Luring A Lady. Nora Roberts
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before, in one of her tidy business suits, this time in pale gray, with all those little silver buttons on her blouse done up to her smooth white throat. He glanced down at the tea tray with its delicate cups and tiny sandwiches. His lips curled.
“Interrupting your lunch, Hayward?”
“Not at all.” She didn’t bother to stand or smile but gestured him across the room. “Do you have the bid, Mr. Stanislaski?”
“Yes.”
“You work fast.”
He grinned. “Yes.” He caught a scent—rather a clash of scents. Something very subtle and cool and another, florid and overly feminine. “You have company?”
Her brow arched. “Why do you ask?”
“There is perfume here that isn’t yours.” Then with a shrug, he handed her the papers he carried. “The first is what must be done, the second is what should be done.”
“I see.” She could feel the heat radiating off him. For some reason it felt comforting, life affirming. As if she’d stepped out of a dark cave into the sunlight. Sydney made certain her fingers didn’t brush his as she took the papers. “You have estimates from the subcontractors?”
“They are there.” While she glanced through his work, he lifted one of the neat triangles of bread, sniffed at it like a wolf. “What is this stuff in here?”
She barely looked up. “Watercress.”
With a grunt, he dropped it back onto the plate. “Why would you eat it?”
She looked up again, and this time, she smiled. “Good question.”
She shouldn’t have done that, he thought as he shifted his hands to his pockets. When she smiled, she changed. Her eyes warmed, her lips softened, and beauty became approachable rather than aloof.
It made him forget he wasn’t the least bit interested in her type of woman.
“Then I’ll ask you another question.”
Her lips pursed as she scanned the list. She liked what she saw. “You seem to be full of them today.”
“Why do you wear colors like that? Dull ones, when you should be wearing vivid. Sapphire or emerald.”
It was surprise that had her staring at him. As far as she could remember, no one had ever questioned her taste. In some circles, she was thought to be quite elegant. “Are you a carpenter or a fashion consultant, Mr. Stanislaski?”
His shoulders moved. “I’m a man. Is this tea?” He lifted the pot and sniffed at the contents while she continued to gape at him. “It’s too hot for tea. You have something cold?”
Shaking her head, she pressed her intercom. “Janine, bring in something cold for Mr. Stanislaski, please.” Because she had a nagging urge to get up and inspect herself in a mirror, she cleared her throat. “There’s quite a line of demarcation between your must and your should list, Mr.—”
“Mikhail,” he said easily. “It’s because there are more things you should do than things you must. Like life.”
“Now a philosopher,” she muttered. “We’ll start with the must, and perhaps incorporate some of the should. If we work quickly, we could have a contract by the end of the week.”
His nod was slow, considering. “You, too, work fast.”
“When necessary. Now first, I’d like you to explain to me why I should replace all the windows.”
“Because they’re single glazed and not efficient.”
“Yes, but—”
“Sydney, dear, the lighting in there is just ghastly. Oh.” Margerite stopped at the doorway. “I beg your pardon, I see you’re in a meeting.” She would have looked down her nose at Mikhail’s worn jeans, but she had a difficult time getting past his face. “How do you do?” she said, pleased that he had risen at her entrance.
“You are Sydney’s mother?” Mikhail asked before Sydney could shoo Margerite along.
“Why, yes.” Margerite’s smile was reserved. She didn’t approve of her daughter being on a first-name basis in her relationships with the help. Particularly when that help wore stubby ponytails and dirty boots. “How did you know?”
“Real beauty matures well.”
“Oh.” Charmed, Margerite allowed her smile to warm fractionally. Her lashes fluttered in reflex. “How kind.”
“Mother, I’m sorry, but Mr. Stanislaski and I have business to discuss.”
“Of course, of course.” Margerite walked over to kiss the air an inch from her daughter’s cheek. “I’ll just be running along. Now, dear, you won’t forget we’re to have lunch next week? And I wanted to remind you that…Stanislaski,” she repeated, turning back to Mikhail. “I thought you looked familiar. Oh, my.” Suddenly breathless, she laid a hand on her heart. “You’re Mikhail Stanislaski?”
“Yes. Have we met?”
“No. Oh, no, we haven’t, but I saw your photo in Art/World. I consider myself a patron.” Face beaming, she skirted the desk and, under her daughter’s astonished gaze, took his hands in hers. To Margerite, the ponytail was now artistic, the tattered jeans eccentric. “Your work, Mr. Stanislaski—magnificent. Truly magnificent. I bought two of your pieces from your last showing. I can’t tell you what a pleasure this is.”
“You flatter me.”
“Not at all,” Margerite insisted. “You’re already being called one of the top artists of the nineties. And you’ve commissioned him.” She turned to beam at her speechless daughter. “A brilliant move, darling.”
“I—actually, I—”
“I’m delighted,” Mikhail interrupted, “to be working with your daughter.”
“It’s wonderful.” She gave his hands a final squeeze. “You must come to a little dinner party I’m having on Friday on Long Island. Please, don’t tell me you’re already engaged for the evening.” She slanted a look from under her lashes. “I’ll be devastated.”
He was careful not to grin over her head at Sydney. “I could never be responsible for devastating a beautiful woman.”
“Fabulous. Sydney will bring you. Eight o’clock. Now I must run.” She patted her hair, shot an absent wave at Sydney and hurried out just as Janine brought in a soft drink.
Mikhail took the glass with thanks, then sat again. “So,” he began, “you were asking about windows.”
Sydney very carefully relaxed the hands that were balled into fists under her desk. “You said you were a carpenter.”
“Sometimes I am.” He took a long, cooling drink. “Sometimes I carve wood instead of hammering it.”
If he had set out to make a fool of her—which she wasn’t sure he hadn’t—he could have succeeded no better. “I’ve spent the last two years in Europe,” she told him, “so I’m a bit out of touch with the American art world.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” he said, enjoying himself.
“I’m not apologizing.” She had to force herself to speak calmly, to not stand up and rip his bid into tiny little pieces. “I’d like to know what kind of game you’re playing, Stanislaski.”
“You offered me work, on a job that has some value for me. I am accepting it.”
“You lied to me.”
“How?” He lifted one hand, palm up. “I have a contractor’s license. I’ve made my living in construction since I was sixteen. What difference does it make to you if people now buy my sculpture?”
“None.”