“You’re more attracted to me than you are to Max.” He said the words flatly, yet there was a wealth of challenge in them, and he looked at her as if daring her to deny them.

She opened her mouth, then shut it again. She arched her eyebrows at him provocatively. “You think so?”

“You know you are,” he insisted. “There’s been a spark between us since day one.”

This time she opened her mouth and didn’t shut it, still trying to formulate the words. She gave a careless, dismissive shrug. “In your dreams, Savas.”

But Sebastian didn’t wait. “You want proof?” He closed the space between them so that she had to tip her head up to look at him. His mouth was bare inches away. She could see the whiskered roughness of his jaw, could feel the heat of his breath.

She swallowed. She blinked. She waited.

And the next thing she knew Sebastian’s lips came down on hers.

Award-winning author Anne McAllister was once given a blueprint for happiness that included a nice, literate husband, a ramshackle Victorian house, a horde of mischievous children, a bunch of big, friendly dogs, and a life spent writing stories about tall, dark and handsome heroes. ‘Where do I sign up?’ she asked, and promptly did. Lots of years later, she’s happy to report the blueprint was a success. She’s always happy to share the latest news with readers at her website, www.annemcallister.com, and welcomes their letters there, or at PO Box 3904, Bozeman, Montana 59772, USA (SASE appreciated).

SAVAS’ DEFIANT
MISTRESS

BY

ANNE McALLISTER

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

“I WAS thinking little square boxes with silver and rose jelly beans in them.” Vangie was saying breathlessly into the phone.

Sebastian, who wasn’t listening, had his attention on the computer screen in front of him. His sister had been rabbiting on in his ear for nearly twenty minutes. But truthfully, she hadn’t said anything important in the last three weeks.

“You know what I mean, Seb? Seb?” Her voice rose impatiently when he didn’t reply. “Are you there?”

God help him, yes, he was.

Sebastian Savas managed a perfunctory grunt, but his gaze stayed riveted on the specs for the Blake-Carmody project, and his mind was there, too. He glanced at his watch. He had a meeting with Max Grosvenor in less than ten minutes, and he wanted everything fresh in his mind.

He’d worked his tail off putting together ideas for this project, aware that it would be a terrific coup for Grosvenor Design to get the go-ahead.

And it would be an even bigger coup for him personally to be asked to head up the team. He’d done a lot of the work. Using Max’s ideas and his own, Seb had spent the past two months putting together the structural plans and the public space layout for the Blake-Carmody high-rise office and condo building. And last week, while Seb had been in Reno working on another major project, Max had presented it to the owners.

Still he’d had a big hand in it, and if they’d won the project, it made sense that that was what today’s meeting was about—Max asking him to run the show.

Seb smiled every time he thought about it.

“Well, I wondered,” Vangie was saying, undeterred. “You’re very quiet today. So…what do you think, Seb? Rose? Or silver? For the boxes, I mean. Or—” she paused “—maybe boxes are too fussy. Maybe we shouldn’t even have jelly beans. They’re sort of childish. Maybe we should have mints. What do you think of mints? Seb?”

Sebastian jerked his attention back at the impatient sound of his name in his ear. Sighing, he thrust a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, Vangie,” he said with just the slightest hint of impatience himself.

What’s more, he didn’t care.

This was Vangie’s wedding, not his. She was the one tying the knot. And since he never intended to, he didn’t even need to learn from the experience.

“Why not have both?” he said because he had to say something.

“Could we?” She sounded as if he’d suggested having the Seattle symphony play the music for the reception.

“Have what you want, Vange,” he said. “It’s your wedding.”

It was, to Seb’s mind, fast becoming The Wedding That Ate Seattle. But what the heck, if it made his sister happy—for the moment at least—who was he to argue with her?

“I know it’s my wedding. But you’re paying for it,” Vangie said conscientiously.

“No problem.”

Where family was concerned, Seb was the one they all turned to, the one who offered advice, a shoulder to lean on and a checkbook that paid the bills. It had been that way ever since he’d got his first architectural job.

“I suppose I could ask Daddy…”

Seb stifled a snort. Philip Savas begat children. He didn’t raise them. And while the old man had plenty of money—the family’s considerable hotel fortune residing in his pockets—he didn’t part with it easily unless it was something he wanted. Like another wife.

“Don’t go there, Vange,” Sebastian advised his sister. “You know there’s no point.”

“I suppose not,” she said glumly with the voice of experience. “I just wish…it would be so perfect if he’d remember to come and walk me down the aisle.”

“Yeah.” Good luck, Seb thought grimly. How many times did Vangie have to be disappointed before she learned?

Seb could pay the bills and offer support and see that his siblings had everything they needed, but he couldn’t guarantee their father would ever act like one. In all of Sebastian’s thirty-three years, Philip Savas never had.

“Has he called you?” Vangie asked hopefully.

“No.”

Unless Philip wanted to foist a problem off on his responsible eldest son, he couldn’t be bothered to make contact. And Seb was done trying to make overtures to him. Now he glanced at his watch again. “Listen, Vange, I’ve gotta run. I have a meeting—”

“Of course. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t bother you. I’m sorry to bother you all the time, Seb. It’s just you’re the only one here and…” Her voice trailed off.

“Yes, well, you should have got married in New York. You’d have had all the help you could use then.” When Seb had come out to Seattle after university, it had been expressly to put a continent between himself and his multitude of ex-stepmothers and half siblings. He didn’t mind supporting them, but he didn’t want them interfering in his life. Or his work. Which was the same thing.

His bad luck, he supposed, that when Vangie graduated from Princeton and got engaged, her fiancé, Garrett’s, family was from Seattle, and they decided to move here.

“It will be wonderful. I can see you all the time. Like a real family!” Vangie had said at the time. She’d been over the moon at the prospect. “Isn’t that great?”

Seb, who had given up any notion of “real family” by the time he’d reached puberty, hadn’t seen anything to rejoice in. But he’d managed to cross his fingers and give her a hug. “Terrific.”

In fact, it hadn’t been as bad as he’d feared.

Vangie and Garrett both worked for a law firm in Bellevue. They spent time with each other and with their own set of friends and he rarely saw them.

He pleaded work whenever they did invite him to one of their parties. It wasn’t an excuse; it was the truth.

Vangie said he worked far too hard, and Garrett thought his almost-brother-in-law was boring because he did nothing except design buildings.

That was fine with Seb. They had their lives and he had his.

But as the date for the wedding approached, things had changed. Wedding plans made months ago now required constant comment and consultation.

Vangie had begun calling him daily. Then twice a day. Recently it had increased to four and five times a day.

Sebastian wanted to say, “Get a grip. You’re a big girl. You can make decisions on your own.”

But he didn’t. He knew Vangie. Loved her. And he understood all too well that her wedding plans were symbolic of her biggest fantasy.

She’d always dreamed of being part of a “real” family, of having that built-in support. It was what “normal” families did, she told him.

And Vangie, more than any of them, had always desperately wanted them to be “normal.”

Seb was frankly surprised she even knew what “normal” was.

“Of course I know what a normal family is,” she’d told him sharply when he’d said so. “And so do you.”

He’d snorted at that. But she’d just come back with, “You have to try, Seb. And trust that it can happen.”

There was no reply to that. If Vangie wanted to live in a Disney movie, he couldn’t stop her. But whenever she called, he let her talk. At least, he did when he didn’t have to get to a meeting sooner rather than later.

But Max had left a message on his mobile phone last night while Seb had been flying back from Reno to say they needed to talk this afternoon.

Which meant, Seb thought with a quickening excitement that owed nothing to jelly beans or mints or the color rose, that they’d won the Blake-Carmody bid.

