She laughed as he unfolded his long legs out of the open door. “Now I’m intimidated.” Pushing her hair back, she turned to look at the house. It was big and brick, with lights glowing gold in the windows of the first floor. Huge leafy trees shaded it, pretty box hedges shielded it from the street.

When Mikhail joined her with their bags, they started up the stone steps that cut through the slope of lawn. And here were the flowers, the roses she had smelled, and dozens of others. No formal garden this, but a splashy display that seemed to grow wild and willfully. She saw the shadow of a tricycle near the porch. In the spill of light from the windows, she noted that a bed of petunias had been recently and ruthlessly dug up.

“I think Ivan has been to work,” Mikhail commented, noting the direction of Sydney’s gaze. “If he is smart, he hides until it’s time to go home again.”

Before they had crossed the porch, she heard the laughter and music.

“It sounds as though they’re up,” Sydney said. “I thought they might have gone to bed.”

“We have only two days together. We won’t spend much of it sleeping.” He opened the screen door and entered without knocking. After setting the bags near the stairs, then taking Sydney’s hand, he dragged her down the hall toward the party sounds.

Sydney could feel her reserve settling back into place. She couldn’t help it. All the early training, all the years of schooling had drummed into her the proper way to greet strangers. Politely, coolly, giving no more of yourself than a firm handshake and a quiet “how do you do.”

She’d hardly made the adjustment when Mikhail burst into the music room, tugging her with him.

“Ha,” he said, and swooped down on a small, gorgeous woman in a purple sundress. She laughed when he scooped her up, her black mane of curling hair flying out as he swung her in a circle.

“You’re always late,” Natasha said. She kissed her brother on both cheeks then the lips. “What did you bring me?”

“Maybe I have something in my bag for you.” He set her on her feet, then turned to the man at the piano. “You take good care of her?”

“When she lets me.” Spence Kimball rose to clasp hands with Mikhail. “She’s been fretting for you for an hour.”

“I don’t fret,” Natasha corrected, turning to Sydney. She smiled—the warmth was automatic—though what she saw concerned her. This cool, distant woman was the one her family insisted Mikhail was in love with? “You haven’t introduced me to your friend.”

“Sydney Hayward.” A little impatient by the way Sydney hung back, he nudged her forward. “My sister, Natasha.”