Sway With Me (Inspiring the Greek Billionaire) (2 page)

He must have assumed Portia and he were married. “Mr. Pappas—”

“Feel free to call me George,” the man replied, continuing to walk down a long narrow hallway lit by blinking fluorescents.

Ryan and Portia shared a bemused smile as they trailed behind the harried attorney. Why was she following?

“George, I’m afraid there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. Portia and I aren’t together.”

The attorney turned to them and smiled, nodding. “Of course not.” He opened a door and ushered them into his office.

Several stacks of files at least three feet high spanned an entire wall of the office. For such an expensive piece of real estate, his office was surprisingly plain and unassuming. Most downtown attorneys staged their offices to entice and impress wealthy clients. When Ryan had interviewed for internships with the top firms in the city, every one of them contained overpriced, high-quality furniture and impressive artwork, with professionally framed degrees featured prominently on the walls. This guy looked like he framed his degrees himself in cheap plastic, and Ryan had seen the same furniture sold in bargain stores.

It surprised him that his surly uncle would have chosen George for his attorney. From his recollection, Uncle Al was a bit of a pretentious snob.

Ryan and Portia settled in the chairs in front of the desk. She fidgeted in her seat and smoothed her hand over her hair. No doubt checking to make sure her bun was intact. He didn’t understand why she remained.

George went over to the stacks and combed through the files while making a noise that sounded like a chicken clucking. “Where is it? Where is it? Oh, yeah, it’s in my briefcase.” He clucked one final time as he set the case on his desk and opened it. “Here we go. The Will and Trust of your uncle, Alexander Stavros.” He opened the file and dragged his finger down the page, his lips moving while he silently read the document.

Why hadn’t Portia corrected him?

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, George, but again, Portia and I are not together.” And they weren’t related. He would’ve remembered her from the family’s holiday dinner parties.

Portia twisted in her chair to face him, a pink blush staining her cheeks. Her lips parted, but George cut her off before she could speak.

“No, but you are the eldest niece and nephew of my deceased client, Mr. Alexander Stavros.”

Chapter 2

It is engendered in the eyes,

With gazing fed, and fancy dies

In the cradle where it lies.

William Shakespeare,
Merchant of Venice,
act 3, scene 2

Ryan was not her cousin. Fate couldn’t be that cruel, right?

As soon as George had called her a few days ago, Portia had packed up all her meager belongings and bought a one-way ticket to Detroit. After all, she had nothing left for her in New York.

And when she stuck her foot in between the elevator doors and they popped open to reveal
him
, she’d been helplessly frozen to her spot. Because sometime on last night’s bus ride from New York City, she’d dreamed of those caramel-colored eyes. Of that thick, wavy, cinnamon-colored hair. Of dancing with him in a beautiful ballroom. Other than that, she couldn’t recall the specifics, but when she woke up without him at her side, she’d immediately felt his loss.

Her mother, Reina, had always insisted that she and Viola were Muses—women who possessed the magic to inspire creativity in the right men—and that when the fates picked their mates, they’d give them a sign, just as they’d given Reina a sign before meeting Portia and Viola’s fathers. Of course, since those men hadn’t stuck around long enough to meet their daughters, and because Reina was an eccentric free spirit who also heard the earth sing, Portia had always discounted the tale as crazy talk. But one glimpse of Ryan and a small part of her, the part that still believed in magic and fairy tales and happily-ever-after, wished it were true.

On second thought, maybe it would be better if they
were
related.

“I’m sorry,” she said, finally able to use her mouth for something other than drooling. “Did you say we’re related?”

George ceased all motion, which judging by his previous behavior, appeared to be an aberration. With deep creases forming around his eyes, he stared at the two of them, his head moving back and forth as if watching a tennis match. He made that annoying chicken noise again and burst into laughter, his flabby jowls shaking. “No, no. You’re not related. At least not by blood. Ryan is Alexander’s biological nephew, and you, Portia, are his niece by way of marriage. Your Aunt Tina was Alexander’s second wife.”

She vaguely recalled her mother’s sister, whom she’d met only once at Aunt Tina’s wedding to Alexander. Reina had packed Portia and Viola into their VW Beetle and driven overnight from . . . heck if she could remember where they’d lived when she was five . . . arriving at the Greek Orthodox Church only a few minutes before the wedding ceremony was to begin. While Aunt Tina had waited to walk down the aisle, her mother had stuffed Portia and her sister into matching puffy white lace and tulle flower girl dresses, stuck crowns of pink flowers on their heads, and pushed them on their merry way. Portia would’ve almost felt like a princess except her mother hadn’t bought them new shoes and they’d had to wear their old dirty sneakers. As they shuffled down the aisle dropping rose petals along the way, she’d felt the pitying stares of the guests. When she reached the front, she’d burst into tears and fled from the room.