He and Max had spent both many long hours working up a design for the forty-eight-story downtown building that would be a “complete village” with shops, office and living space. And even though Max had been the one who’d taken the main portfolio to meet with Steve Carmody and Roger Blake, Seb knew it was unspoken that he was being groomed for the head architect’s position. So he had kept on improving, revising, detailing the general plans.

“I just don’t know,” Vangie said now. “There are so many things to think about. The napkins, for instance—”

“Yeah, well, we can talk about it later,” Seb said with all the diplomacy he could muster. “I really have to go, Vange. If I hear from Dad, I’ll let you know,” he added. “But he’s more likely to ring you than me.”

They both knew he wasn’t likely to ring either of them. When last heard from, Philip was about to marry his latest personal assistant. She’d be the fourth who’d had her eye on his wealth. At least his old man knew how to do a decent pre-nup at this point.

“I hope so,” Vangie said fervently. “Or maybe he’s been in touch with one of the girls.”

“What girls?” Philip was taking them on in pairs now? Would it be harems next? Seb wondered, as he shut his portfolio and stood up.

“The girls,” Vangie repeated impatiently, as if he should know which ones. “Our sisters,” she clarified when he still didn’t respond. “Our family. They’ll be here this afternoon,” she added, and all at once her voice sounded bright.

“Here? Why? The wedding’s not till next month, isn’t it?” God knew he was busy, but Seb didn’t think he’d lost the whole month of May.

“They’re coming to help.” Seb could hear the smile of satisfaction in Vangie’s voice. “It’s what families do.”

“For a month? All of them?” He could even remember how the hell many there were. But it didn’t sound like anything to rejoice about.

“Just the triplets. And Jenna.”

All the ones over eighteen, then. Dear God. How was Vangie going to put up with them all for a month? That ought to make her think twice about how much she wanted all of them to be a “normal” family.

“Well, good luck to you. So you want me to arrange for them to be picked up at the airport?”

“No. Don’t worry. They’re coming from all over and at different times, so I told them they should just take taxis.”

“Did you? Good for you.” Seb smiled and flexed his shoulders, glad Vangie was showing a bit of spunk, and grateful that she hadn’t stuck him with all the logistics of shifting their sisters around as well as having to listen to the jelly bean monologues. He picked up his portfolio. “Where are they staying?”

He supposed he ought to know that. He might even drop by and take them to dinner on Sunday—in the interests of “normal” family relations.

“With you, of course.”

The portfolio slammed down on his desk. “What!”

“Well, where else would they stay?” Vangie said reasonably. “All those rooms just sitting there! You must have four bedrooms at least in that penthouse of yours! I have a studio. No bedroom at all. Three hundred square feet. Besides, where else would they stay but with their big brother? We’re a family, aren’t we?”

Seb was sputtering.

“It won’t be a problem,” Vangie went on blithely. “Don’t worry about it, Seb. You’ll hardly know they’re there.”

The hell he wouldn’t! Visions of panty hose drying, fingernail polish spilling, clutter everywhere hit him between the eyes. “Vangie! They can’t—”

“Of course they can take care of themselves,” she said, completely misunderstanding. “Don’t fret. Go to your meeting. I’ll talk to you later. And be sure to let me know if you hear from Dad.”

And, bang, she was gone before he could say a word.

Seb glared at the phone, then slammed it down furiously. Blast Evangeline and her “normal” family fantasy anyway!

There was no way on earth he was going to share his penthouse with four of his sisters for an entire month! They’d drive him insane. Three twenty-year-olds and an eighteen-year-old—giggly, silly girl who, he knew from experience, would take over every square inch. He’d never get any work done. He’d never have a moment’s peace.

He didn’t mind footing the bills, but he was not having his space invaded! It didn’t bear thinking about.

He gave a quick shuddering shake of his head, then snatched up his portfolio and stalked off to Max’s office, where he would at least find an oasis of calm, of focus, of sanity, of engaging discussion with Max.

Gladys, Max’s secretary, looked up from her computer and gave him a bright smile. “He’s not here.”

“Not here?” Seb frowned. “Why not? We’ve got a meeting.”

Besides, it didn’t make sense. Max was always here, except when he was on a site. And he never double scheduled. He was far too organized.

“I’m sure he’ll be along. He’s probably stuck in traffic.” Gladys gave Seb a bright smile. “I’ll ring you when he gets here if you’d like.”

“Is he…on-site?”

“No. He’s on his way back from the harbor.”

“The harbor?” Seb frowned. He didn’t remember Max having a project down there, and he knew Max’s projects.

Max was—had been ever since Seb had come to work for him—his role model. Max Grosvenor was utterly reliable. A paragon, in fact. Hardworking, focused, brilliant. Max was the man he wanted to become, the father figure he’d never had.

Philip couldn’t be bothered to turn up when he said he would, but if Max wasn’t here at—Seb glanced at his watch again—five past three in the afternoon when he was the one who’d scheduled the meeting, something was wrong.

“Is he all right?”

“Couldn’t be better, I’d say.” Gladys said cheerfully. Though only ten or so years older than her boss, she doted on him like a mother hen—not that Max ever noticed. “He’s just been on a bit of an outing.”

Seb’s brows drew down. Outing? Max? Max didn’t do “outings.” But maybe Gladys had said “meeting” and he had misheard.

“I’m sure he’ll be along shortly.” Even as she spoke, the phone on her desk rang. Raising a finger as if to say, wait, Gladys answered it. “Mr. Grosvenor’s office.” The smile that creased her face told Seb who it was.

He tapped his portfolio against his palm, watching as Gladys listened, then nodded. “Indeed he is,” she said into the phone. “Right here waiting. Oh—” she glanced Seb’s way, then smiled “—I’m sure he’ll live. Yes, Max. Yes, I’ll tell him.”

She hung up and, still smiling, looked up at Seb. “He’s just come into the parking garage. He says to go right in and wait if you want.”

“Right. I’ll do that.” He must have misunderstood. She must have said “meeting.” Max must have had a new project come up. “Thanks, Gladys.” With a smile, Seb stepped past her and opened the door to Max’s office.

It was always a jolt to walk into Max’s office on a clear sunny day. Even when you were expecting it, the view was breathtaking.

Seb’s own office, nearly as big and airy as Max’s own, looked out to the north. He could sit at his desk and see up the coast. And if he shifted in his chair, he could watch the ferry crossing the water.

But Max could see paradise. Across the water, the Cascades spiked their way along the peninsula. A bevy of sailboats skimmed over the sound. And to the south the majesty of Mount Rainier loomed, looking almost close enough to touch.

The first time Seb had seen the view from Max’s windows, he’d stopped dead, his eyes widening. “I don’t see how you get any work done.”

Max had shrugged. “You get used to it.”

But now he stood and stared at the grandeur of Rainier for a long moment, Seb wasn’t sure he ever would. And the memory of his first glimpse reminded him that when he’d first come out to the Pacific Northwest, he’d vowed to climb Rainier.

He never had. There hadn’t been time.

Work had always been a bigger, more tempting mountain to climb. And there had always been more peaks, bigger peaks, tougher ones. And he’d relished the challenge, determined to prove himself. To make a name for himself. And make his own fortune to go with it.

The family had a fortune, of course. The hotel empire that Philip Savas oversaw guaranteed that. In another family, that fortune and those connections could have smoothed the way for a budding young architect. It hadn’t. In fact, Seb doubted his father even knew what he did for a living, much less had ever wanted to encourage him.

Philip didn’t even care. He owned buildings, he didn’t create them. And he had no interest in Seb’s desire to.

The one time they’d discussed his future, when Seb was eighteen, Philip had said, “We can start you out in Hong Kong, I think.”

And Seb had said, “What?”

“You need to get a taste of the whole business from the ground up, for when you come to work for us,” Philip had said, as if it were a given.

When Seb had said, “I’m not,” Philip had raised his brows, given his eldest son a long disapproving stare, then turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

End of discussion.

