LITMIR.BIZ

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      “I told her she has two days before I go to the building commissioner.”

      This time Keely smiled. As much as she admired Mikhail, she felt he was naive in a lot of ways. “Good luck. Maybe we should take Mrs. Bayford’s idea about a rent strike. Of course, then we risk eviction, but…hey.” She leaned out the open window. “You should see this car. It’s like a Lincoln or something—with a driver. There’s a woman getting out of the back.” More fascinated than envious, she let out a long, appreciative breath. “Harper’s Bazaar’s version of the executive woman.” Grinning, she shot a glance over her shoulder. “I think your ice princess has come slumming.”

      Outside, Sydney studied the building. It was really quite lovely, she thought. Like an old woman who had maintained her dignity and a shadow of her youthful beauty. The red brick had faded to a soft pink, smudged here and there by soot and exhaust. The trimming paint was peeling and cracked, but that could be easily remedied. Taking out a legal pad, she began to take notes.

      She was aware that the men sitting out on the stoop were watching her, but she ignored them. It was a noisy place, she noted. Most of the windows were open and there was a variety of sound—televisions, radios, babies crying, someone singing “The Desert Song” in a warbling soprano. There were useless little balconies crowded with potted flowers, bicycles, clothes drying in the still, hot air.

      Shading her eyes, she let her gaze travel up. Most of the railings were badly rusted and many had spokes missing. She frowned, then spotted Mikhail, leaning out of a window on the top floor, nearly cheek to cheek with a stunning blonde. Since he was bare chested and the blonde was wearing the tiniest excuse for a tank top, Sydney imagined she’d interrupted them. She acknowledged him with a frigid nod, then went back to her notes.

      When she started toward the entrance, the men shifted to make a path for her. The small lobby was dim and oppressively hot. On this level the windows were apparently painted shut. The old parquet floor was scarred and scraped, and there was a smell, a very definite smell, of mold. She studied the elevator dubiously. Someone had hand-lettered a sign above the button that read Abandon Hope Ye Who Enter Here.

      Curious, Sydney punched the up button and listened to the grinding rattles and wheezes. On an impatient breath, she made more notes. It was deplorable, she thought. The unit should have been inspected, and Hayward should have been slapped with a citation. Well, she was Hayward now.

      The doors squeaked open, and Mikhail stepped out.

      “Did you come to look over your empire?” he asked her.

      Very deliberately she finished her notes before she met his gaze. At least he had pulled on a shirt—if you could call it that. The thin white T-shirt was ripped at the sleeves and mangled at the hem.

      “I believe I told you I’d look over the file. Once I did, I thought it best to inspect the building myself.” She glanced at the elevator, then back at him. “You’re either very brave or very stupid, Mr. Stanislaski.”

      “A realist,” he corrected with a slow shrug. “What happens, happens.”

      “Perhaps. But I’d prefer that no one use this elevator until it’s repaired or replaced.”

      He slipped his hands into his pockets. “And will it be?”

      “Yes, as quickly as possible. I believe you mentioned in your letter that some of the stair railings were broken.”

      “I’ve replaced the worst of them.”

      Her brow lifted. “You?”

      “There are children and old people in this building.”

      The simplicity of his answer made her ashamed. “I see. Since you’ve taken it on yourself to represent the tenants, perhaps you’d take me through and show me the worst of the problems.”

      As they started up the stairs, she noted that the railing was obviously new, an unstained line of wood that was sturdy under her hand. She made a note that it had been replaced by a tenant.

      He knocked on apartment doors. People greeted him enthusiastically, her warily. There were smells of cooking—meals just finished, meals yet to be eaten. She was offered strudel, brownies, goulash, chicken wings. Some of the complaints were bitter, some were nervous. But Sydney saw for herself that Mikhail’s letters hadn’t exaggerated.

      By the time they reached the third floor, the heat was making her dizzy. On the fourth, she refused the offer of spaghetti and meatballs—wondering how anyone could bear to cook in all this heat—and accepted a glass of water. Dutifully she noted down how the pipes rattled and thumped. When they reached the fifth floor, she was wishing desperately for a cool shower, a chilled glass of chardonnay and the blissful comfort of her air-conditioned apartment.

      Mikhail noted that her face was glowing from the heat. On the last flight of stairs, she’d been puffing a bit, which pleased him. It wouldn’t hurt the queen to see how her subjects lived. He wondered why she didn’t at least peel off her suit jacket or loosen a couple of those prim buttons on her blouse.

      He wasn’t pleased with the thought that he would enjoy doing both of those things for her.

      “I would think that some of these tenants would have window units.” Sweat slithered nastily down her back. “Air-conditioning.”

      “The wiring won’t handle it,” he told her. “When people turn them on, it blows the fuses and we lose power. The hallways are the worst,” he went on conversationally. “Airless. And up here is worst of all. Heat rises.”

      “So I’ve heard.”

      She was white as a sheet, he noted, and swore. “Take off your jacket.”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “You’re stupid.” He tugged the linen off her shoulders and began to pull her arms free.

      The combination of heat and his rough, purposeful fingers had spots dancing in front of her eyes. “Stop it.”

      “Very stupid. This is not a boardroom.”

      His touch wasn’t the least bit loverlike, but it was very disturbing. She batted at his hands the moment one of her arms was free. Ignoring her, Mikhail pushed her into his apartment.

      “Mr. Stanislaski,” she said, out of breath but not out of dignity. “I will not be pawed.”

      “I have doubts you’ve ever been pawed in your life, Your Highness. What man wants frostbite? Sit.”

      “I have no desire to—”

      He simply shoved her into a chair, then glanced over where Keely stood in the kitchen, gaping. “Get her some water,” he ordered.

      Sydney caught her breath. A fan whirled beside the chair and cooled her skin. “You are the rudest, most ill-mannered, most insufferable man I’ve ever been forced to deal with.”

      He took the glass from Keely and was tempted to toss the contents into Sydney’s beautiful face. Instead he shoved the glass into her hand. “Drink.”

      “Jeez, Mik, have a heart,” Keely murmured. “She looks beat. You want a cold cloth?” Even as she offered, she couldn’t help but admire the ivory silk blouse with its tiny pearl buttons.

      “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

      “I’m Keely O’Brian, 502.”

      “Her oven doesn’t work,” Mikhail said. “And she gets no hot water. The roof leaks.”

      “Only when it rains.” Keely tried to smile but got no response. “I guess I’ll run along. Nice to meet you.”

      When they were alone, Sydney took slow sips of the tepid water. Mikhail hadn’t complained about his own apartment, but she could see from where she sat that the linoleum on the kitchen floor was ripped, and the refrigerator was hopelessly small and out-of-date. She simply didn’t have the energy to

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