or your loyalty. I wonât accept anything in between. Now, if youâll excuse me?â
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 experienceand influence. She had acted in haste with Soho. Not that sheâd been wrong; she didnât believe sheâd 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 couldnât prove the worth and right of what she had done?
She wasnât 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.
Â
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 plumberâs 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.
âMan, get a load of those buns,â a woman beside her sighed. âThey are class A.â
Sydney swallowed. She supposed they were. And his naked back wasnât 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 didnât 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.
Mikhailâs 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 heâd been sorting tools and steadied her.
âIâm sorry. I didnât see you.â
âIs all right. I like women to fall at my feet.â
She registered the Slavic accent even as she glanced desperately around the room for Mikhail. Maybe everybody in the building wasRussian, she
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 experienceand influence. She had acted in haste with Soho. Not that sheâd been wrong; she didnât believe sheâd 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 couldnât prove the worth and right of what she had done?
She wasnât 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.
Â
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 plumberâs 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.
âMan, get a load of those buns,â a woman beside her sighed. âThey are class A.â
Sydney swallowed. She supposed they were. And his naked back wasnât 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 didnât 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.
Mikhailâs 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 heâd been sorting tools and steadied her.
âIâm sorry. I didnât see you.â
âIs all right. I like women to fall at my feet.â
She registered the Slavic accent even as she glanced desperately around the room for Mikhail. Maybe everybody in the building wasRussian, she
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