Seb would have said it was the end of the relationship, except they hadn’t had much of one before that, either.

At least Philip’s indifference had provided a wonderful incentive to do things his way, to make his own mark.

And standing here, in Max’s office, feeling the cool spare elegance of his surroundings and admiring his spectacular view—which also happened to include over thirty buildings Grosvenor Design had been responsible for creating—Seb felt that surge of determination all over again.

He opened his portfolio and began laying out further sketches he’d done so they could jump right into things, when the door burst open and Max strode in.

Seb glanced up—and stared. “Max?”

Well, it was Max, of course. There was no mistaking the tall, lithe, angular body, the lean hawkish face, salt-and-pepper hair and the broad grin.

But where was the tie? The long-sleeved button-down oxford cloth shirt? The shiny black dress shoes? Max’s uniform, in other words. The clothes Seb had seen Max Grosvenor wear every workday for the past ten years.

“You’ll be more professional if you look professional,” Max had said to Seb when he’d hired him. “Remember that.”

Seb had. He was wearing his own version of the Grosvenor Design uniform—navy slacks, long-sleeved grey-and-white pinstripe shirt and toning tie—right now.

Max, on the other hand, was clad in a pair of faded jeans and a dark-blue windbreaker over a much-washed formerly gold sweatshirt with University of Washington on its chest in flaky white letters. His hair was windblown and his sockless feet were stuffed into a pair of rather new deck shoes. “Sorry I’m late,” he said briskly. “Went sailing.”

Seb had to consciously shut his mouth. Sailing? Max?

Well, of course thousands of people did—even on weekdays—but not Max Grosvenor. Max Grosvenor was a workaholic.

Now Max shucked his jacket and took a large design portfolio out of the cabinet. “I would have gone home to change, but I’d told you three. So—” he shrugged cheerfully “—here I am.”

Seb was still nonplussed. A little confused. He could understand it if it had been a meeting. Even a meeting on a sailboat. And admittedly stranger things had happened. But he didn’t ask.

And Max was all business now, despite his apparel. He opened the portfolio to their design for Blake-Carmody. “We got it,” he said with a grin and a thumbs-up.

And Seb grinned, too, delighted that all their hard work had paid off.

“We went over it all while you were down in Reno,” Max went on. “I brought along a couple of project people as well. Hope you don’t mind, but time was of the essence.”

“No. Not at all.” Seb understood completely. While he had done considerable work on the project, Max was the president of the company.

And no one else could have gone to Reno in Seb’s place. That medical complex project there was all his.

Max nodded. “Of course not. Good man.” Still smiling, he dropped into the leather chair behind his desk and folded his arms behind his head, then nodded at the other chair for Seb to take a seat, too. “I was sure you’d understand. And I told Carmody a lot of the work was yours.”

Seb settled into the other chair. “Thanks.” He was glad to hear it, particularly because then Carmody would understand that Max wasn’t solely responsible for the work and he wouldn’t feel as if they were being fobbed off on an inferior when Seb took over.

Max dropped his arms and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs as he locked his fingers together and said earnestly. “So I hope you won’t feel cut out if I see this through myself.”

Seb blinked.

“I know we’d talked about you taking it over,” Max went on. “But you’ve been in Reno a lot. And you’ve still got a finger or two in Fogerty’s project and the Hayes Building. Right?”

“Right.” But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be willing to work even harder to do Carmody-Blake.

Max nodded happily. “Exactly. And you’ll have more time to run the bid on the school in Kent this way,” he went on. “They were really impressed with your ideas.”

Seb made an inarticulate sound at that point, hoping it sounded as if he was pleased with the compliment. It was a compliment. It was just—he’d really wanted the Blake-Carmody project.

He had no right to be disappointed, really. Logically he knew that. Yes, he’d been invited to share his ideas for the project, and yes, Max had taken them seriously. They’d even discussed the possibility of him taking over as head architect on the job. But while it had been unspoken, it had never been official.

And he could understand why Max would enjoy overseeing a plum job like this one. It was just that over the past couple of months Max had been talking about “stepping back” and “taking it easy.”

And hell, he’d just come in from sailing, hadn’t he?

“I knew you’d understand. Rodriguez is going to boss the office space side of it. Chang’s doing the shops,” Max went on.

That made sense. Frank Rodriguez and Danny Chang had also contributed to the portfolio with ideas that reflected their specialities. Seb nodded.

“And I’ve asked Neely to take charge of the living spaces.”

“What!” Seb sat up straight. “Neely Robson?”

All of a sudden it didn’t sound simply like Max keeping the plum job for himself. It sounded like—

Seb shook his head as if he were hearing things. “You can’t be serious.”

At his tone, Max stiffened abruptly. “I’m perfectly serious.”

“But she’s not experienced enough! She’s been here, what? Six months? She’s green.”

“She’s won awards. She got the Balthus Grant.”

“She draws pretty pictures.” All warm cozy stuff. She might as well be an interior decorator, Seb thought.

He’d only worked with Neely Robson one time—and that had been merely at the discussion stage in the first month she was there. It hadn’t gone well. He’d thought her ideas were fluff and had said so. She had been of the opinion that he only wanted to build skyscrapers that were phallic symbols and had said that.

To say they hadn’t hit it off was an understatement.

“The clients like her.”

You like her, Seb wanted to say. You like her curve body and her long honey colored hair and her luscious lips that curved into dimpled smiles. But fortunately he clamped his teeth together before any of those words got past his lips.

“She’s good at what she does,” Max said mildly. He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth, a smile playing on his lips as if he were thinking about something very different than designing buildings.

And what exactly has she been doing with you? Seb wondered acidly. But he had the brains not to say that, either.

Still he had to say something. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t noticed Neely Robson’s appeal to his boss over the past couple of months. She was an attractive woman. No question about it. A man would have to be dead not to notice.

But the firm was big enough that she hadn’t really come to Max’s notice until she’d won that damned award in February. Then he’d invited her to work on the hospital addition.

Since then Max had paid more and more attention to her.

Seb couldn’t count the number of times he had noticed her coming out of Max’s office or the multitude of times in the last couple of months he’d heard her name on Max’s lips. And he’d certainly seen Max’s gaze linger on her in staff meetings.

He hadn’t worried. Max wasn’t Philip Savas, he’d told himself. Max was single-minded, determined, professional. If anyone was the poster boy for workaholics, it was Max.

There was no way Max Grosvenor was going to let himself be seduced by a pretty face. He was fifty-two years old, and no woman had trapped him into matrimony yet, had she?

Seb supposed there was always a first time. And Max could be ripe for a midlife crisis. He’d gone sailing, for crying out loud!

“I just mean she doesn’t have a lot of expertise with condos as a part of multi-use buildings and—”

“You don’t have to worry about her expertise. I’ll be working closely with her,” Max said now. “And if she’s green, well, she’ll learn. I think I can help her out.” He raised a brow. “Don’t you agree?”

Seb gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached. “Of course,” he said stiffly.

Max grinned cheerfully. “She’s got a lot on the ball, Seb. Very creative. You should get to know her.”

“I know her,” Seb said shortly.

Max laughed. “Not the way I do. Come sailing with us next time, why don’t you?”

“Next—You went sailing with—” He didn’t finish the sentence so appalled—and disbelieving—was he at the prospect. Max and Neely Robson had spent the afternoon sailing? Dear God, yes, he must be having a midlife crisis. That was the sort of thing Philip Savas would do, but not Max Grosvenor.

“She’s not a bad little sailor.” Max grinned.

“Isn’t she?” Seb hauled himself to his feet and picked up his portfolio. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said flatly. “But I still think you’re making a mistake.”

Max’s smile faded. He stared out the window at Mount Rainier for a long moment, though whether he saw it Seb had no idea. Finally he brought his eyes back to meet Seb’s.

