He heard the emotion in her voice. Though touched, he didn’t want to make her sad. Not today. “The young adjust quickly. I had only to give the boy in the next house a bloody nose to feel at home.”

She turned back, saw the grin and responded with a laugh. “Then, I suppose, you became inseparable friends.”

“I was best man at his wedding only two years ago.”

With a shake of her head, she settled back. It was then she noticed they were crossing the bridge over to Brooklyn. “You couldn’t find a place to have dinner in Manhattan?”

His grin widened. “Not like this one.”

A few minutes later, he was cruising through one of the old neighborhoods with its faded brick row houses and big, shady trees. Children scrambled along the sidewalks, riding bikes, jumping rope. At the curb where Mikhail stopped, two boys were having a deep and serious transaction with baseball cards.

“Hey, Mik!” Both of them jumped up before he’d even climbed out of the car. “You missed the game. We finished an hour ago.”

“I’ll catch the next one.” He glanced over to see that Sydney had already gotten out and was standing in the street, studying the neighborhood with baffled and wary eyes. He leaned over and winked. “I got a hot date.”

“Oh, man.” Twelve-year-old disgust prevented either of them from further comment.

Laughing, Mikhail walked over to grab Sydney’s hand and pull her to the sidewalk. “I don’t understand,” she began as he led her across the concrete heaved up by the roots of a huge old oak. “This is a restaurant?”

“No.” He had to tug to make her keep up with him as he climbed the steps. “It’s a house.”

“But you said—”

“That we were going to dinner.” He shoved the door open and took a deep sniff. “Smells like Mama made Chicken Kiev. You’ll like.”

“Your mother?” She nearly stumbled into the narrow entranceway. Scattered emotions flew inside her stomach like a bevy of birds. “You bought me to your parents’ house?”

“Yes, for Sunday dinner.”

“Oh, good Lord.”

He lifted a brow. “You don’t like Chicken Kiev?”

“No. Yes. That isn’t the point. I wasn’t expecting—”

“You’re late,” Yuri boomed. “Are you going to bring the woman in or stand in the doorway?”

Mikhail kept his eyes on Sydney’s. “She doesn’t want to come in,” he called back.

“That’s not it,” she whispered, mortified. “You might have told me about this so I could have…oh, never mind.” She brushed past him to take the couple of steps necessary to bring her into the living room. Yuri was just hauling himself out of a chair.

“Mr. Stanislaski, it’s so nice of you to have me.” She offered a hand and had it swallowed whole by his.

“You are welcome here. You will call me Yuri.”

“Thank you.”