Luring A Lady

She wore black quite deliberately. Under no circumstances did she want him to believe that she would fuss through her wardrobe, looking for something colorful because he’d suggested it. And she thought the simple tube of a dress was both businesslike, fashionable and appropriate.

On impulse, she had taken her hair down so that it fluffed out to skim her shoulders—only because she’d tired of wearing it pulled back. As always, she had debated her look for the evening carefully and was satisfied that she had achieved an aloof elegance.

She could hear the music blasting through his door before she knocked. It surprised her to hear the passionate strains of Carmen. She rapped harder, nearly gave in to the urge to shout over the aria, when the door swung open. Behind it was the blond knockout in a skimpy T-shirt and skimpier shorts.

“Hi.” Keely crunched a piece of ice between her teeth and swallowed. “I was just borrowing an ice tray from Mik—my freezer’s set on melt these days.” She managed to smile and forced herself not to tug on her clothes. She felt like a peasant caught poaching by the royal princess. “I was just leaving.” Before Sydney could speak, she dashed back inside to scoop up a tray of ice. “Mik, your date’s here.”

Sydney winced at the term date as the blond bullet streaked past her. “There’s no need for you to rush off—”

“Three’s a crowd,” Keely told her on the run and, with a quick fleeting grin, kept going.

“Did you call me?” Mikhail came to the bedroom doorway. There was one, very small white towel anchored at his waist. He used another to rub at his wet, unruly hair. He stopped when he spotted Sydney. Something flickered in his eyes as he let his gaze roam down the long, cool lines of the dress. Then he smiled. “I’m late,” he said simply.

She was grateful she’d managed not to let her mouth fall open. His body was all lean muscle, long bones and bronzed skin—skin that was gleaming with tiny drops of water that made her feel unbearably thirsty. The towel hung dangerously low on his hips. Dazed, she watched a drop of water slide down his chest, over his stomach and disappear beneath the terry cloth.

The temperature in the room, already steamy, rose several degrees.

“You’re…” She knew she could speak coherently—in a minute. “We said seven.”

“I was busy.” He shrugged. The towel shifted. Sydney swallowed. “I won’t be long. Fix a drink.” A smile, wicked around the edges, tugged at his mouth. A man would have to be dead not to see her reaction—not to be pleased by it. “You look…hot, Sydney.” He took a step forward, watching her eyes widen, watching her mouth tremble open. With his gaze on hers, he turned on a small portable fan. Steamy air stirred. “That will help,” he said mildly.

She nodded. It was cooling, but it also brought the scent of his shower, of his skin into the room. Because she could see the knowledge and the amusement in his eyes, she got a grip on herself. “Your contracts.” She set the folder down on a table. Mikhail barely glanced at them.

“I’ll look and sign later.”

“Fine. It would be best if you got dressed.” She had to swallow another obstruction in her throat when he smiled at her. Her voice was edgy and annoyed. “We’ll be late.”

“A little. There’s cold drink in the refrigerator,” he added as he turned back to the bedroom. “Be at home.”

Alone, she managed to take three normal breaths. Degree by degree she felt her system level. Any man who looked like that in a towel should be arrested, she thought, and turned to study the room.

She’d been too annoyed to take stock of it on her other visit. And too preoccupied, she admitted with a slight frown. A man like that had a way of keeping a woman preoccupied. Now she noted the hunks of wood, small and large, the tools, the jars stuffed with brushes. There was a long worktable beneath the living room window. She wandered toward it, seeing that a few of those hunks of wood were works in progress.

Shrugging, she ran a finger over a piece of cherry that was scarred with grooves and gouges. Rude and primitive, just as she’d thought. It soothed her ruffled ego to be assured she’d been right about his lack of talent. Obviously a ruffian who’d made a momentary impression on the capricious art world.

Then she turned and saw the shelves.

They were crowded with his work. Long smooth columns of wood, beautifully shaped. A profile of a woman with long, flowing hair, a young child caught in gleeful laughter, lovers trapped endlessly in a first tentative kiss. She couldn’t stop herself from touching, nor from feeling. His work ranged from the passionate to the charming, from the bold to the delicate.