“It wouldn’t be the first mistake I’ve ever made,” he said quietly. “I appreciate your concern.” He met Seb’s gaze squarely. “But I don’t think I’m making a mistake this time.”

Their gazes locked. Seb wanted to tell him how wrong he was, how he’d seen it over and over and over from his own father.

He gave his head a little shake but then just nodded. “I’ll just be getting back to work then, if you don’t have anything else to discuss.”

Max gave a wave of his hand. “No, nothing else. I just wanted to let you know about Blake-Carmody in person. Seemed tactless to leave it on your phone. And it’s no disrespect to you, Seb, my taking this on. It’s just—this is one I want to do.”

With Neely Robson.

He didn’t say it. He didn’t have to.

“Of course,” Seb said tightly.

He had the door open when Max’s voice came from behind him. “You should take a little time off yourself, Seb. All work and no play—you know the saying.”

Seb did. But he didn’t want to hear it from Max Grosvenor. He shut the door wordlessly as he went out.

“There now, isn’t it lovely?” Gladys looked up and sighed happily.

Seb frowned. “Sorry?”

“Max,” she said with a sappy maternal smile. “It’s lovely he’s finally getting a life.”

* * *

If Max was finally getting a life, Seb didn’t envy him.

Life—the “relationship” sort—as Seb knew from a lifetime of experience, was messy, unpredictable and fraught with chaos. That Max, the most focused of men, should be tempted by it, simply meant he was deep in a midlife crisis.

And with Neely Robson—a woman half his age, for God’s sake! It was a disaster waiting to happen.

Max had always had what Seb thought was an ideal life. Satisfaction through work, through creating magnificent buildings, a life of order, clear and controllable. Not messy, unpredictable and tangled.

If Max was getting a life, Seb pitied him. He was doomed to disappointment.

Seb shook his head, then shoved away the thought of Max’s idiocy and tried to concentrate on the Kent school project.

It was after six. He could have quit. But why? There was work to do here and certainly no reason to go home.

Talking about messy and uncontrollable, by now he was sure his penthouse condo would be teeming with half sisters. There would be panty hose in all the bathrooms, cell phones ringing at every minute, toast crumbs and marmalade on the countertops, half-eaten yogurts in the refrigerator and bridal magazines littering every horizontal surface.

Even worse they would all be talking at once—about the wedding, about Evangeline and Garrett, about how perfect it all was, about how they were going to live happily ever after, about how everyone should live happily ever after. And then they would begin comparing their own love lives.

And speculating about his.

Ever since they’d been in junior high school his sisters had been pestering him about the women in his life. Who was he dating? Was it serious? Did he love her?

Love! Titter, titter. Giggle, giggle.

It made Seb’s jaw muscles twitch every time he thought about it.

He didn’t have a love life. Didn’t intend to have one. Not one like they meant, anyway—not that he could get it through their romantic fluffy-brained heads.

He had needs, of course. Hormones. Testosterone, for God’s sake. He was a red-blooded male with all the right instincts. But that didn’t mean marriage or happily ever after.

And it certainly didn’t mean he believed in fairy tales.

On the contrary, he believed in giving his hormones exactly what they wanted in a sane, sensible fashion. And he had done so over the years through a series of discreet liaisons with women who wanted exactly what he did. No more, no less.

And if his last discreet liaison had ended a few months ago because the pretty blonde software engineer with whom he’d been satisfying those hormones had taken a job in Philly just after the first of the year, that simply meant he needed to find another woman to take her place.

It didn’t mean he had to get a love life or get serious.

But his sisters thought he should. And they were never hesitant to say so.

And since Evangeline had foisted them on him for the next month—and he knew he wasn’t going to be able to turf them out—they would feel entitled to express their opinions. At length.

God help him.

He needed a bolt hole, a bachelor pad. A tiny hideaway of his own—just for the month—where none of them could find him. He could appear and be big brotherly when the mood suited him, but generally he could play “least in sight.”

He toyed with the idea of moving into the empty studio apartment in the building he’d bought two years ago. It was tempting. But it was only three blocks from where he lived. And Vangie knew about it. They’d all know about it if he went there.

It wouldn’t be a bolt hole for long.

He’d like to stick them there, but that would never work. One room plus one bathroom and the four of them? It didn’t bear thinking about.

Maybe he could buy a futon for his office and sleep here. A few months ago Max would have applauded the idea. Now, in his new “isn’t playing hooky wonderful?” mode, he would have a fit.

But damn it, Seb wasn’t having a midlife crisis. And if he wanted to work 24-7 why shouldn’t he? At least here at the office, he could still focus.

Deliberately Seb shoved the thought away and focused once more on the Kent school designs. Almost everyone else had gone home now. It was close to six-thirty. Max had breezed out half an hour ago.

He’d stuck his head in on his way to the elevator. “Still here? It’s Friday night. No hot date?”

Seb just looked at him.

Max grinned and shook his head. “Learn from me, man. There’s more to life than work.”

Like hot dates with a woman half his age? Seb sucked in his cheeks. “I have some work to do for Reno, then I want to think a bit about the Kent project.”

Max gave him a wry look that said he recognized the guilt being offered him, but then, pure Max, he shrugged it off. “Up to you.” He started away, then returned to stick his head round the door again. “We’re going sailing on Sunday. Come along?”

Oh, yes. That was exactly how Seb wanted to spend his Sunday—watching Max make a fool of himself over Neely Robson—and watching Neely Robson gloat. Seb gritted his teeth. “Thanks, but I’m busy. My sisters are in town.”

If he was stuck with them, the least they could do was be useful.

Max nodded. “Right. You have a big family. I always forget that.”

Seb wished he could.

“Lucky you. I’m glad you’ll have some distraction,” Max said. “You won’t make the same mistake I did.”

No, he wouldn’t! There was no way on earth Seb was going to go all ga-ga over an unsuitable conniving woman. “Have fun,” Seb said drily.

Max flashed him a grin. “I intend to.”

And he sauntered away. Whistling, for God’s sake!

Seb thrust his fingers through his hair and kneaded his scalp and tried to focus again.

He tried for another half an hour after Max left. But his stomach began growling, and he needed to get something to eat. At least he didn’t have to go home for that. He could get takeaway, bring it back here, stay and work until it was time to go to bed.

Like the triplets ever went to bed.

He shoved back his chair and grabbed his suit jacket off the back of his chair, then stepped out into the common room.

There was only one other light still on. Four doors down in Frank Rodriguez’s office. Frank, who was doing the Blake-Carmody office space, would be happily burning the midnight oil. And as he walked toward the office on his way to the elevator, he could hear Frank and Danny Chang in deep conversation.

Seb felt a prick of envy, then tamped it down. He didn’t want Frank’s job. Or Danny’s. And it wasn’t their fault he hadn’t got the job he did want.

“Can’t help you,” he heard Danny Chang say. “Wish I could.” He stepped out of Frank’s office, then paused in the doorway and turned back. “I thought you had it sold.”

“So did I,” Frank’s tone was glum. “Cath is going to freak when she finds out the deal fell through. We want this house. How the hell am I going to put the down payment on the house if I don’t have it?”

Danny shrugged. “If I hear of anyone who wants one, I’ll send ’em your way.” He turned to go, then stopped and did a double take at the sight of Seb. “Hey, wanna buy a houseboat?”

Houseboat?

Did he want to buy a…houseboat?

Any other day Seb would have laughed. Today as the words registered, he found himself saying cautiously, curiously, “What sort of houseboat? Where?”

Danny and Frank exchanged glances.

Then Frank got up from behind his desk and came to the door of his office. “Not big. You probably wouldn’t want it. Two bedrooms. One bath. Pretty small really. On the east side of Lake Union. Bought it after I’d been here a year. I love it. But Cath—we’re getting married—and Cath doesn’t. She says she’s not into Sleepless in Seattle.”