As if clearing the memory from her mind, she shook her head and focused on the present.

Ryan frowned and gave her a sideways glance. “And why are we both here?”

“Alexander left something in his Will for his eldest living niece and nephew. That’s you two,” George explained.

Portia’s foot cramped, no doubt a combination of stress and the heels she’d worn. Automatically, she began doing the exercises recommended by her occupational therapist.
Flex.
Point. Flex. Point
. “But why us? I mean, I didn’t even know Alexander. Why would he leave something to someone he wasn’t even biologically related to?”

Ryan’s gaze lowered to watch her foot, then lifted to her face. She recognized the heat in his eyes, but it was mixed with something else she couldn’t ascertain. Heat unfurled in her chest, and her heart quickened.

George played with the ends of his uneven black mustache. “It’s not my place to tell my clients how to dole out their estate. As his attorney, I wrote up his wishes to the extent permissible by law. As the Executor, I’m to enforce the Will and oversee its provisions. Clearly, he felt some connection to the two of you. Enough that he left you his house.”

The edges of her vision went fuzzy. Her neck tingled and a light euphoria tickled her belly. What was happening?

As if a movie played in front of her, she saw herself dancing in that same ballroom she’d dreamed of the night before. A shadowed man stood in the doorway watching.

The picture changed and now, she was standing on a driveway next to the shadowed man, looking up at a white-brick mansion. Although she couldn’t make out the details, she knew it belonged to her.

Before she could make sense of it, the movie disappeared and reality returned. She was still in George’s office. Her uncle had left her a house. The one she’d just imagined?

“The one on the lake?” Ryan sounded surprised. Glad to know she wasn’t the only one.

George nodded and handed Ryan a piece a paper, which he immediately stopped to read. She leaned over to see what it was.

“I’m confused,” Ryan stated, handing over the deed to Portia. “He left the house to both of us?”

How would that work? It wasn’t as though they could live together. She perused the deed but she didn’t understand much of it. It contained the legal description outlining the legal property boundaries and provided it was owned by the Alexander Stavros Trust. Why would her uncle have left the house to both of them?

“He did. His Trust owns it free and clear, and the Will made provisions to cover any costs of the transfer, so other than property tax, insurance, and utilities, you won’t have to pay a cent,” George said, drumming his fingers on his desk.

“That might be a problem,” she said. Both men waited for her to explain. “I don’t have savings or a job at the moment. I can’t afford to pay those things.”

She had nothing more than a hundred dollars in her wallet and a suitcase filled with clothes at her sister’s apartment. This was supposed to be her fresh start.

“We won’t have to pay a dime,” Ryan said.

“We won’t?” she asked.

“No. We’ll sell it. Even in this economy, the house must be worth more than four million dollars. We’ll each get half and none of the stress that comes with owning it.”

Two million dollars? She could certainly buy any house she wanted with that amount of money. But what if the vision was a sign
this
house was meant for her?

“Well . . .” George shifted in his chair. “Unfortunately, that won’t work. There’s a slight catch.”

“A catch? What do you mean?” Ryan asked, his eyes narrowing.

George reclined all the way back in his seat, his feet no longer touching the floor. “The Will states that the two of you must live in the house for ninety consecutive days before the deed transfers to your names. If either one of you fails to do so, the house will go to someone else.”

Live with Ryan? As a non-practicing “something or other,” she had no qualms living in sin, but she wasn’t even sure she liked the guy. And if she did, that could create another kind of problem. What reason would her uncle have to make them live together?

Ryan stood. “That’s not legal. That’s dead-hand control.”

Now at perfect eye level, Portia took the opportunity to check out his butt. No sag. Just pure, rounded muscle underneath those tight jeans. A noise something like a sigh mixed with a moan involuntarily escaped her throat, and Ryan twisted his head to catch her staring. She dropped her gaze to her knees and yanked on her skirt, trying to appear as though she hadn’t been checking him out, but when she peered up at him, he smirked down at her as though he not only knew the truth, but enjoyed it.

George coughed and she rested her weight on the arm of the chair to see around Ryan’s butt to the smiling George. “Perhaps,” he addressed Ryan’s concern. “But if you wish to contest it, you’ll lose your opportunity to fulfill the conditions of the Will. Do you really want to take that risk?”

“I don’t understand. What is dead-hand control?” she asked.

Ryan returned to his chair. “When the deceased leaves conditions in the Will or Trust he’s controlling from the grave. Apparently, my uncle is as domineering and manipulative dead as he was alive.”

Portia didn’t remember much about her uncle, but Reina had mentioned he was as wealthy as the Vatican and one of three Greek siblings who owned a number of businesses in the Detroit area. Although Ryan’s last name was Sullivan, he certainly looked Greek with skin the color of a cafe latte and thick wavy black hair.

