Sway With Me (Inspiring the Greek Billionaire) (10 page)

His right hand snaked up her arm, creating goose bumps in its wake, and she shuddered as he wound her hair around his fist. She couldn’t look at him, didn’t want to give up that last bit of control. Only her intellect kept her from giving in to what her body and soul desperately craved. She kept her gaze on his chest, entranced by how quickly he breathed, amazed she could invoke such a reaction in him. Her hands wandered up to rest on his heart as she automatically matched the rhythm of her breaths to his. Why was it a bad idea to make love with Ryan?

He gently but firmly tugged her head back, forcing her to look up at him. “Portia?” He searched her face for permission, his brown eyes dark with arousal.

She sucked in a shaky breath, intending to gather the courage to stop the inevitable. Her lips parted, but she couldn’t say the words. Didn’t want to.

“Portia,” he repeated breathlessly. He slanted his lips over hers, stealing all the denials and doubts from her mouth.

His tongue tentatively teased, his slow easy kiss tasting of mocha and cream. She felt intoxicated, like she was spinning, and she looped her arms around his neck for an anchor, afraid she might fall. The hand around her waist was now under her shirt, his fingertips caressing her lower back and she suddenly wanted his naked skin against hers.

And she heard music . . .

The sound of a violin and another instrument she couldn’t identify played softly in the background. When had Ryan turned on music? Had he planned to seduce her all along?

She pushed against his chest and pulled back from his kiss. “Stop.”

A hint of confusion collided with the lingering heat in his gaze. He lowered his lips and for a moment, she thought he wouldn’t stop, but instead of kissing her, he buried his face between her neck and shoulder, continuing to breathe heavily. After taking a few deep breaths, he dragged his gaze up to her face. He stared at her then swept a piece of hair off her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. “Why did you want to stop?”

She didn’t. She would have loved to strip him bare and make love to him on the wet, dirty floor of the kitchen with the scent of rotten food and mildew in the air. With one kiss, he’d knocked almost all the common sense out of her, but losing herself completely to a man she barely knew scared her even more than rodents. She forced herself from his embrace. “We can’t do this. As much as we’re attracted to each other, we’re going to have to live together for another eighty-nine days and I don’t think sex would be a good idea. It would complicate things.”

His eyes narrowed. “I disagree, but I won’t try to convince you with all the reasons I believe sex would be an excellent idea. At least not today,” he added with a smile. His brows wrinkled in confusion. “Do you hear music?”

She was also confused. “Yes. Didn’t you put it on?” The violin seemed to play louder now that they acknowledged it. Was someone else in the house?

“No. That isn’t exactly the type of music I listen to.” He linked his fingers with hers, and together, they followed the sound of the music past the laundry room and bathroom, walking down the hall to the ballroom. The door was closed, which was odd because she could have sworn they’d left it open. As they approached, the music’s volume increased, confirming it was coming from inside.

Ryan stopped in front of the door, dropped her hand, and maneuvered his body to stand in front of her. “I want you to stay out in the hall while I check this out.”

“No way. I’ve seen those horror films where the girl gets butchered out in the hallway because her boyfriend was trying to protect her. I’m coming with you.”

He peered over his shoulder and smiled. “Are you calling me your boyfriend?”

“No!” she said way too vehemently to be cool. “It was an example. I highly doubt a serial killer is going to announce his presence by playing the violin. Open the door already.”

He grabbed her hand with his left and opened the door with his right. They walked into the room and both spun in circles. Except for them, the room was empty. The windows were shut and there were no other means of egress. The violin continued playing, but grew fainter as they stood there pondering a rational explanation for the music. Then it stopped.

“Is the room wired? Maybe it was coming from somewhere else or it’s on a timer?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No way. There aren’t any speakers in here. Weird. Maybe we just imagined it.”

A tingle passed through her as she thought about her mother’s proclamation she was a Muse. Was she somehow responsible for the music? Reina had told tales of hearing the Earth sing. Maybe this was what she meant. But then how could Ryan hear it, too?

“Both of us?”

He shrugged. “Maybe we thought it was music but it was really something else. We didn’t hear it until we shut off the main water valve. It probably had something to do with that.”

Ryan gave a logical explanation, but she couldn’t help but think it had something to do with their kiss. Or maybe crazy just ran in her family. The room filled her with the same sense of peace she felt every time she stepped into a dance studio or onto a stage. “We should fix this room up and turn it back into the beautiful ballroom it once was,” she said before she could stop herself.