Seb had no idea what he meant. He wasn’t into chick flicks. But a houseboat… “Tell me more.”

Frank’s eyes widened in surprise. And then, apparently deciding Seb was serious, he ticked off its virtues. “It’s perfectly functional. Fifty-odd years old, but it’s been well cared for. Pretty quiet place. Right at the end of the dock. Great views, obviously. My tenant was going to buy it, but the financing fell through. I just got the call.”

“Tenant?”

Frank shrugged. “I rent out the other bedroom. Helps with the payments. But nothing’s going to help with this,” he said grimly. “We’re not going to have the money for the down payment and we’re going to lose the house.”

And tenants could be moved. “How much do you want for it?”

Frank blinked. “Seriously?”

“I’m asking, aren’t I?”

“Oh! Well, um…” Frank looked a bit dazed as he spit out a figure.

Not a bargain. But what price did you put on peace? Sanity. A lack of clutter and giggles and panty hose? Besides, he could always sell it.

Seb nodded. “I’ll write you a check.”

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS perfect.

Seb could see the houseboat as he came down the hill. It sat at the end of the dock. Other houseboats were moored on either side, but his was right at the end—two stories high of weathered grey wood and very crisp white trim, it looked snug and welcoming, just as Frank had said it would be.

As it was backlit by the setting sun, Seb couldn’t see all the details. But from what he could discern, it was the bolt hole of his dreams.

He couldn’t have made a better decision, Seb thought as he parked his car, then grabbed two of the duffel bags he’d packed and headed down the dock. He felt alive somehow, energized, actually smiling in anticipation.

Sure, it was a lot of money to pay for a month’s bolt hole. But what else was he doing with his money besides footing the wedding bill for his sister, paying college tuition for all of his sundry siblings and providing tummy tucks and face-lifts for his father’s ex-wives?

Besides, Frank had assured him, a houseboat was an eminently resalable item. His urgency to sell only had to do with his impending marriage and baby. He was sure his tenant would buy it whenever Seb wanted out, presuming the financing worked out then. And if not, there would be plenty of other interested buyers.

So, when—if—Seb wanted to sell, he might even make a profit.

But it wasn’t the profit that interested him now. It was the peace and quiet. The solitude.

If he’d needed any convincing that he’d done the right thing by his impulse down payment and promise to get the financing tomorrow, walking into his penthouse tonight had done it.

The panty hose were already everywhere. So were the crumbs and the sticky marmalade plates. The cell phones shrilled and his sisters giggled. There they were talking—all of them at once—and throwing their arms around him, hugging him, getting him sticky, too.

He had been prepared for that.

But he’d forgotten the music, the television, the shouting over each other to be heard. He’d forgotten the smells. The sickly sweet shampoos, conditioners, hair sprays, gels, mousses, not to mention umpteen kinds of perfume actually supposed to have fragrances.

His whole apartment had smelled like a bordello.

If he’d thought for one second he’d been wrong to jump at Frank’s houseboat, those few minutes had convinced him he’d done exactly the right thing. He could hardly wait to escape.

His sisters had been appalled when he’d slipped out of their embraces and headed for his bedroom to pack.

“You’ve got a trip? Now?”

“Where are you going?”

“When are you coming back?”

They’d followed him into his room. He could see makeup bottles scattered on the countertop through the door to his bathroom.

“I’m just giving you some space,” he said. “And trusting you with mine,” he added with his best severe older brother glower. It went from them to the open door of the bathroom where there were also wet towels on the floor. Then it went back to them. They smiled contritely.

“Keep things clean,” he said. “Pick up after yourselves. I’ve got work to do and I need to focus.”

“We won’t be any trouble,” they vowed in unison, heads bobbing.

Seb had smiled at that. Then he’d gathered up the few things he was sure he would need or that he really didn’t want them to break—like his grandfather’s old violin—and patted their heads.

“I’ll be back and take you to dinner on Sunday,” he promised.

As he left, Jenna borrowed money to pay the pizza delivery man.

“Sure you won’t change your mind, Seb?” she’d said, forgetting to give him the change.

Seb had shaken his head. “No.”

But now, as his stomach rumbled on his way down the dock, he wished he’d at least thought to snatch one of the pizzas.

No matter. He’d grab something after he settled in—and dealt with Frank’s tenant. A guy who rented a room on a houseboat ought to be delighted to be offered a studio apartment rent free. And maybe by the time Seb was ready to sell, he’d have his finances in order and could get a loan.

Seb found himself whistling just like Max as he stepped aboard his houseboat and turned the key in the front door lock.

“Home sweet home,” he murmured, and pushed open the door and stepped into a small foyer with a staircase leading up to the second floor on one side and bookshelves and a door on the other. Straight ahead, down a hallway he glimpsed the setting sun through the window. It drew him on. So did the music he heard.

Unlike the cacophonous racket he’d left behind with his sisters, this was a Bach minuet, light and lilting, rhythmic, orderly.

The lingering tension in Seb’s shoulders eased. He’d wondered how he would convince Frank’s tenant that he needed to move. The Bach reassured him. A tenant who played Bach would see the logic and good sense in Seb’s offer to put him up rent free.

He made his way down the hallway and into an open living area and stopped stock-still at the sight of a rabbit hutch—complete with two rabbits—on a window seat. There was an aquarium on the bar that separated the kitchen area from the rest of the room. There were three half-grown kittens wrestling on the floor and one attempting to clamber up a cardboard box that had been strategically placed to keep it inside while the door to the deck beyond could be left open.

But none of it was quite as astonishing as the sight of a pair of long bare very female legs halfway up a ladder out on the deck.

“You’re back?” the female said, apparently having heard Seb shutting the door. “This is way too soon. Go away and come back in half an hour.”

Seb didn’t move. Just stared at the legs. Felt wholly masculine interest at the same time he felt stirrings of unease.

His tenant was female?

And Frank hadn’t bothered to mention it?

Well, maybe to Frank it hadn’t made any difference. He had been spending his time at his fiancée’s afterall.

“Cody?” The woman’s voice said when Seb didn’t reply. “Did you hear me? I said, Go away.”

Seb cleared his throat. “I’m not Cody,” he said, grateful his voice didn’t croak as his eyes were still glued to those amazing legs.

“Not…?” Bare feet moved down the ladder one rung at a time until the woman could hook her arm around one side of the ladder and swung her head down so that she could see him.

Seb stared, transfixed.

Neely Robson?

No. Impossible.

Seb shut his eyes. It was just that his irritating meeting with Max had had the effect of imprinting her on his brain.

When he opened them again he would, of course, see some other stunningly gorgeous woman with dark honey-colored hair and legs a mile long.

He opened them again.

It was Neely Robson.

They stared at each other.

And then, almost in slow motion, she straightened up again so he could no longer see her face—only her legs—and for an instant he could tell himself that he’d imagined it.

Then slowly those amazing legs descended the ladder and she came to stare in the open doorway at him, the paintbrush in one hand as she swiped her hair away from her face with the other.

“Mr. Savas,” she said politely in that slightly husky oh-so-provocative voice.

Did she call Max “Mr. Grosvenor”? Seb wondered acidly.

“Ms. Robson,” he replied curtly, keeping his gaze resolutely away from her long bare legs, though seeing her blowsy and barely buttoned above the waist wasn’t entirely settling.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting—I thought you were Cody with Harm.” There was a flush across her cheeks and she suddenly looked confused.

Seb shook his head, not sure what she was talking about and feeling confused himself.

“My dog. Harmony. That’s his name. Well, not really. But it sounds better. His name is Harm. As in, ‘he does more harm than good.’” Her words tumbled out quickly. “The boy down the dock took him for a walk. I thought you were them coming back and I’m not done painting yet.”

