Sway With Me (Inspiring the Greek Billionaire) (3 page)

He straightened his spine and frowned, pulling his gaze up to her face. She’d obviously hit a nerve.

“Not quite, but as I’m sure you know, having an extra couple million in the bank will be nice padding.”

She emitted an unladylike snort, garnering a little smile from him. “Padding? I’ve never even had more than a few hundred in the bank.” Returning to her seat, she put her feet up on George’s desk and crossed them at the ankles, her skirt sliding to her upper thigh. “Still, I’m not sure I want to sell.”

Despite her skepticism in her mother’s insistence that Portia was a Muse and thereby at the mercy of the fates, how could she ignore the obvious signs?

Fate wanted her to have
this
house and it had nothing to do with her inspiring Ryan. He was an attorney-wanna-be for crying out loud, not an artist. What would he need from a Muse?

“I don’t think you have a choice,” Ryan said. “If you don’t earn enough to pay the bills then you certainly don’t have enough to buy my share.”

Having had enough of their little game, she dropped her legs and sat tall in her chair. “I’ll think of something. I have ninety days.”

She’d do whatever it took to keep the house. It was time for Portia Dubrovsky to settle down and stop living like a gypsy.

The office door opened and George tentatively stepped into the room with a Styrofoam cup in his hand. “We all good here?”

Ryan glowered at her and shook his head. “You’ll sell. In the end, money is the only security in this world.”

She didn’t agree, but then again, she didn’t have to. Ignoring her trepidation, she gave the two men her biggest smile. “When do we move in?”

Chapter 3

All that glisters is not gold—

Often have you heard that told.

Many a man his life hath sold

But my outside to behold.

William Shakespeare
, Merchant of Venice,
act 2, scene 7

Two hours after meeting Portia, Ryan drove her home—to
their
home.

“Nice Corvette” she said, her fingers running back and forth along the black leather middle console.

His car was the one item he owned outright. He’d lost everything else, but he refused to sell the car. The day he turned eighteen, he’d bought it from the original owner and spent the next two years fixing it up. At first, his brothers had given him crap about it because he could’ve afforded to buy one that didn’t require any work. Hell, he could’ve bought a fleet of cars. But after watching him work under the hood every weekend for six months, they’d started to hang out with him, first watching, and then joining in. Ryan knew shit about cars, but his brother Sean had a natural affinity for mechanics, and his brother Drew for electronics. Between the three of them, they’d restored the red 1975 Corvette Stingray to mint condition and it had become his prized possession.

Not only because it was a hell of a classic car, but because it was the last time he’d spent quality time with his brothers.

The vehicle fit nicely with his image of a playboy millionaire who’d carelessly spent every penny of the five million dollars left to him by his grandfather before his twenty-fourth birthday. Who was he to correct their assumptions?

But he didn’t hear any judgment in Portia’s comment.

He fiddled with the radio, turning on some jazz, trying to keep his eyes on the road. “Thanks. It gets me where I need to go.”

Already, she was driving him insane. He didn’t know what it was about her feet, but he couldn’t stop looking at them. Back in George’s office, she’d obviously figured it out and used it to her advantage, trying to distract him. No, not trying. She’d succeeded. He’d intended to prove she couldn’t walk all over him, but instead, she’d done exactly that. And those legs . . .

“I’m sorry you have to drive me around. I promise I’ll try and find an alternative as soon as I can,” she said, interrupting his thoughts.

“No problem.”

Uncomfortable silence filled the car.

“So, what do you do?” he blurted out.

“I’m a dancer,” she slowly replied.

He imagined her wearing a red G-string and hanging off a pole. His throat tightened, as did his pants. “What kind of dancer?”

“A little bit of everything. Ballet, jazz, tap, you name it.” She sighed wistfully and looked out her window.

Not helping, her explanation didn’t erase the image. Now he imagined her in the G-string and silver-sparkled pasties, doing a fan dance in Vegas.

He undid the top button of his shirt and loosened his collar. “Where’d you do this dancing?” he asked, cranking up the air conditioning.

