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sang well, or danced well, or kissed well, you could be flattered.”
    He eased her out, then closed the door. “Do you?” he asked, almost in afterthought.
    Ruffled and irritated, she snapped back. “Do I what?”
    â€œKiss well?”
    Her brows lifted. Haughty arches over frosty eyes. “The day you find out, you can be flattered.” Rather pleased with the line, she started down the hall ahead of him.
    His fingers barely touched her—she would have sworn it. But in the space of a heartbeat her back was to the wall and she was caged between his arms, with his hands planted on either side of her head. Both shock and a trembling river of fear came before she could even think to be insulted.
    Knowing he was being obnoxious, enjoying it, he kept his lips a few scant inches from hers. He recognized the curling in his gut as desire. And by God, he could deal with that. And her. Their breath met and tangled, and he smiled. Hers had come out in a quick, surprised puff.
    â€œI think,” he said slowly, consideringly, “you have yet to learn how to kiss well. You have the mouth for it.” His gaze lowered, lingered there. “But a man would have to be patient enough to warm that blood up first. A pity I’m not patient.”
    He was close enough to see her quick wince before her eyes went icy. “I think,” she said, borrowing his tone, “that you probably kiss very well. But a woman would have to be tolerant enough to hack through your ego first. Fortunately, I’m not tolerant.”
    For a moment he stood where he was, close enough to swoop down and test both their theories. Then the smile worked over his face, curving his lips, brightening his eyes. Yes, he could deal with her. When he was ready.
    â€œA man can learn patience, milaya, and seduce a woman to tolerance.”
    She pressed against the wall, but like a cat backed into a corner, she was ready to swipe and spit. He only stepped back and cupped a hand over her elbow.
    â€œWe should go now, yes?”
    â€œYes.” Not at all sure if she was relieved or disappointed, she walked with him toward the stairs.

C HAPTER T HREE
    M argerite had pulled out all the stops. She knew it was a coup to have a rising and mysterious artist such as Stanislaski at her dinner party. Like a general girding for battle, she had inspected the floral arrangements, the kitchens, the dining room and the terraces. Before she was done, the caterers were cursing her, but Margerite was satisfied.
    She wasn’t pleased when her daughter, along with her most important guest, was late.
    Laughing and lilting, she swirled among her guests in a frothy gown of robin’s-egg blue. There was a sprinkling of politicians, theater people and the idle rich. But the Ukrainian artist was her coup de grace, and she was fretting to show him off.
    And, remembering that wild sexuality, she was fretting to flirt.
    The moment she spotted him, Margerite swooped.
    â€œMr. Stanislaski, how marvelous!” After shooting her daughter a veiled censorious look, she beamed.
    â€œMikhail, please.” Because he knew the game and played it at his will, Mikhail brought her hand to his lips and lingered over it. “You must forgive me for being late. I kept your daughter waiting.”
    â€œOh.” She fluttered, her hand resting lightly, possessively on his arm. “A smart woman will always wait for the right man.”
    â€œThen I’m forgiven.”
    â€œAbsolutely.” Her fingers gave his an intimate squeeze. “This time. Now, you must let me introduce you around, Mikhail.” Linked with him, she glanced absently at her daughter. “Sydney, do mingle, darling.”
    Mikhail shot a quick, wicked grin over his shoulder as he let Margerite haul him away.
    He made small talk easily, sliding into the upper crust of New York society as seamlessly as he slid into the working class in Soho or his parents’ close-knit