Seb had never heard Neely Robson babble before and he would have found it entertaining under other circumstances. Now he raised a brow and she stopped abruptly.

“Never mind,” she said. “You’re looking for Frank.”

“No.”

She blinked. “No?” A pause. “Then…why are you—?” She looked him in the eyes, then her gaze traveled down and he saw when it lit on his bags. Her frown deepened.

Damn, he wished he could enjoy this more. Wished he had been prepared. Wished he were a lot less shocked than she was by the turn of events.

No matter. What was done was done. And Neely Robson was on her way out.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Ms. Robson,” he drawled. “I’ve already seen Frank. Now I’m moving in.”

“What?” The color drained from her face. Her tone was outraged.

Seb did enjoy that. He smiled thinly. “If you’re the ‘tenant,’ Ms. Robson, you have a new landlord. Me.”

She was hearing things.

Neely used to tell her mother that would happen.

“I’ll go deaf if you keep playing that music so loud,” she used to say all the time she was growing up with hard rock at a hundred decibels blaring in her ears while her mother made jewelry out of old seeds and twigs.

She was probably the only child in the history of the world who had a parent more likely to shatter her eardrums than to wait for Neely to do it herself.

Lara—her mother had never wanted to be called Mom or Mother. “Do I look like somebody’s mother?” she would challenge anyone who dared—had always laughed at her.

But apparently, Neely thought now, staring in dismay at the man in her living room, she had been right.

It was appalling enough to have God’s gift to long-sleeved dress shirts, Sebastian Savas, standing in her living room looking down his nose at her, but to think she heard him say he was moving in and that he was her landlord. Well, that simply didn’t bear contemplating.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, enunciating clearly so that he would, too, and she could figure out what he really said. “What did you say?”

“I bought the houseboat.”

Neely felt her knees wobble. She braced a hand on the doorjamb to make sure she didn’t topple right over.

“No.”

“Oh, yes.” And he bared his teeth in what she supposed was intended to be smile. Or a smirk. “This houseboat,” he clarified, just in case she thought he meant another one. “I’m moving in.”

There was no consolation at all in discovering her hearing was just fine. Neely stared at him, aghast, disbelieving even in the face of evidence, then shook her head because it couldn’t be true. “You’re mistaken. I’m buying the houseboat. It’s mine.”

“Sadly…for you—” Sebastian stressed these last two words, because it was, quite apparently, not sad for him at all “—it’s not. Not yours, I mean. Frank sold it to me a couple of hours ago.”

“He can’t! He wouldn’t! We had a deal.”

Sebastian shrugged. “It fell through.”

She stared at him, feeling as if she’d just caught a lead basketball in the stomach, feeling exactly the way she always had whenever Lara had told her they were moving. Again. And again. And again.

“You don’t know that,” she said slowly, setting down the paintbrush and wrapping her arms across her chest. But even as she said the words, she felt an awful sense of foreboding.

“Personally, no, I don’t,” Sebastian said easily. “But Frank knew. He said someone called Gregory called him. A mortgage broker, I assume?”

The sense of foreboding wasn’t a sense any longer. It was reality. Neely nodded. “A friend of Frank’s.” Her fingernails dug into the flesh of her upper arms. “He promised to find a loan for me.”

“Yes, well, apparently it didn’t work out.”

“There are other places to look,” Neely insisted urgently. “Other lenders.”

Sebastian nodded. There wasn’t a flicker of sympathy in his gaze. “No doubt. But Frank couldn’t wait. Something about a down payment on a house? A wedding? A baby on the way? He was pretty stressed.” Something else Mr. Coldhearted Savas couldn’t possibly care about.

And why should he?

It had all worked out perfectly for him.

Now he set his duffel bag on the floor and his garment bag on the sofa, then turned toward the door.

“What are you doing?” she demanded shrilly, clambering over the big cardboard box and coming after him.

“Going back for more of my things. Want to help?” She couldn’t see his face, but she had no trouble imagining the smirk on his lips.

He didn’t wait for a reply. He left.

And she steamed. She grabbed her mobile phone off the table on the deck and punched in Frank’s number.

He wasn’t answering.

“Coward,” she muttered.

“Are you talking to me?” Sebastian Savas came back in carrying two big boxes and set them on the coffee table. Her coffee table!

“That’s mine,” she snapped.

He followed her gaze to the table in question. “I beg your pardon. Frank said he was leaving some furniture.”

“Not that table,” Neely said, knowing she was being petty. Not caring.

“Right.” He picked up the boxes and set them beside it on the floor. “It is my floor,” he said, making her feel about two inches high—until he gave her another one of those smiles and walked out again.

Neely wanted to scream as she watched him return with another big box and deliberately set it beside the others on the floor. His floor.

“I can’t believe you bought it,” Neely muttered, still fuming.

“I can’t, either,” Sebastian said so cheerfully that she wanted to smack him. “But it’s perfect.”

That comment actually surprised her. She would never have thought Sebastian Savas would consider a rather battered half-century-old houseboat perfect at all. She’d never seen his place, but Max had said he lived in a penthouse somewhere. What had happened to that?

“I can’t imagine why you think so,” she said acidly.

“But then, you don’t know my circumstances, do you?” he said, hands on his hips as he stood surveying his domain.

“Did you get evicted?” Neely asked sweetly.

He gave her a stare hard enough to make her back up a step. She would need to watch her mouth if he really intended to stick around.

But the next instant she found herself saying, “Or maybe you ran away from home.”

“Maybe I did,” he agreed.

She blinked. “Yeah, sure. Tell me, why did you do it?”

“Danny asked if I wanted to buy a houseboat.”

“And you just thought, ‘Sure why not?’ and whipped out your checkbook and said, ‘I’ll take it’?”

“Something like that.”

She didn’t believe a word of it. “Get real.”

He just shrugged.

She hated that about him—that superior cool detachment, that nothing-gets-to-me disdain. At work they called him The Iceman behind his back. They might have called him Iceman to his face for all he’d care.

She watched him open one of the boxes, remove some books and casually begin taking over the bookshelves. She sucked in her breath.

Sebastian turned and glanced her way. “What? No protest? Are the shelves mine, then?”

“As they’re built in, it seems they are,” Neely said through her teeth. “But as the renter I’m entitled to use some of the space.”

“Ah, yes. Your rent.”

“It’s locked in—the amount,” she said firmly, in case he decided to triple it. Or worse. “On my lease.”

He didn’t reply, just said, “Shall I measure and divide the space, then? To be sure you’re getting your fair share?”

“I think we can work it out,” Neely muttered, glowering at him as he straightened again, hating the six feet, two inches of hard, lean, dark masculinity taking over her space and scoring her with assessing looks from his piercing green eyes.

They were gorgeous eyes—such a pale green at contrast with his olive complexion and thick black hair. They made his strong, handsome, almost hawkish face even more memorable—and appealing.

“Who’s he? He’s hot,” all the temp girls at the office said when they first caught a glimpse him. “I’ll take him for my boss.”

But once they’d worked for him, they changed their minds.

Sebastian Savas had a reputation for being exacting, demanding and unflappable. Absolutely businesslike. And completely cold.

To a woman, the fools flirted with him, batted their lashes at him, simpered and brought him endless cups of coffee in the hope that he would: speak to them, date them, marry them.

He barely noticed them.

As far as Neely could tell, he only noticed buildings—the taller and pointier the better.

A fact which she had once mentioned to him. Had wondered aloud if his fascination might be a means of overcompensation. But only because he’d dismissed her sketches saying they weren’t building doll houses for Barbie!

No, they weren’t. They were designing offices for a trendy women’s magazine publisher whose signature color was hot pink. But Sebastian hadn’t understood that. He’d just dismissed her attempt to get the color in the interior lines of the offices.