Fascinated, she crouched down to get a closer look at the pieces on the lower shelves. Was it possible, she wondered, that a man with such rough manners, with such cocky arrogance possessed the wit, the sensitivity, the compassion to create such lovely things out of blocks of wood?

With a half laugh Sydney reached for a carving of a tiny kangaroo with a baby peeking out of her pouch. It felt as smooth and as delicate as glass. Even as she replaced it with a little sigh, she spotted the miniature figurine. Cinderella, she thought, charmed as she held it in her fingertips. The pretty fairy-tale heroine was still dressed for the ball, but one foot was bare as Mikhail had captured her in her dash before the clock struck twelve. For a moment, Sydney thought she could almost see tears in the painted eyes.

“You like?”

She jolted, then stood up quickly, still nestling the figurine in her hand. “Yes—I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry for liking.” Mikhail rested a hip, now more conservatively covered in wheat-colored slacks, on the worktable. His hair had been brushed back and now curled damply nearly to his shoulders.

Still flustered, she set the miniature back on the shelf. “I meant I should apologize for touching your work.”

A smile tugged at his lips. It fascinated him that she could go from wide-eyed delight to frosty politeness in the blink of an eye. “Better to be touched than to sit apart, only to be admired. Don’t you think?”

It was impossible to miss the implication in the tone of his voice, in the look in his eyes. “That would depend.”

As she started by, he shifted, rose. His timing was perfect. She all but collided with him. “On what?”

She didn’t flush or stiffen or retreat. She’d become accustomed to taking a stand. “On whether one chooses to be touched.”

He grinned. “I thought we were talking about sculpture.”

So, she thought on a careful breath, she’d walked into that one. “Yes, we were. Now, we really will be late. If you’re ready, Mr. Stanislaski—”

“Mikhail.” He lifted a hand casually to flick a finger at the sapphire drop at her ear. “It’s easier.” Before she could reply, his gaze came back and locked on hers. Trapped in that one long stare, she wasn’t certain she could remember her own name. “You smell like an English garden at teatime,” he murmured. “Very cool, very appealing. And just a little too formal.”

It was too hot, she told herself. Much too hot and close. That was why she had difficulty breathing. It had nothing to do with him. Rather, she wouldn’t allow it to have anything to do with him. “You’re in my way.”

“I know.” And for reasons he wasn’t entirely sure of, he intended to stay there. “You’re used to brushing people aside.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with—”

“An observation,” he interrupted, amusing himself by toying with the ends of her hair. The texture was as rich as the color, he decided, pleased she had left it free for the evening. “Artists observe. You’ll find that some people don’t brush aside as quickly as others.” He heard her breath catch, ignored her defensive jerk as he cupped her chin in his hand. He’d been right about her skin—smooth as polished pearls. Patiently he turned her face from side to side. “Nearly perfect,” he decided. “Nearly perfect is better than perfect.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your eyes are too big, and your mouth is just a bit wider than it should be.”

Insulted, she slapped his hand away. It embarrassed and infuriated her that she’d actually expected a compliment. “My eyes and mouth are none of your business.”

“Very much mine,” he corrected. “I’m doing your face.”

When she frowned, a faint line etched between her brows. He liked it. “You’re doing what?”

“Your face. In rosewood, I think. And with your hair down like this.”

Again she pushed his hand away. “If you’re asking me to model for you, I’m afraid I’m not interested.”

“It doesn’t matter whether you are. I am.” He took her arm to lead her to the door.

“If you think I’m flattered—”

“Why should you be?” He opened the door, then stood just inside, studying her with apparent curiosity. “You were born with your face. You didn’t earn it. If I said you sang well, or danced well, or kissed well, you could be flattered.”

He eased her out, then closed the door. “Do you?” he asked, almost in afterthought.

Ruffled and irritated, she snapped back. “Do I what?”

“Kiss well?”