He stiffened, and she knew she’d guessed correctly. “You have no way of proving the leak came from my office.”

“You’d be surprised what I can prove,” she bluffed. “I told you I wanted your loyalty or your resignation if the board stood behind me in the Soho project. We both know your loyalty is out of the question.”

“I’ll tell you what you’ll get.” There was a sneer in his voice, but beneath the neat gray suit, he was sweating. “I’ll be sitting behind that desk when you’re back in Europe dancing from shop to shop.”

“No, Lloyd. You’ll never sit behind this desk. As the major stockholder of Hayward, I’ll see to that. Now,” she continued quietly, “it wasn’t necessary for me to document to the board the many cases in which you’ve ignored my requests, overlooked complaints from clients, tenants and other associates at the meeting on Friday. I will do so, however, at the next. In the current climate, I believe my wishes will be met.”

His fingers curled. He imagined the satisfaction of hooking them around her throat. “You think because you skidded through one mess, because your senile grandfather plopped you down at that desk, you can shoehorn me out? Lady, I’ll bury you.”

Coolly she inclined her head. “You’re welcome to try. If you don’t manage it, it may be difficult for you to find a similar position with another company.” Her eyes iced over. “If you don’t think I have any influence, or the basic guts to carry this off, you’re making a mistake. You have twenty-four hours to consider your options. This meeting is over.”

“Why you cold-blooded bitch.”

She stood, and this time it was she who leaned over her desk. “Take me on,” she said in a quiet voice. “Do it.”

“This isn’t over.” Turning on his heel, he marched to the door to swing it open hard enough that it banged against the wall.

After three deep breaths, Sydney sank into her chair. Okay, she was shaking—but only a little. And it was temper, she realized as she pressed a testing hand against her stomach. Not fear. Good, solid temper. She found she didn’t need to vent any anger by mangling paper clips or shredding stationery. In fact, she found she felt just wonderful.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Mikhail stirred the mixture of meats and spices and tomatoes in the old cast-iron skillet and watched the street below through his kitchen window. After a sniff and a taste, he added another splash of red wine to the mixture. Behind him in the living room The Marriage of Figaro soared from the stereo.

He wondered how soon Sydney would arrive.

Leaving the meal to simmer, he walked into the living room to study the rosewood block that was slowly becoming her face.