The Stanislaskis: Taming Natasha

“That’s absurd.”

“As I said, you’re naive. You put some Russian artist in charge of a major project, then don’t even bother to check the work.”

“I intend to inspect the project myself. I’ve been tied up. And I have Mr. Stanislaski’s weekly report.”

He sneered. Before Sydney’s temper could fray, she realized Lloyd was right. She’d hired Mikhail on impulse and instinct, then because of personal feelings, had neglected to follow through with her involvement on the project.

That wasn’t naive. It was gutless.

“You’re absolutely right, Lloyd, and I’ll correct it.” She leaned back in her chair. “Was there anything else?”

“You’ve made a mistake,” he said. “A costly one in this case. The board won’t tolerate another.”

With her hands laid lightly on the arms of her chair, she nodded. “And you’re hoping to convince them that you belong at this desk.”

“They’re businessmen, Sydney. And though sentiment might prefer a Hayward at the head of the table, profit and loss will turn the tide.”

Her expression remained placid, her voice steady. “I’m sure you’re right again. And if the board continues to back me, I want one of two things from you. Your resignation or your loyalty. I won’t accept anything in between. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

When the door slammed behind him, she reached for the phone. But her hand was trembling, and she drew it back. She plucked up a paper clip and mangled it. Then another, then a third. Between that and the two sheets of stationery she shredded, she felt the worst of the rage subside.

Clearheaded, she faced the facts.

Lloyd Bingham was an enemy, and he was an enemy with experience and influence. She had acted in haste with Soho. Not that she’d been wrong; she didn’t believe she’d been wrong. But if there were mistakes, Lloyd would capitalize on them and drop them right in her lap.

Was it possible that she was risking everything her grandfather had given her with one project? Could she be forced to step down if she couldn’t prove the worth and right of what she had done?

She wasn’t sure, and that was the worst of it.

One step at a time. That was the only way to go on. And the first step was to get down to Soho and do her job.

The sky was the color of drywall. Over the past few days, the heat had ebbed, but it had flowed back into the city that morning like a river, flooding Manhattan with humidity. The pedestrian traffic surged through it, streaming across the intersections in hot little packs.

Girls in shorts and men in wilted business suits crowded around the sidewalk vendors in hopes that an ice-cream bar or a soft drink would help them beat the heat.

When Sydney stepped out of her car, the sticky oppression of the air punched like a fist. She thought of her driver sitting in the enclosed car and dismissed him for the day. Shielding her eyes, she turned to study her building.

Scaffolding crept up the walls like metal ivy. Windows glittered, their manufacturer stickers slashed across the glass. She thought she saw a pair of arthritic hands scraping away at a label at a third-floor window.

There were signs in the doorway, warning of construction in progress. She could hear the sounds of it, booming hammers, buzzing saws, the clang of metal and the tinny sound of rock and roll through portable speakers.

At the curb she saw the plumber’s van, a dented pickup and a scattering of interested onlookers. Since they were all peering up, she followed their direction. And saw Mikhail.

For an instant, her heart stopped dead. He stood outside the top floor, five stories up, moving nimbly on what seemed to Sydney to be a very narrow board.

“Man, get a load of those buns,” a woman beside her sighed. “They are class A.”

Sydney swallowed. She supposed they were. And his naked back wasn’t anything to sneeze at, either. The trouble was, it was hard to enjoy it when she had a hideous flash of him plummeting off the scaffolding and breaking that beautiful back on the concrete below.

Panicked, she rushed inside. The elevator doors were open, and a couple of mechanics were either loading or unloading their tools inside it. She didn’t stop to ask but bolted up the steps.

Sweaty men were replastering the stairwell between two and three. They took the time to whistle and wink, but she kept climbing. Someone had the television up too loud, probably to drown out the sound of construction. A baby was crying fitfully. She smelled chicken frying.

Without pausing for breath, she dashed from four to five. There was music playing here. Tough and gritty rock, poorly accompanied by a laborer in an off-key tenor.

Mikhail’s door was open, and Sydney streaked through. She nearly tumbled over a graying man with arms like tree trunks. He rose gracefully from his crouched position where he’d been sorting tools and steadied her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”

“Is all right. I like women to fall at my feet.”

She registered the Slavic accent even as she glanced desperately around the room for Mikhail. Maybe everybody in the building was Russian, she thought frantically. Maybe he’d imported plumbers from the mother country.

“Can I help you?”

“No. Yes.” She pressed a hand to her heart when she realized she was completely out of breath. “Mikhail.”

“He is just outside.” Intrigued, he watched her as he jerked a thumb toward the window.

She could see him there—at least she could see the flat, tanned torso. “Outside. But, but—”

“We are finishing for the day. You will sit?”

“Get him in,” Sydney whispered. “Please, get him in.”

Before he could respond, the window was sliding up, and Mikhail was tossing one long, muscled leg inside. He said something in his native tongue, laughter in his voice as the rest of his body followed. When he saw Sydney, the laughter vanished.

“Hayward.” He tapped his caulking gun against his palm.

“What were you doing out there?” The question came out in an accusing rush.

“Replacing windows.” He set the caulking gun aside. “Is there a problem?”

“No, I…” She couldn’t remember ever feeling more of a fool. “I came by to check the progress.”

“So. I’ll take you around in a minute.” He walked into the kitchen, stuck his head into the sink and turned the faucet on full cold.

“He’s a hothead,” the man behind her said, chuckling at his own humor. When Sydney only managed a weak smile, he called out to Mikhail, speaking rapidly in that exotic foreign tongue.

“Tak” was all he said. Mikhail came up dripping, hair streaming over the bandanna he’d tied around it. He shook it back, splattering water, then shrugged and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. He was wet, sweaty and half-naked. Sydney had to fold her tongue inside her mouth to keep it from hanging out.

“My son is rude.” Yuri Stanislaski shook his head. “I raised him better.”

“Your—oh.” Sydney looked back at the man with the broad face and beautiful hands. Mikhail’s hands. “How do you do, Mr. Stanislaski.”

“I do well. I am Yuri. I ask my son if you are the Hayward who owns this business. He only says yes and scowls.”

“Yes, well, I am.”