“Rachel is an idealist,” Alex stated. With his elbows on the table and his chin rested on his joined hands, he smiled at Sydney. “What are you?”

She smiled back. “Too smart to be put between a lawyer and a cop.”

“Elbows off,” Nadia said, and gave her son a quick rap. “Mikhail says you are a businesswoman. And that you are very smart. And fair.”

The description surprised her enough that she nearly fumbled. “I try to be.”

“Your company was in a sticky situation last week.” Rachel downed the last of her vodka with a panache Sydney admired. “You handled it well. It seemed to me that rather than trying to be fair you simply were. Have you known Mikhail long?”

She segued into the question so neatly, Sydney only blinked. “No, actually. We met last month when he barged into my office ready to crush any available Hayward under his work boot.”

“I was polite,” he corrected.

“You were not polite.” Because she could see Yuri was amused, she continued. “He was dirty, angry and ready to fight.”

“His temper comes from his mama,” Yuri informed Sydney. “She is fierce.”

“Only once,” Nadia said with a shake of her head. “Only once did I hit him over the head with a pot. He never forgets.”

“I still have the scar. And here.” Yuri pointed to his shoulder. “Where you threw the hairbrush at me.”

“You should not have said my new dress was ugly.”

“It was ugly,” he said with a shrug, then tapped a hand on his chest. “And here, where you—”

“Enough.” All dignity, she rose. “Or our guest will think I am tyrant.”

“She is a tyrant,” Yuri told Sydney with a grin.

“And this tyrant says we will clear the table and have dessert.”

Sydney was still chuckling over it as Mikhail crossed the bridge back into Manhattan. Sometime during the long, comfortable meal she’d forgotten to be annoyed with him. Perhaps she’d had a half a glass too much wine. Certainly she’d eaten entirely too much kissel—the heavenly apricot pudding Nadia had served with cold, rich cream. But she was relaxed and couldn’t remember ever having spent a more enjoyable Sunday evening.

“Did your father make that up?” Snuggled back in her seat, Sydney turned her head to study Mikhail’s profile. “About your mother throwing things?”

“No, she throws things.” He downshifted and cruised into traffic. “Once a whole plate of spaghetti and meatballs at me because my mouth was too quick.”

Her laughter came out in a burst of enjoyment. “Oh, I would have loved to have seen that. Did you duck?”

He flicked her a grin. “Not fast enough.”

“I’ve never thrown anything in my life.” Her sigh was part wistful, part envious. “I think it must be very liberating. They’re wonderful,” she said after another moment. “Your family. You’re very lucky.”

“So you don’t mind eating in Brooklyn?”