He raised a brow. “Ballrooms aren’t exactly a selling point in a home. We’d be better off turning it into a library or home office.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “What’s wrong with dancing?”

He avoided looking her in the eye and roamed to inspect the hole in the wall they’d made the previous night. “Nothing. But it’s not exactly practical.” With his back to her, he bent over and brushed his fingers over the crumbling wall.

“What do you mean?”

He spun around and leaned against the wall. “I mean dancing is fun and its great exercise, but it’s not a necessity. It’s simply a way for people to show off their bodies and garner attention. I don’t see the point.”

She couldn’t believe those painful words fell from the same warm lips that had passionately kissed her only minutes ago. Her fingers curled as his words destroyed the peaceful feeling she’d experienced upon entering the room. Overwhelmed by a mixture of fury and disappointment, she spun on her dancing heels and stormed out of the ballroom.

Chapter 10

Madam, you have bereft me of all words.

Only my blood speaks to you in my veins.

William Shakespeare,
Merchant of Venice
, act 3 scene 2

Ryan crawled around in the attic, sweating and choking on insulation, as he checked for evidence of water damage. He’d thought staying busy would keep his mind off the fact he was a complete and utter moron, but no such luck.

How could he, for one moment, forget that Portia was a dancer? She’d marched out of the room and hadn’t said another word to him the rest of the day. Not that he blamed her. He hadn’t thought of her at all back in the ballroom, but instead recalled all the pretentious fundraisers his parents had coerced him into attending in the family’s name, and women they’d encouraged him to dance with. Women who also came from wealthy families with invaluable asset portfolios which Stavros Industries could use to its advantage. He understood his parents hadn’t seen the harm in dancing with these women. After all, he was single and they were single, and if something should spark between them, everyone would come out a winner. But he’d always felt a bit dirty afterward, as if he was a tool used solely for monetary gain. He worried some of these women would get the wrong idea and believe he was interested in them—all from one little dance which meant nothing to him.

He still attended the fundraisers, although with him barely speaking to the rest of his family, it was a bit strained. Now, he attended only if he chose to, and he always brought a date to ward off all the single women. Most of them knew the score before the date and used him as a way to bump elbows with the rich and famous.

How could he apologize to Portia without sounding like a pompous ass? She probably wouldn’t appreciate hearing the truth behind his disdain for dancing, but he didn’t want her to continue thinking those words meant anything about her. He loved to watch her move. She didn’t walk, she glided.

The problem was she wouldn’t stay in the same room with him. While he’d fixed the sink, she worked in some other part of the house, and when he’d gone to the great room to figure out where the leak was coming from, she’d returned to the kitchen. He’d gone to bed by ten and heard her come in around midnight, but she slid under the covers and stayed as far away from him as she could. At seven, the darn cat tried to sleep on his head, waking him up, and Portia was already gone.

He didn’t blame her for being mad. But he also wondered if she wasn’t using it as an excuse. He couldn’t get that explosive kiss out of his mind and he’d bet anything she couldn’t either. Holding her against him was like holding the sun. Bright. Hot. Surreal. Together, they’d combust between the sheets.

If she made love the way she moved when she thought no one was looking, she’d start out slow and meticulous then lose her inhibitions until she left claw marks on his back. Underneath that prim and proper lady was a sensual wildcat waiting to be unleashed, and the lower half of him wanted to be the one to unleash it. The other half, the one above the waist, knew that as much as they’d both enjoy themselves in bed—and he had no doubts about that—she wasn’t one for casual sex. Since getting to know her, she’d only confirmed his first instinct about her—she deserved flowers, presents, and a man who was good for her. That wasn’t him.

The oddest thing about holding her in his arms was it hadn’t felt like the first time. And the music . . . . He’d recognized it right away. Uncle Alexander used to play it whenever the family got together for the holidays. It was from an album of old Greek folk music. Ryan hadn’t heard it in years, but he’d never forget the stories his Uncle would tell everyone about their ancestors in Greece. He’d claimed the family could trace their roots all the way back to Zeus, spurring Ryan’s imagination about the Greek gods. For years, he’d believed his Uncle’s tall tales and read everything he could get his hands on about Greek mythology, even going as far as sketching scenes and turning them into wooden carvings. One year, he’d modified them into Christmas ornaments and given one to each member of his family. He’d forgotten about that.

