“Oh, sit down.” Using her temporary advantage, she shoved him into a chair. She strode off into the bathroom, muttering to herself. When she came back with a wet washcloth and antiseptic, he was up again, leaning out the window, trying to clear his head.

“Are you sick?”

He pulled his head in and turned back, disdain clear on his battered face. “Stanislaskis don’t get sick from vodka.” Maybe a little queasy, he thought, when the vodka was followed by a couple of solid rights to the gut. Then he grinned. His baby brother had a hell of a punch.

“Just drunk then,” she said primly, and pointed to the chair. “Sit down. I’ll clean your face.”

“I don’t need nursing.” But he sat, because it felt better that way.

“What you need is a keeper.” Bending over, she began to dab at the cut above his eye while he tried to resist the urge to lay his cheek against the soft swell of her breast. “Going out and getting drunk, beating up your brother. Why would you do such a stupid thing?”

He scowled at her. “It felt good.”

“Oh, I’m sure it feels marvelous to have a naked fist popped in your eye.” She tilted his head as she worked. That eye was going to bruise dramatically before morning. “I can’t imagine what your mother would say if she knew.”

“She would say nothing. She’d smack us both.” His breath hissed when she slopped on the antiseptic. “Even when he starts it she smacks us both.” Indignation shimmered. “Explain that.”

“I’m sure you both deserved it. Pathetic,” she muttered, then looked down at his hands. “Idiot!” The skin on the knuckles was bruised and broken. “You’re an artist, damn it. You have no business hurting your hands.”

It felt good, incredibly good to have her touching and scolding him. Any minute he was going to pull her into his lap and beg.

“I do what I like with my own hands,” he said. And thought about what he’d like to be doing with them right now.

“You do what you like, period,” she tossed back as she gently cleaned his knuckles. “Shouting at people, punching people. Drinking until you smell like the inside of a vodka bottle.”

He wasn’t so drunk he didn’t know an insult when he heard one. Nudging her aside, he stood and, staggering only a little, disappeared into the next room. A moment later, she heard the shower running.

This wasn’t the way she’d planned it, Sydney thought, wringing the washcloth in her hands. She was supposed to come to him, tell him how much she loved him, ask him to forgive her for being a fool. And he was supposed to be kind and understanding, taking her in his arms, telling her she’d made him the happiest man in the world.