The Stanislaski Brothers Nora Roberts A Stanislaski Saga LURING A LADY Prologue The playground was full of noise, drama and politics. Even at eight, Mikhail knew about politics. He had, after all, been in America nearly two full years. He no longer waited for men to come drag his father away, or to wake up one morning back in the Ukraine and find the escape into Hungary, the travel to Austria and finally to New York had all been a dream. He lived in Brooklyn, and that was good. He was an American, and that was better. He and his big sister, his little brother went to school?and spoke English. Most of the time. His baby sister had been born here, and would never know what it was to shiver in the cold while hiding in a wagon, waiting, waiting for discovery. Or freedom. There were times he didn't think of it at all. He liked getting up in the morning and seeing the little houses that looked so much like their house out his bedroom window. He liked smelling the breakfast his mother cooked in the kitchen, and hearing his mother's voice murmuring, his father's booming as Papa got ready for work. Papa had to work very hard, and sometimes he came home tired in the evening. But he had a smile in his eyes, and the lines around them were fading. And at night there was hot food and laughter around the dinner table. School was not so bad, and he was learning?except his teachers said he daydreamed too much and too often. "The girls are jumping rope." Alexi, Mikhail's little brother, plopped down beside him. Both had dark hair and golden brown eyes, and the sharp facial bones that would make women swoon in only a few more years. Now, of course, girls were something to be ignored. Unless they were family. "Natasha," Alex said with smug pride in his older sister, "is the best." "She is Stanislaski." Alex acknowledged this with a shrug. It went without saying. His eyes scanned the playground. He liked to watch how people behaved, what they did?and didn't do. His jacket?just a bit too big as his brother's was a bit too small?was open despite the brisk March wind. Alex nodded toward two boys on the far end of the blacktop. "After school, we have to beat up Will and Charlie Braunstein." Mikhail pursed his lips, scratched an itch just under his ribs. "Okay; Why?" "Because Will said we were Russian spies and Charlie laughed and made noises like a pig. So." "So," Mikhail agreed. And the brothers looked at each other and grinned. * * * They were late getting home from school, which would probably mean a punishment. Mikhail's pants were ripped at the knee and Alexi's lip was split?which would undoubtedly mean a lecture. But it had been worth it. The Stanislaski brothers had emerged from the battle victorious. They strolled down the sidewalk, arms slung over each other's shoulders, book bags dragging as they recapped the combat. "Charlie, he has a good punch," Mikhail said. "So if you fight again, you have to be fast. He has longer arms than you have." "And he has a black eye," Alex noted with satisfaction. "Yes." Mikhail swelled with pride over his baby brother's exploits. "This is good. When we go to school tomorrow, we? Uh-oh." He broke off, and the fearless warrior trembled. Nadia Stanislaski stood on the stoop outside their front door. His mama's hands were fisted on her hips, and even from half a block away he knew her eagle eye had spotted the rip in his trousers. "Now we're in for it," Alexi muttered. "We're not in yet." "No, it means?in trouble." Alexi tried his best smile, even though it caused his lip to throb. But Nadia's eyes narrowed. She swaggered down the walk like a gunfighter prepared to draw and fire. "You fight again?" As the eldest, Mikhail stepped in front of his brother. "Just a little." Her sharp eyes scanned them, top to bottom and judged the damage minor. "You fight each other again?" "No, Mama." Alex sent her a hopeful look. "Will Braunstein said?" "I don't want to hear what Will Braunstein said. Am I Will Braunstein's mama?" At the tone, both boys dropped their chins to their chests and murmured: "No, Mama." "Whose mama am I?" Both boys sighed. Heavily. "Our mama." "So, this is what I do when my boys make me worry and come late from school and fight like hooligans." It was a word she'd learned from her neighbor Grace MacNamara?and one she thought, sentimentally, suited her sons so well. Her boys yelped when she grabbed each one by the earlobe. Before she could pull them toward the house, she heard the rattle and thump that could only be her husband Yuri's secondhand pickup truck. He swung to the curb, wiggled his eyebrows when he saw his wife holding each of his sons by the ear. "What have they done?" "Fighting the Braunsteins. We go inside now to call Mrs. Braunstein and apologize." "Aw. Ow!" Mikhail's protest turned into a muffled yip as Nadia expertly twisted his earlobe. "This can wait, yes? I have something." Yuri clambered out of the truck, and held up a little gray pup. "This is Sasha, your new brother." Both boys shouted with delight and, released, sprang forward. Sasha responded with licks and nips and wriggles until Yuri bundled the pup into Mikhail's arms. "He is for you and Alexi and Tasha and Rachel to take care. Not for your mama," he said even as Nadia rolled her eyes. "This is understood?" "We'll take good care of him, Papa. Let me hold him, Mik!" Alex demanded and tried to elbow Mikhail aside. "I'm the oldest. I hold him first." "Everybody will hold. Go. Go show your sisters." Yuri waved his hands. Before scrambling away, both boys pressed against him. "Thank you, Papa." Mikhail turned to kiss his mother's cheek. "We'll call Mrs. Braunstein, Mama." "Yes, you will." Nadia shook her head as they ran into the house, calling for their sisters. "Hooligans," she said, relishing the word. "Boys will be what boys will be." Yuri lifted her off her feet, laughed long and deep. "We are an American family." He set her down, but kept his arm around her waist as they started into the house. "What's for dinner?" LURING A LADY To my nephew Kenni, my second favorite carpenter Chapter 1 Contents - Prev/Next 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...
sinderella