“New York. I trained in both tap and jazz, but my main love is ballet. When I was lucky, I danced in the chorus of a ballet or musical, and when I wasn’t, I worked at a diner as a dancing waitress. The sad part was I made more money waitressing than dancing.” She toyed with her necklace, a gold chain with a small heart locket dangling from it.

“Wow, musicals. Were any on Broadway?” Thank goodness his mind had shifted to a Portia dressed in a gold tuxedo and top hat doing a dance from
A Chorus Line
. He’d have to thank his mother for making him sit through that show.

She snorted. Her hand covered her nose and she blushed. That was the second time he’d heard that noise from her.
Adorable.

“Not even off-Broadway. Most of the shows were smaller productions, but I loved every minute of it.”

She smiled, but he caught the sadness of her tone. Maybe he’d just found a way to convince her to sell. If she moved back to New York, she wouldn’t need a home in Michigan.

“I know you said you wanted to keep the house, but you’ll never make a living as a dancer here. I mean, we get some good shows, but most of them are tours, not local. If we sold the house—”

She blew out a breath. “I’m not going back to New York. I’ve retired.”

“Retired? You can’t be more than twenty-five years old.”

He was the oldest nephew at twenty-five and his other female cousins were all in their late teens. Portia could easily pass for a teenager if she wore her hair down, and he’d wager anything she’d get carded at the bar.

“Twenty-four. I’m not retiring because of my age. I’m retiring because I tore a tendon in my leg. My career is over.”

He didn’t hear any bitterness in her words. She spoke matter-of-factly as if it was an everyday occurrence to retire in your twenties.

“I’m sorry. I would’ve liked to see you dance,” he said, surprised he meant it.

She shivered. He reached for the fan to reduce the air at the same time she did. Their hands brushed, sending a light tingle through his torso and the air in the car instantly heated. Portia jerked her hand back as if she’d received an electric shock and mumbled an apology under her breath.

On second thought, he’d keep the air on high.

She shifted in her seat. “Are we almost there?”

“Yes. It’s coming up in about a mile. See that lake?” He pointed to the right. “The house is located on the west side.”

Sitting up tall, she squinted out the window, the sun sparkling on her skin.

Ryan had always loved this part of Michigan, with its deep forests filled with pine, maple, and oak trees, and trails for bike riding, walking, or running. Right now, the leaves were starting to turn from a deep green to bright yellows, oranges, and reds. By Halloween, he and Portia would need rake up the fallen leaves from their yard.

Opening his window, he inhaled the crisp fall air, smelling the scent he’d only ever encountered in this area—apple cider mixed with burning leaves and a hint of the lake. Although it was only thirty minutes from downtown Detroit, the lakes area might as well be in a different country—a clear, powder blue sky with fluffy white clouds, houses free from industry’s filth darkening their siding, and fresh, clean air without any hint of toxins.

Most of the Western suburbs of Detroit required rigid standards from its homeowners, from the length of grass in the yard to the height of the home. Because Uncle Alexander had preferred to create his own rules, he’d refused to buy a house in a neighborhood. Instead, he’d built his home off the main road, surrounding the property with a fence to keep out the press and the nosy neighbors.

Ryan turned into a short driveway, coming to a stop at a wrought-iron gated fence. “This is it. Do you have the keys that George gave us?”

Portia’s jaw had dropped and she didn’t seem to hear him.

“Portia. Keys?” he repeated, a little exasperated.

She dragged a hand through her hair a couple of times and exhaled loudly. After grabbing her purse from the floor, she rummaged through, coming up with the keys to their new home.

He slid out of the car and unlocked the gate. Pushing it open, it squeaked as if it hadn’t been touched in decades. Flakes of rust fluttered to the ground and rubbed onto his palms. He brushed his hands on his jeans and returned to his car where Portia still appeared shocked, having not moved a muscle since he’d left the vehicle.

“The house is at the end of the driveway about a quarter-mile down,” he said, throwing the car into drive and proceeding toward the house. “You can kind of see it hiding behind those tall pines in the middle of the yard.”

