Sway With Me (Inspiring the Greek Billionaire) (5 page)

Right now, he wanted to peel back every layer and bare her naked. With the stripping of her jacket, he’d discovered the first layer hidden beneath the woman she presented to the world. Now in a peach camisole, a blush spread from her cheeks all the way down to her chest. How far did that blush go? His hands clenched and unclenched as he fought the temptation to yank down her flimsy top to discover.

“I think we should go get our things so we can get back before ten.” Bending at the knees, she made figure eights with her right foot. “I can’t believe the Trust required we be in the house by ten. I didn’t even have a curfew as a teenager.”

Portia appeared to dance whenever she grew uncomfortable. And he didn’t want to stop to consider why that made him hotter than a three-alarm fire in August.

Still blushing, she slipped between the doorframe and him, accidentally brushing her silk-covered breasts against his naked forearms. He bit his tongue to keep from making a noise which would give away how aroused she made him. Her sweet vanilla scent lingered even after she’d left the room and he inhaled, savoring it, suddenly craving an ice cream sundae.

Not gonna happen.

He followed a few lengths behind, admiring both her lithe dancer’s body and the manner in which she remained positive in spite of all the work which lay ahead of them. The women he normally associated with would never stay in a house in this condition, regardless of its size and value. They’d whine and call a service to take care of everything. Portia hadn’t complained once.

He’d wanted her since the moment he laid eyes on her, and so far, she hadn’t done a single thing to change that fact. But she was right—it would be a terrible idea for the two of them to get involved.

They strolled through the house, returning to the foyer. The sun filtered through the hole where the door had been, drawing attention to the copious amount of dust in the house. He sighed and shook his head, wondering once again what the hell his uncle had been thinking when he’d drawn up his Will and Trust.

Portia scooped her purse off the floor and smoothed her skirt with her palms. She still looked a bit nervous, but at least she had stopped dancing.

He rested his hand on the banister of the stairs. “I’ll drop you off at your sister’s on my way to Braden’s. Where does she live?”

She licked her lips as she stared at his hands. “Novi. Is that close?”

Interesting.
What was so great about his hands? He rubbed one back and forth over the knob at the end of the wooden banister and her eyes grew large, tracking his movement.

He couldn’t contain his smile. “Not too far. I live—lived—in the next town over.” He lifted his hand and walked toward her, thrilled by the blush on her cheeks which had deepened to a red. Keeping his hands off her would be painful.

“What should we do about this?” she asked, waving over the door which remained on the floor.

“I’ll bring over my tools, but for now, we’ll just prop it up so it looks closed.”

He hadn’t had an opportunity to use his tools since he’d worked on his car all those years ago, but repairing a car was far different than fixing up a home. He’d never had to fix a leak, or sand floors, or pour a driveway, and he knew next to nothing about electronics and plumbing. Not that he’d admit it to her.

He had three months to get the house ready to sell and at the same time, prove to Portia it was too much effort to remain living here. What difference did it make what house she lived in? With a couple million dollars, she could buy ten houses. He hated to hurt her feelings, but the fact was she wouldn’t have enough money to buy him out at the end of the ninety days.

This house would never belong to her.

Chapter 5

. . . for in companions

That do converse and waste the time together

Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love,

There must be needs a like proportion . . .

William Shakespeare
, Merchant of Venice,
act 3, scene 4

“
Opa
!”

Heat slapping her cheek, Portia glanced over her shoulder at a waitress dousing the
saganaki
with lemon juice. She sighed, regretting she hadn’t ordered the flaming cheese that she’d always wanted to try. Oh, well. She’d probably get another chance since her sister worked here now.

When Viola had told her she’d gotten a job as a singer at a bar, she’d never pictured the place as an upscale Greek restaurant. The menu offered a few Americanized dishes, but primarily served authentic Greek cuisine. Because of Southeastern Michigan’s thriving Greek community, there were several Greek restaurants. Detroit even offered a small area known as Greek Town, with restaurants, bakeries, and a casino.

Portia glanced at the decor of the room, wondering if the scenes of half-naked Grecian women spanning the walls behind the booths should offend her. Several tables littered the floor and a stage sat in the far back corner of the spacious room where bands played every night of the week. One of them being Viola’s.

“You’re really gonna live with a stranger?” asked Viola, stirring her Corona with a straw. “Is he hot? I bet he’s hot. I’ve seen pictures of that family. They’re all hotter than one of Reina’s jalapeno poppers.” She sipped her beer through the straw and waggled her pierced eyebrow.

Portia would never get used to her sister referring to their mother as “Reina.” Still, her sister never failed to make her laugh. While Portia required order, Viola thrived on chaos. She’d enjoyed every minute of their gypsy-like upbringing and perpetuated the lifestyle as an adult. She rented by the month, collected as many friends as she could in the few months she remained, and then left on a whim without looking back. Adding her own unique spin, she acquired a new tattoo in every new place she lived as a memento. If she continued, she’d run out of space on her back and arms by the time she turned thirty, and Portia didn’t want to know what she’d choose to tattoo then.

