“And then,” she continued, making sure her voice was low, as his family was wandering along in front and behind them. “You manhandled me—in front of your mother.”

“You liked it.”

“I certainly—”

“Did,” he finished, remembering the hot, helpless way she’d responded to the kiss he’d given her on his sister’s back porch. “So did I.”

She would not smile. She would not admit for a moment to the spinning excitement she’d felt when he’d scooped her up like some sweaty barbarian carrying off the spoils of war.

“Maybe I was rooting for Alex. It seems to me he got the lion’s share of your father’s charm.”

“All the Stanislaskis have charm,” he said, unoffended. He stopped and, bending down, plucked a painted daisy from the slope of the lawn they passed. “See?”

“Hmm.” Sydney twirled the flower under her nose. Perhaps it was time to change the subject before she was tempted to try to carry him off. “It’s good seeing Spence again. When I was fifteen or so, I had a terrible crush on him.”

Narrow eyed, Mikhail studied his brother-in-law’s back. “Yes?”

“Yes. Your sister’s a lucky woman.”

Family pride came first. “He’s lucky to have her.”

This time she did smile. “I think we’re both right.”

Brandon, tired of holding his mother’s hand, bolted back toward them. “You have to carry me,” he told his uncle.

“Have to?”

With an enthusiastic nod, Brandon began to shimmy up Mikhail’s leg like a monkey up a tree. “Like Papa does.”

Mikhail hauled him up, then to the boy’s delight, carried him for a while upside down.

“He’ll lose his breakfast,” Nadia called out.

“Then we fill him up again.” But Mikhail flipped him over so Brandon could cling to his back. Pink cheeked, the boy grinned over at Sydney.

“I’m three years old,” he told her loftily. “And I can dress my own self.”

“And very well, too.” Amused, she tapped his sneakered foot. “Are you going to be a famous composer like your father?”

“Nah. I’m going to be a water tower. They’re the biggest.”

“I see.” It was the first time she’d heard quite so grand an ambition.

“Do you live with Uncle Mikhail?”

“No,” she said quickly.

“Not yet,” Mikhail said simultaneously, and grinned at her.

“You were kissing him,” Brandon pointed out. “How come you don’t have any kids?”

“That’s enough questions.” Natasha came to the rescue, plucking her son from Mikhail’s back as her brother roared with laughter.

“I just wanna know—”

“Everything,” Natasha supplied, and gave him a smacking kiss. “But for now it’s enough you know you can have one new car from the shop.”

He forgot all about babies. His chocolate-brown eyes turned shrewd. “Any car?”

“Any little car.”