The Stanislaskis: Taming Natasha. Нора Робертс

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      “Yes, but I’m afraid she and Peter were too young and impetuous,” she told him, conveniently overlooking the family pressure that had brought the marriage about. “Now, Sydney and Channing are mature, responsible people. We’re looking forward to a spring wedding.”

      Mikhail picked up his wine. There was an odd and annoying scratching in his throat. “What does this Channing Warfield do?”

      “Do?” The question baffled her. “Why, the Warfields are in banking, so I suppose Channing does whatever one does in banking. He’s a devil on the polo field.”

      “Polo,” Mikhail repeated with a scowl so dark Helena Lowell choked on her pheasant. Helpfully Mikhail gave her a sharp slap between the shoulder blades, then offered her her water goblet.

      “You’re, ah, Russian, aren’t you, Mr. Stanislaski?” Helena asked. Images of Cossacks danced in her head.

      “I was born in the Ukraine.”

      “The Ukraine, yes. I believe I read something about your family escaping over the border when you were just a child.”

      “We escaped in a wagon, over the mountains into Hungary, then into Austria and finally settled in New York.”

      “A wagon.” Margerite sighed into her wine. “How romantic.”

      Mikhail remembered the cold, the fear, the hunger. But he only shrugged. He doubted romance was always pretty, or comfortable.

      Relieved that he looked approachable again, Helena Lowell began to ask him questions about art.

      After an hour, he was glad to escape from the pretensions of the society matron’s art school jargon. Guests were treated to violin music, breezy terraces and moon-kissed gardens. His hostess fluttered around him like a butterfly, lashes batting, laughter trilling.

      Margerite’s flirtations were patently obvious and didn’t bother him. She was a pretty, vivacious woman currently between men. Though he had privately deduced she shared little with her daughter other than looks, he considered her harmless, even entertaining. So when she offered to show him the rooftop patio, he went along.

      The wind off the sound was playful and fragrant. And it was blessedly quiet following the ceaseless after-dinner chatter. From the rail, Mikhail could see the water, the curve of beach, the serene elegance of other homes tucked behind walls and circling gardens.

      And he could see Sydney as she strolled to the shadowy corner of the terrace below with her arm tucked through Channing’s.

      “My third husband built this house,” Margerite was saying. “He’s an architect. When we divorced, I had my choice between this house and the little villa in Nice. Naturally, with so many of my friends here, I chose this.” With a sigh, she turned to face him, leaning prettily on the rail. “I must say, I love this spot. When I give house parties people are spread out on every level, so it’s both cozy and private. Perhaps you’ll join us some weekend this summer.”

      “Perhaps.” The answer was absent as he stared down at Sydney. The moonlight made her hair gleam like polished mahogany.

      Margerite shifted, just enough so that their thighs brushed. Mikhail wasn’t sure if he was more surprised or more amused. But to save her pride, he smiled, easing away slowly. “You have a lovely home. It suits you.”

      “I’d love to see your studio.” Margerite let the invitation melt into her eyes. “Where you create.”

      “I’m afraid you’d find it cramped, hot and boring.”

      “Impossible.” Smiling, she traced a fingertip over the back of his hand. “I’m sure I’d find nothing about you boring.”

      Good God, the woman was old enough to be his mother, and she was coming on to him like a misty-eyed virgin primed for her first tumble. Mikhail nearly sighed, then reminded himself it was only a moment out of his life. He took her hand between both of his hands.

      “Margerite, you’re charming. And I’m—” he kissed her fingers lightly “—unsuitable.”

      She lifted a finger and brushed it over his cheek. “You underestimate yourself, Mikhail.”

      No, but he realized how he’d underestimated her.

      On the terrace below, Sydney was trying to find a graceful way to discourage Channing. He was attentive, dignified, solicitous, and he was boring her senseless.

      It was her lack, she was sure. Any woman with half a soul would be melting under the attraction of a man like Channing. There was moonlight, music, flowers. The breeze in the leafy trees smelled of the sea and murmured of romance. Channing was talking about Paris, and his hand was skimming lightly over her bare back.

      She wished she was home, alone, with her eyes crossing over a fat file of quarterly reports.

      Taking a deep breath, she turned. She would have to tell him firmly, simply and straight out that he needed to look elsewhere for companionship. It was Sydney’s bad luck that she happened to glance up to see Mikhail on the rooftop with her mother just when he took Margerite’s hand to his lips.

      Why the…she couldn’t think of anything vile enough to call him. Slime was too simple. Gigolo too slick. He was nuzzling up to her mother. Her mother. When only hours before he’d been…

      Nothing, Sydney reminded herself and dismissed the tense scene in the Soho hallway from her mind. He’d been posturing and preening, that was all.

      And she could have killed him for it.

      As she watched, Mikhail backed away from Margerite, laughing. Then he looked down. The instant their eyes met, Sydney declared war.

      She whirled on Channing, her face so fierce he nearly babbled. “Kiss me,” she demanded.

      “Why, Sydney.”

      “I said kiss me.” She grabbed him by the lapels and hauled him against her.

      “Of course, darling.” Pleased with her change of heart, he cupped her shoulders in his hands and leaned down to her.

      His lips were soft, warm, eager. They slanted over hers with practiced precision while his hands slid down her back. He tasted of after-dinner mints. Her body fit well against his.

      And she felt nothing, nothing but an empty inner rage. Then a chill that was both fear and despair.

      “You’re not trying, darling,” he whispered. “You know I won’t hurt you.”

      No, he wouldn’t. There was nothing at all to fear from Channing. Miserable, she let him deepen the kiss, ordered herself to feel and respond. She felt his withdrawal even before his lips left hers. The twinges of annoyance and puzzlement.

      “Sydney, dear, I’m not sure what the problem is.” He smoothed down his crinkled lapels. Marginally frustrated, he lifted his eyes. “That was like kissing my sister.”

      “I’m tired, Channing,” she said to the air between them. “I should go in and get ready to go.”

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