Portia eyed her sea bass warily and poked it with a fork to make sure it was cooked enough to eat. “Where’d you see their pictures?” Satisfied, she took a bite, surprised at how flavorful the fish tasted. She’d forgive the restaurant’s oversight at drenching her green beans in a sauce rather than serving them plain as she’d requested.

Viola’s jaw dropped. “They’re practically royalty around here. The President always stops by their home to have dinner whenever he’s in town. I can’t believe you didn’t know this.” Her sister took another loud sip of beer and studied her. “You like him.”

“No, I don’t. I mean, yes, he’s nice and we’re practically family.” Of course when she said ‘nice’ and ‘practically family,’ she meant she wanted to do the naked mambo with him. Not that she’d admit it to her sister. Or him. She hated admitting it to herself.

Viola smirked with her ‘I know something you don’t know’ look. “You may be more closely related than you think.”

She wiped the corner of her mouth with a napkin, wondering if her sister could read her innermost thoughts. “What do you mean?”

Viola leaned across the table of their booth and rested on her elbows, a mischievous grin on her face. She’d pierced her ear again. That brought the number up to six on the right. Her pink hair hid the left, but if Portia was a betting gal, she’d wager there were six or more on that side, too.

“Apparently, Alexander was quite the player back in the day. Supposedly, he remained faithful to his wives, but some have speculated that he continued to sow his wild oats even after he bought the farm.”

Her sister habitually mixed up her clichés. Whether she did it on purpose, Portia had never determined.

She pushed her dinner to the side and took a gulp of water to buy the time to figure out what the heck her sister was saying. It didn’t help. “What are you talking about?”

“He stepped out on her. Played the field. Milked the—”

“Okay, I get it. He cheated. What does that have to do with me?”

A couple of men stopped by their booth. “Hey, Lola. Can we buy you two another drink?”

If she wasn’t already preoccupied with Ryan, she may have found them attractive, even with the multiple tattoos running down their arms.

“Hey, guys. Come back later tonight and I’ll give you a show. Right now I’m with my sis, you dig? Keep on steppin’.” The men didn’t seem bothered by her sister’s rejection. They laughed and left. “Did you ever wonder why we weren’t close to our aunt and her new family?”

Portia shrugged. “Not really. Mom wasn’t into anyone who tried to keep her rooted to one spot, and I figured she avoided her sister so she wouldn’t get lectured.”

“Or, maybe Mom fooled around with a Stavros and
voilà
. . .” She waved her hand dramatically in front of Portia’s face.

The walls started to close in on her and her throat grew dry. She took another gulp of her water, wishing it was alcohol. “That’s an awfully big leap to make.”

“Then why would Alexander leave a mansion to
you
, a non-blood relative, who he’d only met once? Unless you were really his . . . daughter.” She flung back in her seat and dramatically slapped the table with her hands.

A shiver passed through Portia, raising the hairs on her arms and giving her goose bumps. The idea that she could be the love child of Reina and Alexander was ridiculous, yet she couldn’t deny her sister had raised a valid point. It didn’t make sense to leave such valuable property to a niece he’d had no relationship with except through marriage to her aunt. So she was the eldest girl in the family? Maybe he couldn’t die with it on his conscience and this was his way of providing for her.

Her stomach churned with knots the size of Manhattan and she started to hyperventilate.

Viola stared at her as she toyed with her straw. She lifted it from her beer and chewed on the end, probably missing the cigarettes she no longer smoked. Her face scrunched for a moment and then her eyes widened and a grin spread. “You
do
like him.”

“Didn’t I already say that?”

“No, I mean you
really
like him. Like ‘Portia and Ryan sitting in a tree’ like him.”

While her sister giggled, Portia’s cheeks burned and she knew she was turning red. Why, oh why, couldn’t she have been born with Viola and Reina’s perpetually tan skin? No, her skin was so pale, she didn’t need makeup to dress-up as a vampire on Halloween. Her Mom claimed Portia had gotten her complexion from her father.

“Wait, Mom implied my father was English or Irish or from some country like that. Alexander was Greek. He can’t be my father.” She sighed in relief and relaxed in her seat.

Smiling at her, Viola stuck her straw back in the beer and swirled it. “All righty. Then there’s nothing to keep you from taking a ride on his pogo stick.”

She wrinkled her nose and grimaced. “God, you’re crude.”

“And you’re a prude,” Viola responded, pointing a finger at her. “Ooh! I could totally turn that into a song.” She grabbed her neon green purse from beside her, plopped it on the table, and rummaged through, coming up with a small Hello Kitty notebook and matching pen. “Just give me a second to write that down before I forget.” She scribbled away, her face scrunched in concentration.

How did the words ‘crude’ and ‘prude’ inspire her to write a song? Portia shook her head and laughed to herself. Sometimes she wondered if her sister would benefit from taking medication for Attention Deficit Disorder. She had a terrible time staying focused and bounced from one topic to the next in the same manner she lived her life. Moving from place to place and never making a permanent connection. Their mother saw nothing wrong with how she lived, and chalked it up to Viola being a free spirit who “needed to ride the magic carpet whenever the Western Winds blew.” Of course their mother didn’t believe in medication unless it was a matter of life and death, arguing pills plugged the chakras and stifled creativity.