“Yes, your uncle had a particular manner in which he preferred to do business. But, I assure you, there was always a method to his madness.” George handed each of them a business card. “You are required to call my answering machine nightly at ten from the mansion’s residential phone line. Both of you must speak confirming your presence in the home. At that time, the house alarm will automatically arm and stay on until six in the morning.”

Ryan ran his fingers through his hair and chuckled. “My uncle thought of everything.”

“Do you wish to forfeit the bequest?” George asked.

Before she could answer, Ryan chimed in. “Hell, no. We’ll meet his conditions and then we’ll sell the home. It’ll take a few months to sell it anyway.”

How dare he speak for her! She may appear fragile, but she’d never let anyone else make her decisions. “Excuse me, don’t I get a say in this?”

Ryan pivoted to face her and his lips quirked up to one side. “George, could you give Portia and I a few minutes of privacy to discuss this matter?”

George paused as if waiting for her objection then nodded. “Certainly. I’m going to go grab a coffee from the shop downstairs. Would either of you care for a cup?” He tilted forward and slid his short body off his chair.

“No, thank you,” she said politely, starting to feel the burn of Ryan’s glare on her.

“I’m good, George. Thanks.”

As he left them alone in the office, George closed the door quietly behind him.

Ryan rose from his chair and settled his butt on George’s desk immediately in front of her. “Are you honestly willing to throw away two million dollars based on the condition we have to live together?”

Not good. Now she had a direct view of the slight bulge behind his zipper. She gulped and clamped down her budding arousal.

He smiled down at her. “I promise you, I don’t bite. I’ll put the toilet seat down. I always squeeze the toothpaste from the bottom. And I’ll rinse out the sink after I shave.”

Such a sweet talker. No way could she allow him to get the upper hand. If this was going to work, she’d need to assert herself and prove Portia Dubrovsky would not be intimidated.

She stood, wedging herself between his spread legs and looked at him face-to-face. “It’s not that. I’m not comfortable with the idea of living with you.”

His lips pressed tight for a moment before they relaxed into a grin. “The house is huge. Five bedrooms, three and a half bathrooms, plus a bunch of other rooms for whatever your heart desires. We won’t ever have to see each other if we don’t want to. It will be like living in the dorms at college, only with less beer and better food.”

He smelled like soap and man, fresh and clean from the shower, without a hint of cologne masking his true scent. She’d always preferred a man’s natural scent over a manufactured one. Unfortunately, Ryan’s intoxicated her, undermining the firm hand of control she so desperately needed to maintain with him.

She pushed back the chair with a little kick and retreated a step. “I didn’t go to college.”

His gaze wandered down her legs to her feet. “Then equate it with living in an apartment. You see your neighbors, nod cordially, and go on your way without ever knowing their name.” He raised his gaze and smirked as he slid off the desk to stand. “That will be us. We’ll be housemates, nothing more. I’m sure we’ll both be out most of the day, so that only leaves the evenings and weekends. No big deal.”

Darn it.
Short of her standing on a chair, he had the height advantage again. She didn’t know why it was so important to her, but the need to outwit him drove her to distraction. “This is my first day in Michigan. I don’t have a job or a social life. I don’t even own a car.”

His arms folded over his broad chest. “How were you planning on getting around?”

She turned around and intentionally bent over, slipping off her shoes. “I was going to stay with my sister and we were going to share a car. But if I’m living with you—” She felt his gaze on her butt, but she didn’t take offense. That’s exactly what she’d counted on.

“Not
with
me. Just sharing space,” he said with a bit of a squeak on the last word.

She straightened and performed a half
pirouette
to face him once more. “Wow. Does the idea of living with someone scare you?”

He subtly lifted his chin to regard her in the eyes, but she was onto him. He had a thing for her feet. But, if he looked any closer, he’d probably be disgusted. Luckily, the toenails had recently grown back and she’d polished them bright red.

He coughed, clearing his throat. “No. I only wanted to clarify that it’s not the same thing. And until you get a car, I’ll drive you around. I’m between jobs right now, and I don’t have any pressing engagements at the moment.”

“What do you do?” she asked, going up on
pointe
.

His eyes flickered down and up. “I’m exploring my options while taking a short sabbatical from law school.”

Figures.

“That’s how you knew what dead-hand control was.”

He nodded, his attention drawn to her feet as she returned her weight to her heels. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his throat as he swallowed. “Yes.”

“Living off your trust fund while you explore your options?” She’d met plenty of his type in New York and avoided them like the plague. They didn’t understand what it was like to want something as simple as a roof over their head or food in their refrigerator.