“Mother. I didn’t know you were coming into the city today.”

“Of course you did.” She settled into a chair, crossed her legs. “Channing told you about our little theater party.”

“Yes, he did. I’d forgotten.”

“Sydney.” The name was a sigh. “You’re making me worry about you.”

Automatically Sydney crossed to the liquor cabinet to pour Margerite a glass of her favored brand of sherry. “There’s no need. I’m fine.”

“No need?” Margerite’s pretty coral-tipped fingers fluttered. “You turn down dozens of invitations, couldn’t even spare an afternoon to shop with your mother last week, bury yourself in that office for positively hours on end. And there’s no need for me to worry.” She smiled indulgently and she accepted the glass. “Well, we’re going to fix all of that. I want you to go in and change into something dashing. We’ll meet Channing and the rest of the party at Doubles for a drink before curtain.”

The odd thing was, Sydney realized, she’d very nearly murmured an agreement, so ingrained was her habit of doing what was expected of her. Instead, she perched on the arm of the sofa and hoped she could do this without hurting Margerite’s feelings.

“Mother, I’m sorry. If I’ve been turning down invitations, it’s because the transition at Hayward is taking up most of my time and energy.”

“Darling.” Margerite gestured with the glass before she sipped. “That’s exactly my point.”

But Sydney only shook her head. “And the simple fact is, I don’t feel the need to have my social calendar filled every night any longer. As for tonight, I appreciate, I really do, the fact that you’d like me to join you. But, as I explained to Channing, I have plans.”

Irritation sparked in Margerite’s eyes, but she only tapped a nail on the arm of the chair. “If you think I’m going to leave you here to spend the evening cooped up with some sort of nasty paperwork—”

“I’m not working this weekend,” Sydney interrupted. “Actually, I’m going out of town for—” The quick rap at the door relieved her. “Excuse me a minute.” The moment she’d opened the door, Sydney reached out a hand for him. “Mikhail, my—”

Obviously he didn’t want to talk until he’d kissed her, which he did, thoroughly, in the open doorway. Pale and rigid, Margerite pushed herself to her feet. She understood, as a woman would, that the kiss she was witnessing was the kind exchanged by lovers.

“Mikhail.” Sydney managed to draw back an inch.

“I’m not finished yet.”

One hand braced against his chest as she gestured helplessly with the other. “My mother…”

He glanced over, caught the white-faced fury and shifted Sydney easily to his side. A subtle gesture of protection. “Margerite.”