“Do?” The question baffled her. “Why, the Warfields are in banking, so I suppose Channing does whatever one does in banking. He’s a devil on the polo field.”

“Polo,” Mikhail repeated with a scowl so dark Helena Lowell choked on her pheasant. Helpfully Mikhail gave her a sharp slap between the shoulder blades, then offered her her water goblet.

“You’re, ah, Russian, aren’t you, Mr. Stanislaski?” Helena asked. Images of Cossacks danced in her head.

“I was born in the Ukraine.”

“The Ukraine, yes. I believe I read something about your family escaping over the border when you were just a child.”

“We escaped in a wagon, over the mountains into Hungary, then into Austria and finally settled in New York.”

“A wagon.” Margerite sighed into her wine. “How romantic.”

Mikhail remembered the cold, the fear, the hunger. But he only shrugged. He doubted romance was always pretty, or 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 matron’s 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.

Margerite’s flirtations were patently obvious and didn’t 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 Channing’s.

“My third husband built this house,” Margerite was saying. “He’s 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.” With a sigh, she turned to face him, leaning prettily on the rail. “I must say, I love this spot. When I give house parties people are spread out on every level, so it’s both cozy and private. Perhaps you’ll join us some weekend this summer.”

“Perhaps.” 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 wasn’t sure if he was more surprised or more amused. But to save her pride, he smiled, easing away slowly. “You have a lovely home. It suits you.”

“I’d love to see your studio.” Margerite let the invitation melt into her eyes. “Where you create.”