. She'd very nearly had a tirade, and a lost temper was hardly the answer. "The point is," she said more calmly, "an elderly woman was seriously injured. Her pain shouldn't become company politics or journalistic fodder. What I did, I did because I knew it was right. I just want to make sure the right thing continues to be done."
"You are president of Hayward."
"For the moment." She turned to look out the window as they pulled up in front of the apartment building. "I see we're making progress on the roof."
"Among other things." Because he was far from finished, he leaned over her and opened the door on her side. For a moment, they were so close, his body pressed lightly to hers. She had an urge, almost desperate, to rub her fingers over his cheek, to feel the rough stubble he'd neglected to shave away. "I'd like you to come up," he told her. "I have something for you."
