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