Ryan climbed down the ladder and closed the hatch to the attic. He’d spent an hour up there and found no evidence of water, so he had no idea how to fix the leak in the great room. This homeowner stuff was hard work.

Entering through the laundry room, he smelled vanilla and followed the scent to find its owner in the kitchen. Wearing headphones and scrubbing the inside of the oven, Portia was also wearing long yellow rubber gloves and sweats. Wouldn’t you know it? It made him hard. Bent over at the waist like that, she was at the perfect height for him to come up from behind and line her ass up to his cock.

He leaned against the wall and watched her swaying her hips to the music. Lost in her own world, she unknowingly seduced him as she provided him with a sensual preview of how she’d make love. He’d thought it hot up in the attic, but his temperature soared from her erotic dance. Beads of sweat dripped down the side of his face and his heart pounded erratically as he accepted what his body was telling him.

He wanted her.

She froze. Slowly, she peeled off each of her ugly gloves, snapping them against the inside of the oven, then removed her headphones from her ears. She backed out of the appliance and turned around to acknowledge him. Her wide eyes assessed him then narrowed.

He braced himself for the inevitable lecture about yesterday’s inconsiderate remarks. As much as he hated the whole ‘we gotta talk’ thing which women loved to torture men with, he deserved it and would gladly apologize.

Her fingers smoothed back the hair from her face. “I’m cooking dinner tonight. I hope you like chicken?” She glanced at the floor and back up at him, waiting for a response.

It was an easy “yes or no” question, yet it had thrown him as if it required a forty-page essay response. Where was the lecture? The ranting and raving about his insensitivity?

“Chicken. Sure, I like chicken,” he managed to say after a moment of uncomfortable silence.

She smiled. “Great. Why don’t you pick up a bottle of wine and meet me back in the kitchen at seven?” Her gaze traveled down his body, landing on the bulge in his pants. In his current state, there was no way to hide it.

She rested a hand on the edge of the granite counter and the heels of her feet came together so that it looked as if she had a piece of pie in between. She bent her legs at the knee and lowered and raised her body, all the while a beautiful shade of pink crept into her cheeks.

He wouldn’t attempt to persuade her, no matter how much his hormones tried to convince him to seize the opportunity. If the two of them wound up in bed, it would be a mutual decision and not a result of him taking advantage of the situation. It wouldn’t take much. She was perched on the edge of a skyscraper, just begging for him to give a little push.

A cold shower would do him a world of good right now.

He wrapped his fingers around the doorframe and held on for dear life. “Seven works. I’ll just . . . get cleaned up and go to the store for the wine. If you need anything else, let me know.”

Her eyes flashed dark and her throat worked as she swallowed. As fantasies of what he’d like her to swallow barraged his mind, he pivoted on his heels and made a hasty retreat before he did something neither one of them would regret.

After spending the entire day scrubbing, polishing, and cleaning, the kitchen sparkled like new. The room was comfy and warm despite its immense size. Once she saved enough money, she’d add a soft, cushy couch and coffee table in front of the fireplace. Then, when she ate breakfast, she wouldn’t have to feel so alone at the kitchen table. She imagined herself drinking coffee and eating toast while wrapped in a wool blanket as she read Sunday’s
New York Times
. Normally, the image would warm her from the inside out and provide her with a sense of security she’d never known. But today, the image left her feeling . . . empty. Owning a house was a dream come true, so why did she feel as though something was missing?

Right on time, Ryan sauntered into the kitchen holding a bottle of wine in one hand, and her entire being lit up with anticipation. She took a deep breath and tried not to blush.

Barefooted and wearing a light blue Henley and jeans, he stopped in the archway of the room and his jaw dropped. “It looks completely different. How did you do it?”

The counters and appliances gleamed. She’d hung pots and pans from the ceiling and placed a beautiful Tuscan bowl on the counter filled with apples collected from their trees. Thanks to keeping the windows open all day, gone was the smell of fish, and in its place were the smells of a Michigan autumn—burnt leaves, apples, and cinnamon. The table was set with clean dishes and linens, and she’d placed a couple of lit candles in the center.

Pride filled her as she took in all her hard work, but she shrugged as if it were nothing. “Bleach.”