She hadn’t had anything to do with him since.

Didn’t want to.

He was Max’s right-hand man and Max thought he was terrific. He’d sung Sebastian’s praises often enough. But they were pretty much two of a kind, so why wouldn’t Max think so?

“You’ll like him when you get to know him,” Max had promised.

Neely didn’t think so. And she had no wish to get to know him at all.

She had no use for workaholic men. Twenty-six years ago, a workaholic man hadn’t married her pregnant mother. Not that her mother had been, at the time, the marrying kind.

But all of that was irrelevant at the moment.

What was relevant right now was finding out exactly what sort of game Mr. Iceman Savas was playing.

“So you’re saying you just whipped out your checkbook to save Frank’s bacon?” She pressed.

“I did us both a favor. He wanted to sell. I wanted to buy. We made a deal. Simple.”

It wasn’t simple at all. Not to her. Neely opened her mouth to argue further with him, but knew there was no point.

Arguing wasn’t going to change anything. The loan had fallen through. And to be honest, she’d always known it might. Her bank balance was promising, but not substantial, certainly nowhere close to what Sebastian Savas’s was.

She’d only been earning good money since her graduation from university two and a half years ago. And a good chunk of that every month went to repay her student loans and provide a bit more ready cash for her mother. Lara, who had married finally when Neely was twelve, was now a widow with a limited pension and a small jewelry business. She was self-sufficient, but there were no extras—unless Neely provided them.

Buying the houseboat had been her dream. She’d loved it from the moment she’d rented a room from Frank six months ago. And she’d dared to hope, when he decided to give in to Cath’s wishes and sell the houseboat, that she would have enough saved to qualify to buy it.

Apparently she hadn’t. Yet.

And with time of the essence, Frank had been unable to wait and had taken the easy way out.

The Sebastian Savas way out.

“Speaking of deals, I have a deal for you, Ms. Robson,” Sebastian said now. He was standing there holding a stack of books in his hands, regarding her steadily with his green gaze.

“Deal?” Neely said, suddenly hopeful. “You’ll sell to me?”

Would he really? After all the bad things she’d thought about him? After the less-than-pleasant things she’d said to him?

He shook his head. “No, but I’ve got a place you can go.”

She felt punched in the gut again. So much for pipe dreams.

“There’s a vacant studio apartment in a building I own.” He looked at her expectantly, as if he thought she would jump for joy at the prospect. “You can have it rent-free for six months.”

She shook her head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His brows drew down. “You have to. I’m moving in.” He hefted the books to make his point.

“Bully for you.”

He stared at her. The green gaze grew icier than ever. “So you’re saying you want to share?” His voice was silky with innuendo and hard with challenge.

Neely shrugged with all the indifference she could muster. She hoped it was an Oscarworthy performance.

“Well, I don’t want to, but if you’re moving in, apparently we are.” She jerked her head toward the stairs. “Your bedroom is the one to the right at the top. It’s smaller than mine, but it has the better view. Enjoy it.”

She didn’t wait to hear his reply to that. She didn’t want to know. Besides, she needed to get away from him before she threw her paintbrush at him—or something worse.

So she climbed back over the cardboard box, picked up the paintbrush, scaled the ladder and began slapping paint on the wall again. In her head—and heart—she was slapping Sebastian Savas.

If she expected him to turn and leave, she was out of luck.

No big surprise there.

He didn’t head up the stairs, either. Instead he set the books on the shelf, then moved the box out of the doorway and came after her out onto the narrow deck and leaned against the railing to stare up at her.

“The kittens will get out,” she warned.

He ignored her and the kittens. “I don’t want a roommate, Ms. Robson.” His tone was flat and uncompromising. She’d heard it before—at the office.

“Neither do I,” Neely said in an equally clipped tone. She dipped the paintbrush into the can and continued slapping the wall, not looking down, though she knew exactly where he was behind her.

The paint was a soft grey called “silver linings.” When she’d bought it, she’d thought how appropriate it was, having a paint color that would reflect her journey—the hard road and eventual joyous return that had brought her back to her birthplace, to a job she loved and a houseboat she was going to call her own.

Now she thought that if there was a god of paint cans, it was very likely having a good laugh at her expense.

“Then you’ll have to move,” Sebastian said. “Understand that I’m not tossing you into the street. My offer is very fair, and the apartment is in a good location.”

“No doubt. Not interested.” Slap, slap.

She heard his breath hiss between his teeth. “Look, Ms. Robson,” he began again in what she was sure were determinedly measured tones, “you don’t seem to understand. Your staying here is not an option. You can take my offer of a very nice studio apartment for the next six months or you can simply pack up and leave. You can’t stay here.”

Neely turned her body slightly so she could look down over her shoulder at him in the twilight. He looked big and imposing even below her, and she was grateful for the ladder’s height. “On the contrary, Mr. Savas,” she said in measured tones of her own. “I certainly can stay here. I have a lease. As in a legally binding contract. An agreement,” she added with saccharine sweetness. “In writing. Frank’s Cath is an attorney. She wanted to be sure he had all his legal i’s dotted and t’s crossed. Ironclad, she said. I believe her. Just try to weasel out of it.” The smile she gave him would have challenged the Cheshire cat’s.

His jaw tightened. “Then I’ll buy you out of it.”

Neely shrugged. “Sell me the houseboat. I offered Frank good money.”

“And couldn’t come up with it, apparently.”

Neely bristled. “I’m good for it. I have a good job, good prospects.”

He snorted. She’d never heard so much derision in a single sound. Now it was her turn to frown. “What’s that for?”

“Your prospects.” His tone was disparaging. “Is that what you’re calling Max these days? I’m sure he’ll be delighted to hear it.”

“Max?” Neely’s jaw dropped as his meaning became clear. He thought she was…using Max?

She stared, openmouthed. Then abruptly she snapped her mouth shut. She’d have liked to tip the paint can over on his arrogant head.

At her silence he shrugged. “And I see you’re not denying it.”

“I most certainly am denying it!”

“Well, don’t bother. Just because he’s too blind to see what you’re after doesn’t mean the rest of us are.”

Neely’s fingers strangled the paintbrush. She wished they were strangling Sebastian Savas’s strong muscular neck. “The rest of you?” she forced the words past her lips. “Who exactly?”

“Me for one. Gladys.”

“Max’s secretary thinks I’m out to use him?”

“Oh, she’s delighted you’re humanizing him.” Sebastian sneered at her. “I can think of another word for it.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she told him frostily.

A sardonic brow lifted. “Don’t I?”

“No, Mr. Savas, you don’t. And you shouldn’t presume.” So saying, she wrenched around and set to painting again. Slap, slap, slap. God, she was furious at him! She was positively steaming.

“So, what’s it going to take to shift you, Ms. Robson?” he persisted. “What’s your price?”

Neely ignored him. The sun had almost set. She needed to turn on the light if she were going to actually see that she was accomplishing something. But then again, who cared? If this was Sebastian Savas’s houseboat now, not hers, why should she bother to paint at all?

Because it was hers, damn it!

She was the one who had painted it, who had coddled it, who had taken care of it when Frank was more interested in just moving in with Cath. He’d promised her!

Maybe she should have taken Max up on his offer.

When it had become clear to him that he was never going to talk her out of her independence and into his glass and stone and cedar palace overlooking the sound, he’d said he would help her finance it.

Neely had refused, too stubborn, too proud to let him.

“No,” she’d said firmly. “I appreciate the offer. Thank you. But I want to do it myself.”

And look what it got her—out on her ear.

If Mr. Jump-to-Conclusions, Look-Down-His-Nose-At-Her Savas only knew Max had already offered, he’d blow a gasket. But then, obviously Sebastian thought he did know—everything. Pompous jerk.

