The Stanislaskis: Taming Natasha. Нора РобертсЧитать онлайн книгу.
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
CHAPTER ONE
She wasn’t a patient woman. Delays and excuses were barely tolerated, and never tolerated well. Waiting—and she was waiting now—had her temper dropping degree by degree toward ice. With Sydney Hayward icy anger was a great deal more dangerous than boiling rage. One frigid glance, one frosty phrase could make the recipient quake. And she knew it.
Now she paced her new office, ten stories up in midtown Manhattan. She swept from corner to corner over the deep oatmeal-colored carpet. Everything was perfectly in place, papers, files, coordinated appointment and address books. Even her brass-and-ebony desk set was perfectly aligned, the pens and pencils marching in a straight row across the polished mahogany, the notepads carefully placed beside the phone.
Her appearance mirrored the meticulous precision and tasteful elegance of the office. Her crisp beige suit was all straight lines and starch, but didn’t disguise the fact that there was a great pair of legs striding across the carpet. With it she wore a single strand of pearls, earrings to match and a slim gold watch, all very discreet and exclusive. As a Hayward, she’d been raised to be both.
Her dark auburn hair was swept off her neck and secured with a gold clip. The pale freckles that went with the hair were nearly invisible after a light dusting of powder. Sydney felt they made her look too young and too vulnerable. At twenty-eight she had a face that reflected her breeding. High, slashing cheekbones, the strong, slightly pointed chin, the small straight nose. An aristocratic face, it was pale as porcelain, with a softly shaped mouth she knew could sulk too easily, and large smoky-blue eyes that people often mistook for guileless.
Sydney glanced at her watch again, let out a little hiss of breath, then marched over to her desk. Before she could pick up the phone, her intercom buzzed.
“Yes.”
“Ms. Hayward. There’s a man here who insists on seeing the person in charge of the Soho project. And your four-o’clock appointment—”
“It’s now four-fifteen,” Sydney cut in, her voice low and smooth and final. “Send him in.”
“Yes, ma’am, but he’s not Mr. Howington.”
So Howington had sent an underling. Annoyance hiked Sydney’s chin up another fraction. “Send him in,” she repeated, and flicked off the intercom with one frosted pink nail. So, they thought she’d be pacified with a junior executive. Sydney took a deep breath and prepared to kill the messenger.
It was years of training that prevented her mouth from dropping open when the man walked in. No, not walked, she corrected. Swaggered. Like a black-patched pirate over the rolling deck of a boarded ship.
She wished she’d had the foresight to have fired a warning shot over his bow.
Her initial shock had nothing to do with the fact that he was wildly handsome, though the adjective suited perfectly. A mane of thick, curling black hair flowed just beyond the nape of his neck, to be caught by a leather thong in a short ponytail that did nothing to detract from rampant masculinity. His face was rawboned and lean, with skin the color of an old gold coin. Hooded eyes were nearly as black as his hair. His full lips were shadowed by a day or two’s growth of beard that gave him a rough and dangerous look.
Though he skimmed under six foot and was leanly built, he made her delicately furnished office resemble a doll’s house.
What was worse was the fact that he wore work clothes. Dusty jeans and a sweaty T-shirt with a pair of scarred boots that left a trail of dirt across her pale carpet. They hadn’t even bothered with the junior executive, she thought as her lips firmed, but had sent along a common laborer who hadn’t had the sense to clean up before the interview.
“You’re Hayward?” The insolence in the tone and the slight hint of a Slavic accent had her imagining him striding up to a camp fire with a whip tucked in his belt.
The misty romance of the image made her tone unnecessarily sharp. “Yes, and you’re late.”
His eyes narrowed fractionally as they studied each other across the desk. “Am I?”
“Yes. You might find it helpful to wear a watch. My time is valuable if yours is not. Mr….”
“Stanislaski.” He hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans, shifting his weight easily, arrogantly onto one hip. “Sydney’s a man’s name.”
She arched a brow. “Obviously you’re mistaken.”
He skimmed his gaze over her slowly, with as much interest as annoyance. She was pretty as a frosted cake, but he hadn’t come straight and sweaty from a job to waste time with a female. “Obviously. I thought Hayward was an old man with a bald head and a white mustache.”
“You’re thinking of my grandfather.”
“Ah, then it’s your grandfather I want to see.”
“That won’t be possible, Mr. Stanislaski, as my grandfather’s been dead for nearly two months.”
The arrogance in his eyes turned quickly to compassion. “I’m sorry. It hurts to lose family.”
She couldn’t say why, of all the condolences she had received, these few words from a stranger touched her. “Yes, it does. Now, if you’ll take a seat, we can get down to business.”
Cold, hard and distant as the moon. Just as well, he thought. It would keep him from thinking of her in more personal ways—at least until he got what he wanted.
“I have sent your grandfather letters,” he began as he settled into one of the trim Queen Anne chairs in front of the desk. “Perhaps the last were misplaced during the confusion of death.”
An odd way to put it, Sydney thought, but apt. Her life had certainly been turned upside down in the past few months. “Correspondence should be addressed to me.” She sat, folding her hands on the desk. “As you know Hayward Enterprises is considering several firms—”
“For what?”
She struggled to shrug off the irritation of being interrupted. “I beg your pardon?”
“For what are you considering several firms?”
If she had been alone, she would have sighed and shut her eyes. Instead, she drummed her fingers on the desk. “What position do you hold, Mr. Stanislaski?”
“Position?”
“Yes, yes, what is it you do?”
The impatience in her voice made him grin. His teeth were very white, and not quite straight. “You mean, what is it I do? I work with wood.”
“You’re a carpenter?”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes,” she repeated, and sat back. Behind her, buildings punched into a hard blue sky. “Perhaps you can tell me why Howington Construction sent a sometimes carpenter to represent them in this interview.”
The room smelled of lemon and rosemary and only reminded him that he was hot, thirsty and as impatient as she. “I could—if they had sent me.”
It took her a moment to realize he wasn’t being deliberately obtuse. “You’re not from Howington?”
“No. I’m Mikhail Stanislaski, and I live in one of your buildings.” He propped a dirty boot on a dusty knee. “If you’re thinking of hiring Howington, I would think again. I once worked for them, but they cut too many corners.”