“I’m afraid you’d find it cramped, hot and boring.”

“Impossible.” Smiling, she traced a fingertip over the back of his hand. “I’m sure I’d find nothing about you boring.”

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 first tumble. Mikhail nearly sighed, then reminded himself it was only a moment out of his life. He took her hand between both of his hands.

“Margerite, you’re charming. And I’m—” he kissed her fingers lightly “—unsuitable.”

She lifted a finger and brushed it over his cheek. “You underestimate yourself, Mikhail.”

No, but he realized how he’d 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 Sydney’s bad luck that she happened to glance up to see Mikhail on the rooftop with her mother just when he took Margerite’s hand to his lips.

Why the…she couldn’t 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 he’d been…

Nothing, Sydney reminded herself and dismissed the tense scene in the Soho hallway from her mind. He’d been posturing and preening, that was all.

And she could have killed him for it.

As she watched, Mikhail backed away from Margerite, laughing. Then he looked down. The instant their eyes met, Sydney declared war.

She whirled on Channing, her face so fierce he nearly babbled. “Kiss me,” she demanded.

“Why, Sydney.”

“I said kiss me.” She grabbed him by the lapels and hauled him against her.

“Of course, darling.” Pleased with her change of heart, he cupped her shoulders in his hands and leaned down to her.

His lips were soft, warm, eager. They slanted over hers with practiced precision while his hands slid down her back. He tasted of after-dinner mints. Her body fit well against his.

And she felt nothing, nothing but an empty inner rage. Then a chill that was both fear and despair.

“You’re not trying, darling,” he whispered. “You know I won’t hurt you.”