a carpenter?”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes,” she repeated, and sat back. Behind her, buildings punched into a hard blue sky. “Perhaps you can tell me why Howington Construction sent a sometimes carpenter to represent them in this interview.”
The room smelled of lemon and rosemary and only reminded him that he was hot, thirsty and as impatient as she. “I could—if they had sent me.”
It took her a moment to realize he wasn’t being deliberately obtuse. “You’re not from Howington?”
“No. I’m Mikhail Stanislaski, and I live in one of your buildings.” He propped a dirty boot on a dusty knee. “If you’re thinking of hiring Howington, I would think again. I once worked for them, but they cut too many corners.”
“Excuse me.” Sydney gave the intercom a sharp jab. “Janine, did Mr. Stanislaski tell you he represented Howington?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. He just asked to see you. Howington called about ten minutes ago to reschedule. If you—”
“Never mind.” Sitting back again, she studied the man who was grinning at her. “Apparently I’ve been laboring under a misconception.”
“If you mean you made a mistake, yes. I’m here to talk to you about your apartment building in Soho.”
She wanted, badly, to drag her hands through her hair. “You’re here with a tenant complaint.”
“I’m here with many tenants’ complaints,” he corrected.
“You should be aware that there’s a certain procedure one follows in this kind of matter.”
He lifted one black brow. “You own the building, yes?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then it’s your responsibility.”
She stiffened. “I’m perfectly aware of my responsibilities, Mr. Stanislaski. And now…”
He rose as she did, and didn’t budge an inch. “Your grandfather made promises. To honor him, you must keep them.”
“What I must do,” she said in a frigid voice, “is run my business.” And she was trying desperately to learn how. “You may tell the other tenants that Hayward is at the point of hiring a contractor as we’re quite aware that many of our properties are in need of repair or renovation. The apartments in Soho will be dealt with in turn.”
His expression didn’t change at the dismissal, nor did the tone of his voice or the spread-legged, feet-planted stance. “We’re tired of waiting for our turn. We want what was promised to us, now.”
“If you’ll send me a list of your demands—”
“We have.”
She set her teeth. “Then I’ll look over the files this evening.”
“Files aren’t people. You take the rent money every month, but you don’t think of the people.” He placed his hands on the desk and leaned forward. Sydney caught a wisp of sawdust and sweat that was uncomfortably appealing. “Have you seen the building, or the people who live in it?”
“I have reports,” she began.
“Reports.” He swore—it wasn’t in a language she understood, but she was certain it was an oath. “You have your accountants and your lawyers, and you sit up here in your pretty office and look through papers.” With one quick slash of the hand, he dismissed her office and herself. “But you know nothing. It’s not you who’s cold when the heat doesn’t work, or who must climb five flights of stairs when the elevator is broken. You don’t worry that the water won’t get hot or that the wiring is too old to be safe.”
No one spoke to her that way. No one. Her own temper was making her heart beat too fast. It made her forget that she was facing a very dangerous man. “You’re wrong. I’m very concerned about all of those things. And I intend to correct them as soon as possible.”
His eyes flashed and narrowed, like a sword raised and turned on its edge. “This is a promise we’ve heard before.”
“Now, it’s my promise, and you haven’t had that before.”
“And we’re supposed to trust you. You, who are too lazy or too afraid to even go see what she owns.”
Her face went dead white, the only outward sign of fury. “I’ve had enough of your insults for one afternoon, Mr. Stanislaski. Now, you can either find your way out, or I’ll call security to help you find it.”
“I know my way,” he said evenly. “I’ll tell you this, Miss Sydney Hayward, you will begin to keep those promises within two days, or we’ll go to the building commissioner, and the press.”
Sydney waited until he had stalked out before she sat again. Slowly she took a sheet of stationery from the drawer then methodically tore it into shreds. She stared at the smudges his big wide-palmed hands had left on her glossy desk and chose and shredded another sheet. Calmer, she punched the intercom. “Janine, bring me everything you’ve got on the Soho project.”
An hour later, Sydney pushed the files aside and made two calls. The first was to cancel her dinner plans for the evening. The second was to Lloyd Bingham, her grandfather’s—now her—executive assistant.
“You just caught me,” Lloyd told her as he walked into Sydney’s office. “I was on my way out. What can I do for you?”
Sydney shot him a brief glance. He was a handsome, ambitious man who preferred Italian tailors and French food. Not yet forty, he was on his second divorce and liked to escort society women who were attracted to his smooth blond looks and polished manners. Sydney knew that he had worked hard and long to gain his position with Hayward and that he had taken over the reins during her grandfather’s illness the past year.
She also knew that he resented her because she was sitting behind a desk he considered rightfully his.
“For starters, you can explain why nothing has been done about the Soho apartments.”
“The unit in Soho?” Lloyd took a cigarette from a slim gold case. “It’s on the agenda.”
“It’s been on the agenda for nearly eighteen months. The first letter in the file, signed by the tenants, was dated almost two years ago and lists twenty-seven specific complaints.”
“And I believe you’ll also see in the file that a number of them were addressed.” He blew out a thin stream of smoke as he made himself comfortable on one of the chairs.
“A number of them,” Sydney repeated. “Such as the furnace repairs. The tenants seemed to think a new furnace was required.”
Lloyd made a vague gesture. “You’re new to the game, Sydney. You’ll find that tenants always want new, better and more.”
“That may be. However, it hardly seems cost-effective to me to repair a thirty-year-old furnace and have it break down again two months later.” She held up a finger before he could speak. “Broken railings in stairwells, peeling paint, an insufficient water heater, a defective elevator, cracked porcelain…” She glanced up. “I could go on, but it doesn’t seem necessary. There’s a memo here, from my grandfather to you, requesting that you take over the repairs and maintenance of this building.”
“Which I did,” Lloyd said stiffly. “You know very well that your grandfather’s health turned this company upside down over the last year. That apartment complex is only one of several buildings he owned.”
“You’re absolutely right.” Her voice was quiet but without warmth. “I also know that we have a responsibility, a legal and a moral responsibility to our tenants, whether the building is in Soho or on Central Park West.” She closed the folder, linked her hands over it and, in that gesture, stated ownership. “I don’t want to antagonize