Luring a Lady by Nora Roberts Page B

mother?”
    â€œShe told me, ah, two days ago. We had a drink uptown.”
    Sydney turned completely around so that he was standing on one side of the threshold, she on the other. “You had drinks with my mother?” she asked, spacing each word carefully.
    â€œYes.” Lazily he leaned on the jamb. “Before you try to turn me into an iceberg, understand that I have no sexual interest in Margerite.”
    â€œThat’s lovely. Just lovely.” If she hadn’t already put the figurine into her purse, she might have thrown it in his face. “We agreed you’d leave my mother alone.”
    â€œWe agreed nothing,” he corrected. “And I don’t bother your mother.” There was little to be gained by telling her that Margerite had called him three times before he’d given in and met her. “It was a friendly drink, and after it was done, I think Margerite understood we are unsuitable for anything but friendship. Particularly,” he said, holding up a finger to block her interruption, “since I am very sexually interested in her daughter.”
    That stopped her words cold. She swallowed, struggled for composure and failed. “You are not, all you’re interested in is scoring a few macho points.”
    Something flickered in his eyes. “Would you like to come back inside so that I can show you exactly what I’m interested in?”
    â€œNo.” Before she could stop herself, she’d taken a retreating step. “But I would like you to have the decency not to play games with my mother.”
    He wondered if Margerite would leap so quickly to her daughter’s defense, or if Sydney would understand that her mother was only interested in a brief affair with a younger man—something he’d made very clear he wanted no part in.
    â€œSince I would hate for your headache to come back after I went to the trouble to rid you of it, I will make myself as clear as I can. I have no intention of becoming romantically, physically or emotionally involved with your mother. Does that suit you?”
    â€œIt would if I could believe you.”
    He didn’t move, not a muscle, but she sensed he had cocked, like the hammer on a gun. His voice was low and deadly. “I don’t lie.”
    She nodded, cool as an ice slick. “Just stick to hammering nails, Mikhail. We’ll get along fine. And I can find my own way down.” She didn’t whirl away, but turned slowly and walked to the elevator. Though she didn’t look back as she stepped inside, she was well aware that he watched her go.
    Â 
    At noon sharp, Sydney sat at the head of the long walnut table of the boardroom. Ten men and two women were ranged down either side with crystal tumblers at their elbows, pads and pens at the ready. Heavy brocade drapes were drawn back to reveal a wall of window, tinted to cut the glare of sunlight—had there been any. Instead there was a thick curtain of rain, gray as soot. She could just make out the silhouette of the Times Building. Occasionally a murmur of thunder sneaked in through the stone and glass.
    The gloom suited her. Sydney felt exactly like the reckless child summoned to the principal’s office.
    She scanned the rows of faces, some of whom had belonged in this office, at this very table, since before she’d been born. Perhaps they would be the toughest to sway, those who thought of her as the little girl who had come to Hayward to bounce on Grandfather’s knee.
    Then there was Lloyd, halfway down the gleaming surface, his face so smug, so confident, she wanted to snarl. No, she realized as his gaze flicked to hers and held. She wanted to win.
    â€œLadies, gentlemen.” The moment the meeting was called to order she rose. “Before we begin discussion of the matter so much on our minds, I’d like to make a statement.”
    â€œYou’ve already made your statement to the press, Sydney,” Lloyd