“Not at all,” Margerite insisted. “You’re already being called one of the top artists of the nineties. And you’ve commissioned him.” She turned to beam at her speechless daughter. “A brilliant move, darling.”

“I—actually, I—”

“I’m delighted,” Mikhail interrupted, “to be working with your daughter.”

“It’s wonderful.” She gave his hands a final squeeze. “You must come to a little dinner party I’m having on Friday on Long Island. Please, don’t tell me you’re already engaged for the evening.” She slanted a look from under her lashes. “I’ll be devastated.”

He was careful not to grin over her head at Sydney. “I could never be responsible for devastating a beautiful woman.”

“Fabulous. Sydney will bring you. Eight o’clock. Now I must run.” She patted her hair, shot an absent wave at Sydney and hurried out just as Janine brought in a soft drink.

Mikhail took the glass with thanks, then sat again. “So,” he began, “you were asking about windows.”

Sydney very carefully relaxed the hands that were balled into fists under her desk. “You said you were a carpenter.”

“Sometimes I am.” He took a long, cooling drink. “Sometimes I carve wood instead of hammering it.”

If he had set out to make a fool of her—which she wasn’t sure he hadn’t—he could have succeeded no better. “I’ve spent the last two years in Europe,” she told him, “so I’m a bit out of touch with the American art world.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said, enjoying himself.

“I’m not apologizing.” She had to force herself to speak calmly, to not stand up and rip his bid into tiny little pieces. “I’d like to know what kind of game you’re playing, Stanislaski.”

“You offered me work, on a job that has some value for me. I am accepting it.”

“You lied to me.”

“How?” He lifted one hand, palm up. “I have a contractor’s license. I’ve made my living in construction since I was sixteen. What difference does it make to you if people now buy my sculpture?”

“None.” She snatched up the bids again. He probably produced primitive, ugly pieces in any case, she thought. The man was too rough and unmannered to be an artist. All that mattered was that he could do the job she was hiring him to do.

But she hated being duped. To make him pay for it, she forced him to go over every detail of the bid, wasting over an hour of his time and hers.

“All right then.” She pushed aside her own meticulous notes. “Your contract will be ready for signing on Friday.”

“Good.” He rose. “You can bring it when you pick me up. We should make it seven.”

“Excuse me?”