Viola stopped scribbling and chewed on her pen for a moment. Smiling in satisfaction, she dropped her notebook and pen back in her monstrosity of a purse. “Sorry about that. Now tell me why you’re not going to take a ride on the ‘Ryan Express.’”

She does have a way with words.

“Because we agreed sex would make it awkward to live together and I’m not in the right place in my life to get into a relationship.”

The waitress approached their table. “Can I get you anything else this evening?”

Viola tipped her empty beer bottle back and seemed to consider whether to order another. “Nah, Jenny, we’re good.” The waitress dropped their bill on the table, and as she cleared the dishes, Viola returned her attention to Portia. “Anyway, who’s talking about a relationship? I’m talking about good ol’ fashioned sex. Can’t you remember what that is, or has it been so long you’ve forgotten?”

Portia looked away and covered her chest with her jacket. If it was possible to die from mortification, she would have perished on the spot. Why did her sister have to say whatever sprung to her mind? It was like she didn’t have a filter. “It hasn’t been that long,” she mumbled.

Jenny shot Portia a sympathetic smile before departing with her hands full of dirty dishes. She wasn’t sure if the waitress sympathized because Viola had embarrassed the heck out of her in front of a complete stranger, or because Portia hadn’t gotten laid in recent memory.

“You can’t hide the blush from me,” Viola teased. “I know you’re lying, but if you need to maintain you can live three months with a man you’re attracted to, not have sex, and manage not to implode from severe sexual frustration then fine, I’ll let it go. At least now I know what to get you for your birthday next week.”

She was afraid to ask. “What?”

Her sister smiled wickedly. “Batteries.”

“Viola!” she hissed.

A man stepped out from the booth behind her sister. “And what inappropriate comment did our favorite pink-haired siren say now?”

Wow. Just wow.
On a scale of one to ten on her drool-o’meter, with ten being the hottest, this guy rated an eleven. Built like a linebacker and dressed like a politician, he oozed testosterone from every pore. He grinned at her sister, his teeth so white and straight, it wouldn’t surprise her if they were capped. He ran his fingers through his light brown hair, his mischievous green eyes twinkling.

A frown instantly replaced her sister’s smile. She didn’t even turn around to acknowledge him. “Go away, Braden.”

He ignored Viola’s order and came closer to stand directly in front of their table. He slid her sister a cursory glance and offered his hand to Portia. “Braden Angelopoulos, owner and operator of this fine establishment. Welcome to the Acropolis—” Viola rolled her eyes, crossed her arms over her chest, and mouthed the words as Braden spoke them, “—where all your dreams come true.” Without looking at Viola, he asked, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend, Lola?”

“No,” she grumbled, her jaw rigid.

Portia gladly accepted Braden’s hand. Anyone who could get her sister to shut her mouth for more than thirty seconds was a miracle worker and therefore, a valuable asset to have on her side. “I’m Lola’s sister, Portia. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Portia and her mother were the only people who called her ‘Viola.’ She released his hand and glanced at her sister, curious as to why Viola was squirming in her seat. “So, you’re her boss?”

“No,” she said at the same time Braden said, “Yes.”

Her sister wagged her finger at Braden. “Just because you own this place does not make you my boss. I do you a favor by playing in this dump and don’t you forget it.”

“Do I or do I not pay you?”

Viola scowled. “That’s not the point.”

“That’s exactly the point. You offer to service me, I get serviced, we both have a good time, and you get paid at the end of the night. If I’m not your boss, what am I?”

These two fought like an old married couple. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think they were sleeping together. But Braden wasn’t Viola’s usual type. It was like she had an unwritten ‘loser only’ policy when it came to dating, and if he was an artist, even better. It didn’t matter what kind—musician, poet, sculptor—as long as he was talented, she’d date him. Oh, and all the better if he happened to be poor and unemployed. Anyone could see that Braden, in dark slacks, a white button-down shirt, and sporting a hundred dollar haircut, screamed money and success. Still . . . Portia sensed there was something brewing between them.

“It’s a mutual business relationship.” Her peace-loving hippy of a sister glowered at him with evil intent in her eyes. He’d better make sure he didn’t leave his drink unattended or Viola was likely to spike it with something which would get his system ‘running.’

Braden just smiled at Viola. “If you say so.”

Portia was about to jump in and break up the fight, when a man resembling Ryan sauntered up to Braden and smacked him on the back. “I need to get out of here if I’m going to get to the house before cur—” His gaze settled on her and widened. “Portia?”

Guess that was why he resembled Ryan—it was Ryan. As hot as she thought Braden was, when the two stood side-by-side, there was no contest in her eyes. Her girly parts suddenly woke up and started begging for attention. “What are you doing here?”

“Having dinner,” he responded sarcastically, eliciting an eye roll from her and a chuckle from her sister.

Braden smirked, seeming highly amused by the coincidence. “You’re
that
Portia? This keeps getting better and better.” He slung an arm around Ryan’s shoulders. “Ryan and I have been buds since elementary school. In fact, he’s moving out of my place to live with you.”