Luring a Lady by Nora Roberts Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nora Roberts
comfortable.
Relieved that he looked approachable again, Helena Lowell began to ask him questions about art.
After an hour, he was glad to escape from the pretensions of the society matronâs art school jargon. Guests were treated to violin music, breezy terraces and moon-kissed gardens. His hostess fluttered around him like a butterfly, lashes batting, laughter trilling.
Margeriteâs flirtations were patently obvious and didnât bother him. She was a pretty, vivacious woman currently between men.Though he had privately deduced she shared little with her daughter other than looks, he considered her harmless, even entertaining. So when she offered to show him the rooftop patio, he went along.
The wind off the sound was playful and fragrant. And it was blessedly quiet following the ceaseless after-dinner chatter. From the rail, Mikhail could see the water, the curve of beach, the serene elegance of other homes tucked behind walls and circling gardens.
And he could see Sydney as she strolled to the shadowy corner of the terrace below with her arm tucked through Channingâs.
âMy third husband built this house,â Margerite was saying. âHeâs an architect. When we divorced, I had my choice between this house and the little villa in Nice. Naturally, with so many of my friends here, I chose this.â With a sigh, she turned to face him, leaning prettily on the rail. âI must say, I love this spot. When I give house parties people are spread out on every level, so itâs both cozy and private. Perhaps youâll join us some weekend this summer.â
âPerhaps.â The answer was absent as he stared down at Sydney. The moonlight made her hair gleam like polished mahogany.
Margerite shifted, just enough so that their thighs brushed. Mikhail wasnât sure if he was more surprised or more amused. But to save her pride, he smiled, easing away slowly. âYou have a lovely home. It suits you.â
âIâd love to see your studio.â Margerite let the invitation melt into her eyes. âWhere you create.â
âIâm afraid youâd find it cramped, hot and boring.â
âImpossible.â Smiling, she traced a fingertip over the back of his hand. âIâm sure Iâd find nothing about you boring.â
Good God, the woman was old enough to be his mother, and she was coming on to him like a misty-eyed virgin primed for her firsttumble. Mikhail nearly sighed, then reminded himself it was only a moment out of his life. He took her hand between both of his hands.
âMargerite, youâre charming. And Iâmââ he kissed her fingers lightly ââunsuitable.â
She lifted a finger and brushed it over his cheek. âYou underestimate yourself, Mikhail.â
No, but he realized how heâd underestimated her.
On the terrace below, Sydney was trying to find a graceful way to discourage Channing. He was attentive, dignified, solicitous, and he was boring her senseless.
It was her lack, she was sure. Any woman with half a soul would be melting under the attraction of a man like Channing. There was moonlight, music, flowers. The breeze in the leafy trees smelled of the sea and murmured of romance. Channing was talking about Paris, and his hand was skimming lightly over her bare back.
She wished she was home, alone, with her eyes crossing over a fat file of quarterly reports.
Taking a deep breath, she turned. She would have to tell him firmly, simply and straight out that he needed to look elsewhere for companionship. It was Sydneyâs bad luck that she happened to glance up to see Mikhail on the rooftop with her mother just when he took Margeriteâs hand to his lips.
Why theâ¦she couldnât think of anything vile enough to call him. Slime was too simple. Gigolo too slick. He was nuzzling up to her mother. Her mother. When only hours before heâd beenâ¦
Nothing, Sydney reminded herself and
Relieved that he looked approachable again, Helena Lowell began to ask him questions about art.
After an hour, he was glad to escape from the pretensions of the society matronâs art school jargon. Guests were treated to violin music, breezy terraces and moon-kissed gardens. His hostess fluttered around him like a butterfly, lashes batting, laughter trilling.
Margeriteâs flirtations were patently obvious and didnât bother him. She was a pretty, vivacious woman currently between men.Though he had privately deduced she shared little with her daughter other than looks, he considered her harmless, even entertaining. So when she offered to show him the rooftop patio, he went along.
The wind off the sound was playful and fragrant. And it was blessedly quiet following the ceaseless after-dinner chatter. From the rail, Mikhail could see the water, the curve of beach, the serene elegance of other homes tucked behind walls and circling gardens.
And he could see Sydney as she strolled to the shadowy corner of the terrace below with her arm tucked through Channingâs.
âMy third husband built this house,â Margerite was saying. âHeâs an architect. When we divorced, I had my choice between this house and the little villa in Nice. Naturally, with so many of my friends here, I chose this.â With a sigh, she turned to face him, leaning prettily on the rail. âI must say, I love this spot. When I give house parties people are spread out on every level, so itâs both cozy and private. Perhaps youâll join us some weekend this summer.â
âPerhaps.â The answer was absent as he stared down at Sydney. The moonlight made her hair gleam like polished mahogany.
Margerite shifted, just enough so that their thighs brushed. Mikhail wasnât sure if he was more surprised or more amused. But to save her pride, he smiled, easing away slowly. âYou have a lovely home. It suits you.â
âIâd love to see your studio.â Margerite let the invitation melt into her eyes. âWhere you create.â
âIâm afraid youâd find it cramped, hot and boring.â
âImpossible.â Smiling, she traced a fingertip over the back of his hand. âIâm sure Iâd find nothing about you boring.â
Good God, the woman was old enough to be his mother, and she was coming on to him like a misty-eyed virgin primed for her firsttumble. Mikhail nearly sighed, then reminded himself it was only a moment out of his life. He took her hand between both of his hands.
âMargerite, youâre charming. And Iâmââ he kissed her fingers lightly ââunsuitable.â
She lifted a finger and brushed it over his cheek. âYou underestimate yourself, Mikhail.â
No, but he realized how heâd underestimated her.
On the terrace below, Sydney was trying to find a graceful way to discourage Channing. He was attentive, dignified, solicitous, and he was boring her senseless.
It was her lack, she was sure. Any woman with half a soul would be melting under the attraction of a man like Channing. There was moonlight, music, flowers. The breeze in the leafy trees smelled of the sea and murmured of romance. Channing was talking about Paris, and his hand was skimming lightly over her bare back.
She wished she was home, alone, with her eyes crossing over a fat file of quarterly reports.
Taking a deep breath, she turned. She would have to tell him firmly, simply and straight out that he needed to look elsewhere for companionship. It was Sydneyâs bad luck that she happened to glance up to see Mikhail on the rooftop with her mother just when he took Margeriteâs hand to his lips.
Why theâ¦she couldnât think of anything vile enough to call him. Slime was too simple. Gigolo too slick. He was nuzzling up to her mother. Her mother. When only hours before heâd beenâ¦
Nothing, Sydney reminded herself and