He didn’t even want her houseboat. Not really. She was sure of it. He had a use for it now, though she had no idea what. But ultimately he’d move back to his penthouse.

She set down the brush and deliberately turned to look down at him once more. “What’s your price, Mr. Savas?”

“My price?” He looked startled.

But then his insolent gaze started at her bare feet and took its time sliding up the length of her legs, making her supremely aware of exactly what he seemed to be assessing.

Neely felt her cheeks begin to burn and she wanted to kick his smug face even as she waited for what would certainly be an unpleasant suggestion. And she had only herself to blame because she’d asked for it.

But then slowly he shook his head. “You don’t have anything I’d want to buy, Ms. Robson.”

Oh, God, she wanted to kick him.

But before she could react at all, Cody and Harm burst into the room as only thirteen-year-old boys and one-year-old blood-hounds can do. “We’re back! Harm got in the mud and I need a towel and—”

Cody wasn’t reckoning on a stranger on the boat. Harm loved strangers. Actually he loved everyone. There was no accounting for taste.

Still, in this case, Neely couldn’t complain. One look at a man on the deck and Harm broke loose from Cody’s grasp. Sebastian had moved the box to pursue her onto the deck. It wasn’t keeping the kittens in the living room. And it certainly didn’t stop Harm as he shot straight through the living room.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “Hang on.”

Too late.

A ninety-seven-pound missile of canine enthusiasm launched his joyful muddy self at Sebastian Savas—and sent them both straight over the railing into the water!

As much as Neely would have loved to stand there and laugh, it would be just her luck for Sebastian to be a nonswimmer. Bad enough that he would probably sue her and her dog for everything she might ever own.

She scrambled down the ladder as he sputtered to the surface, water streaming down his face. “Are you all right?”

She wished he would yell or shout or even threaten her. She wouldn’t even mind if he tried to strangle her dog.

He didn’t. Jaw set, he took the two strokes necessary to reach the side of the houseboat, then began to haul himself out of the water. He didn’t say a word.

Neely watched with wary fascination, expecting to see steam coming off him, and supposing he would be entitled if it did. Two of the kittens were peering over the railing, leaning perilously close to falling in. Harm was dog-paddling cheerfully and grinning at her.

Staying well out of Sebastian’s way as he clambered over the railing, Neely scooped up the kittens, then stuck them back in the living room and dragged the box in front of the open doorway again.

“I told you not to move the box,” she pointed out to Sebastian as he dripped. “I’m, um, sorry,” she added. Though it would have been more convincing if she’d been able to wipe the smile off her face.

Sebastian, of course, didn’t acknowledge it. He turned to watch Harm paddling around the side of the houseboat to clamber up onto the dock.

“I’ll go get ’im,” Cody volunteered quickly, and darted out the front door to do so before anyone could blame him.

But Neely certainly wasn’t blaming him. And Sebastian still didn’t say anything.

She found it amazing that even dripping wet he could still look unflappable. The man really was inhuman.

And then he murmured, “More harm than good?” in a quiet reflective tone that made her blink. And blink again.

Was that a sense of humor?

She wasn’t sure. “Er, yes.” She laughed nervously. Probably it wasn’t.

Sebastian nodded gravely. “Does he do it often?”

Her lips twitched. “Knock people in the water? More often than I’d like, actually. Mostly it’s me, though. I’ve learned not to stand by the railing when he’s excited. He’s still a puppy. Just a year old.” Was that sufficient excuse? Probably not.

“I am sorry,” she said again, finally managing not to smile. She snagged up the last escapee kitten and clutched it in front of her as if it were a shield.

Green eyes met hers. “No, you’re not.”

Their gazes met again. And Neely remembered the first time they had confronted each other—over her “fluffy ideas” and his “phallic skyscrapers.” Something had sizzled then. And Neely, feeling it, had darted away, telling herself it was irritation.

Of course there was irritation now. In spades.

But there was more. If there had been steam before, there certainly was now, as well as something hot and electric and very very intense that seemed to snap between them.

Neely felt an unaccountable urge to fling herself into the cold Lake Union water.

Deliberately she took a deep breath, then strove for a calm she didn’t feel as she met his gaze squarely and said, “You’re right. I’m not.”

And who knows how long they might have stood there, gazes dueling, heat and awareness crackling, if Cody hadn’t returned with Harm just then?

“Got ’im. At least he’s not muddy anymore.” Cody looked hopefully at Neely, then his gaze went straight to Sebastian.

Neely went in and took the dog by the collar. “Thanks,” she said to Cody. But he barely seemed to notice her. He was craning his neck to see past her toward the man still dripping on the deck.

“Who’s he?” he asked.

“A man I work with.”

“Your new neighbor,” Sebastian said firmly, coming in the door.

Cody’s eyes widened and he looked a bit worried as he turned for confirmation to Neely. “Really? Where d’you live?”

“Here.”

That did make Cody’s eyes bug. “With Neely?”

“No!” they both said in unison.

“I’m not moving,” Neely said flatly.

Sebastian’s jaw tightened.

Cody looked from one to the other nervously. “I got homework,” he said. “Math. Lots of it. Gotta go.” And he darted out the door before either of them could say a word.

In the silence that followed his departure, Harm shook himself vigorously, getting Neely almost as wet as Sebastian. She hauled the dog into the kitchen and began to dry him.

Sebastian came after her, loomed over her, still dripping. “I’m not leaving,” he told her.

Neely looked up and met his stony gaze. “Neither am I.”

“I own this boat.”

She took a careful breath. “And I have a lease to rent a room on it for the next six months.”

“I made you an offer of a better place to stay.”

“Oh, sure. With a dog and five kittens, two rabbits and a guinea pig?”

His jaw tightened. He glared.

Neely shrugged. “I’m staying, Mr. Savas. And if you don’t like it, that’s tough.”

CHAPTER THREE

“THAT,” Neely said when Frank opened the door to Cath’s apartment the next morning, “was low.”

She had been fuming all night, pacing and prowling. But only in her room, because Sebastian Savas had taken over. He’d come down from his shower, all clean and pressed looking and set up his computer on the desk by the window.

“My desk?” he’d asked with one raised brow.

“Your desk,” Neely had replied through her teeth.

And so he’d set to work in the living room. And she’d gone upstairs to fume because she certainly had no intention of betraying how upset she was to her new landlord.

She had no qualms about telling Frank exactly how she felt, though. “Really low. Sneaky, in fact,” she said now.

The look on Frank’s face said that he would have shut the door on her and bolted it fast if he thought he could get away with it.

He couldn’t. She’d have ripped it off its hinges to tell him her opinion of what he’d done.

“Um, hi, Neely. I, er…good morning.” He peered at her from behind the door as if it were a shield. As far as Neely was concerned, he needed one.

“Good, Frank?” She raised a brow. “Not exactly.” And determinedly she strode straight past the door, backing him into the living room and flinging the door shut behind her.

“Just a minute. Hang on now—” Frank was backpedaling and glancing behind him, as if to see if the window was open and might provide an escape route, no matter that they were on the third floor.

“Don’t even think it,” Neely warned. “If I want you to go out the window, I’ll push you.”

Frank almost managed a grin at that—as if she were kidding. “Aw, come on, Neel’, you know I wouldn’t have done it if the loan hadn’t fallen through.”

Neely did know it, but it didn’t make her any happier. She gritted her teeth.

Frank shrugged helplessly. “I know you’re mad. I’m sorry. But I couldn’t help it. It just…happened.”

“You didn’t tell me! You could at least have told me!”

“About Savas?” He looked appalled, as if doing that was more than his life was worth.

Neely shook her head. “About my financing falling through! I shouldn’t have had to find it out from Sebastian Savas walking through my front door and telling me he’d bought my houseboat! Your dear friend Greg should have told me.”

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