It had been a couple years since Ryan had been here. Uncle Al had lived his final days suffering from Alzheimer’s in a nursing home. He’d protested the move for years and hired live-in nurses to care for him before his illness turned for the worse.

Personally, Ryan thought his family should have kept his uncle in his home. After they’d moved him to the nursing home, Uncle Al had seemed to give up his will to live and became more delusional than ever, not recognizing Ryan when he’d come to visit.

Ryan surveyed the premises, neglect apparent in every corner. The tall, brownish grass desperately needed mowing and watering. And he’d thought the houses in Detroit were bad. Hopefully, they didn’t have a rat problem in this neck of the woods.

The car shook as he drove up the cracked, uneven pavement. When they hit a pothole, Portia’s head snapped back and her hair fell out of her neat bun.

“Michigan winters are hell on concrete,” he explained, admiring the way her hair fell around her shoulders. At least he wasn’t staring at her feet any longer.

She nodded. “We should probably fix it. I’d hate for anything to happen to your car,” she said without sarcasm, surprising him once again.

The home came into view and her eyes widened.

She leaned forward resting her hands on the dashboard. “Oh, my God. It’s huge.”

He shrugged. Having grown up wealthy, he didn’t think much about it. At seven thousand square feet, it was probably one of the smaller homes on the lake, but the property itself was spectacular.

“How many acres is it?” she asked as he drove into the circular drive outside the front door.

“I think the deed stated it was around seven acres. They’re actually two different lots. Uncle Al built the house on the far western edge of one of them, so that the house would be surrounded by open land.”

They simultaneously slammed their doors shut and the noise echoed against the stone-pillared entrance of the home. He walked around the front of the car to Portia, whose black hair blew in all directions from the slight breeze coming off the lake.

Shoulder to shoulder, they stared up at the white brick mansion.

Ryan immediately noticed the gutters filled with leaves and debris, as well as some missing shingles from the visible lower part of the roof. He’d have to start a list.

Before leaving George’s office, the attorney had provided them with the details of their “three month tour” in the Stavros house. They were both given a weekly allowance of one thousand dollars, and the estate would pay the taxes, insurance, and utilities for the home. It was looking like they’d be spending at least a portion of their weekly allowance on repairs. Otherwise, when it came time to sell, they’d have to lower their asking price.

Portia took a few steps closer to the house and slowly twirled to take in the scenery. Even unintentionally, she moved as graceful as a dancer.

“What kind of trees are those?” she asked, pointing in the direction of the small forest to the west of the house.

“Apple trees. The season’s probably over, but we might still find some fruit hanging from the branches. The ones on the ground are usually eaten by deer and other animals, but sometimes, you can get lucky. Your aunt used to make the entire family apple pies.”

Portia cocked her head to the side. “You knew my aunt?”

Funny that although they were cousins, they’d never met. He’d taken his family for granted, eager to grow up and make it on his own. He’d never thought about what it would be like to not have family around to drive him crazy. “Yeah. She was a special woman. Kept old Uncle Al in line. How come you didn’t visit?”

“I don’t think she and my mom were close. What’s over there?” She stood on the toes of her shoes, waving in the direction beyond the trees, changing the subject as gracefully as she moved.

He didn’t need to look to know what she was referencing. “That’s a helipad. My uncle didn’t own a helicopter, but he thought it would be a good thing to have in case he ever decided to buy one.”

She chuckled and twisted her hair with her hand. “Wow. My mom said you guys were rich, but this is surreal.”

For some reason, he didn’t want her to think his family was only concerned with money. “We used the helipad as a hockey rink, especially in the winter when it iced over. It started out as just the cousins, but eventually, our moms and dads joined in and it became a tradition of apple pie and hockey at Christmas.”

A small smile graced her face. “Sounds nice. We usually spent Christmas at a soup kitchen.”

His mother swore they’d spend holidays with the poor and needy, but every year, they just sent another check. “Serving the homeless?”

She shook her head, her hand still holding on tight to her hair, as she looked down at her feet. “No.”

Understanding dawned, rolling his stomach and tightening his chest with sympathy.

She’d been homeless.