Savas' Defiant Mistress

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.