Behind The Boardroom Door: Savas' Defiant Mistress / Much More Than a Mistress / Innocent 'til Proven Otherwise

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.