His shoulders moved. “I’m a man. Is this tea?” He lifted the pot and sniffed at the contents while she continued to gape at him. “It’s too hot for tea. You have something cold?”

Shaking her head, she pressed her intercom. “Janine, bring in something cold for Mr. Stanislaski, please.” Because she had a nagging urge to get up and inspect herself in a mirror, she cleared her throat. “There’s quite a line of demarcation between your must and your should list, Mr.—”

“Mikhail,” he said easily. “It’s because there are more things you should do than things you must. Like life.”

“Now a philosopher,” she muttered. “We’ll start with the must, and perhaps incorporate some of the should. If we work quickly, we could have a contract by the end of the week.”

His nod was slow, considering. “You, too, work fast.”

“When necessary. Now first, I’d like you to explain to me why I should replace all the windows.”

“Because they’re single glazed and not efficient.”

“Yes, but—”

“Sydney, dear, the lighting in there is just ghastly. Oh.” Margerite stopped at the doorway. “I beg your pardon, I see you’re in a meeting.” She would have looked down her nose at Mikhail’s worn jeans, but she had a difficult time getting past his face. “How do you do?” she said, pleased that he had risen at her entrance.

“You are Sydney’s mother?” Mikhail asked before Sydney could shoo Margerite along.

“Why, yes.” Margerite’s smile was reserved. She didn’t approve of her daughter being on a first-name basis in her relationships with the help. Particularly when that help wore stubby ponytails and dirty boots. “How did you know?”

“Real beauty matures well.”

“Oh.” Charmed, Margerite allowed her smile to warm fractionally. Her lashes fluttered in reflex. “How kind.”

“Mother, I’m sorry, but Mr. Stanislaski and I have business to discuss.”

“Of course, of course.” Margerite walked over to kiss the air an inch from her daughter’s cheek. “I’ll just be running along. Now, dear, you won’t forget we’re to have lunch next week? And I wanted to remind you that…Stanislaski,” she repeated, turning back to Mikhail. “I thought you looked familiar. Oh, my.” Suddenly breathless, she laid a hand on her heart. “You’re Mikhail Stanislaski?”

“Yes. Have we met?”

“No. Oh, no, we haven’t, but I saw your photo in Art/World. I consider myself a patron.” Face beaming, she skirted the desk and, under her daughter’s astonished gaze, took his hands in hers. To Margerite, the ponytail was now artistic, the tattered jeans eccentric. “Your work, Mr. Stanislaski—magnificent. Truly magnificent. I bought two of your pieces from your last showing. I can’t tell you what a pleasure this is.”

“You flatter me.”