He strode toward her with intent in his eyes. Her heart pounded and something which felt like small soft wings fluttered between her legs. Was he going to kiss her again? Could she resist him?

Stopping in front of her, he bent his head slightly and she sucked in a shuddered breath. His lips feathered across her cheek. “Thank you,” he said softly. He stepped back a bit and whipped out a bunch of fresh flowers hidden behind his back. “These are for you.”

Her heart squeezed as she took the red roses and orange tulips from his outstretched hand and clutched them to her chest. It was the most beautiful bouquet of flowers she’d ever received. And although she’d danced in dozens of productions throughout the years, it was also the
first
bouquet she’d ever received.

“Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as you,” he said, staring at her mouth.

She swallowed the large lump which formed in her throat. “Are you hungry? I’ve made chicken and salad.”

“Starving.” His gaze pinned her against the counter, trapping her like his prey.

Delicious heat spread from her neck down to her toes as if he caressed her with his stare, creating a dull ache in her breasts and a tingling between her legs. Unable to stop herself, she moved closer to him, drawn by some invisible force stronger than the both of them. Eyes locked on one another, she curled her hand behind his neck. His hair was wet from a recent shower and he smelled like soap. She couldn’t take her gaze from his lips as she gently pulled his head down and waited to taste him.

He coughed and his eyes narrowed, breaking their connection to look at something across the room. “Should the oven be smoking?”

Sure enough, clouds of smoke drifted out from the top of the oven. “Crap. The chicken!”

She tossed the flowers on the counter and grabbed the oven mitts then ran to the oven. Smoke billowed in her face when she opened the appliance and pulled out the pan. Dropping it on top of the stove, she waved away the smoke to inspect their dinner. The air cleared to reveal two charred breasts of what used to be chicken.

Ryan stood right behind her and peered over her shoulder to look down at their dinner. “Maybe we could take the skin off?”

She shook her head. “It burned straight through. I don’t understand it! It’s only been in the oven for forty-five minutes at three hundred and seventy-five degrees.”

His hand clamped down on her shoulder in reassurance. “If I had to guess, I’d say the oven is incorrectly calibrated. Either that, or the chicken committed suicide.”

She snorted. Covering her mortified face with an oven mitt, she lifted the pan and slid it down the counter, dumping the entire thing, pan included, into the garbage.

She put a smile on her face and pivoted to Ryan. “I hope you like salad.”

He laced his fingers with hers and squeezed. “It’s my favorite. Come on. Sit down and I’ll get us a couple glasses of wine. I hope you don’t mind, I couldn’t afford anything of quality, so I bought—”

“I’m sure whatever you bought is great.” She took him up on his offer and sat at the table.

Ryan opened up several drawers and cabinets as he searched for what they needed. She’d figured out the lay of the land while cleaning, but Ryan should learn it as well, so she kept quiet and watched, amazed at how quickly he found a corkscrew and two wine glasses. After he poured, he carried over a glass to her. “Here you go. I’ll get the salad from the fridge.”

She sipped her wine and grimaced. He wasn’t kidding when he said it wasn’t quality. It tasted dry and bitter, but alcohol was alcohol and she deserved a glass. Luckily, Ryan had his back to her and missed her reaction. It also afforded her another opportunity to check out his ass as he retrieved the salad bowl from the refrigerator. He turned, catching her staring. “Hungry?” He brought their dinner to the table and sat next to her, thankfully not mentioning her ogling.

She still blushed. She should be famished, but right now, her mind wasn’t on food, but on how much she’d like to strip him naked and eat
him
for dinner. “Yes.” She scooped salad onto her plate and dug in, pretending to enjoy it.

He eyed her then followed suit and took a bite. “Great salad.”

She appreciated him lying to spare her feelings. The simple salad consisted of lettuce, cucumber, and tomato. Nothing too exciting, but he ate it enthusiastically. He sipped his wine and spit it back into the glass. “My God, this is awful.”

A giggle slipped out before she could stop it. “No, it’s not that bad.”

Swirling his glass, he shot her an evil grin. “There’s only one way to drink wine this bad and that’s to chug it. Bottoms up.” In ten seconds, he finished off the glass and wiped his palm across his mouth. “Your turn.”

“I’m not much of a drinker, but what the heck.” She took a breath and looked down into the glass, wondering why the white wine appeared pink. Tipping back her glass, she drank it all in one horrifyingly awful gulp.