The Stanislaskis: Taming Natasha. Нора Робертс

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      “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 time, 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.”

      Sydney caught her fingers creeping up and snatched them back. “It’s nearly six. I really should—”

      “Come up for an hour,” he finished. “Your driver can come back for you, yes?”

      “Yes.” She shifted away, not sure whether she wanted to get out or simply create some distance between them. “You can messenger your report over.”

      “I could.”

      He moved another inch. In defense, Sydney swung her legs out of the car. “All right then, but I don’t think it’ll take an hour.”

      “But it will.”

      She relented because she preferred spending an hour going over a report than sitting in her empty apartment thinking about the scheduled board meeting. After giving her driver instructions, she walked with Mikhail toward the building.

      “You’ve repaired the stoop.”

      “Tuesday. It wasn’t easy getting the men to stop sitting on it long enough.” He exchanged greetings with the three who were ranged across it now as Sydney passed through the aroma of beer and tobacco. “We can take the elevator. The inspection certificate is hardly dry.”

      She thought of the five long flights up. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that.” She stepped in with him, waited while he pulled the open iron doors closed.

      “It has character now,” he said as they began the assent. “And you don’t worry that you’ll get in to get downstairs and spend the night inside.”

      “There’s good news.”

      He pulled the doors open again as the car slid to a smooth, quiet stop. In the hallway, the ceiling was gone, leaving bare joists and new wiring exposed.

      “The water damage from leaking was bad,” Mikhail said conversationally. “Once the roof is finished, we’ll replace.”

      “I’ve expected some complaints from the tenants, but we haven’t received a single one. Isn’t it difficult for everyone, living in a construction zone?”

      Mikhail jingled his keys. “Inconvenient. But everyone is excited and watches the progress. Mr. Stuben from the third floor comes up every morning before he leaves for work. Every day he says, ‘Mikhail, you have your work cut out for you.’” He grinned as he opened the door. “Some days I’d like to throw my hammer at him.” He stepped back and nudged her inside. “Sit.”

      Lips pursed, Sydney studied the room. The furniture had been pushed together in the center—to make it easier to work, she imagined. Tables were stacked on top of chairs, the rug had been rolled up. Under the sheet he’d tossed over his worktable were a variety of interesting shapes that were his sculptures, his tools, and blocks of wood yet to be carved.

      It smelled like sawdust, she thought, and turpentine.

      “Where?”

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