Then one night, he couldn’t sleep. He’d left his snoring brothers and gone outside for some fresh air where he stumbled upon his uncle sitting in a rocking chair and smoking a cigar. Instead of sending him back to his room, Alexander had let him try a puff of his cigar and a swig of ouzo, the Greek liquor. A half-hour later, he divulged to his uncle about his less than stellar performance in taking Lindsey Malone’s virginity. His uncle assured him that practice makes perfect, but that for a sixteen-year-old’s first time, fifteen seconds was about average. Then he went on to casually mention the failure rate of condoms and all the responsibilities that came along with raising a child. By the time Ryan went to sleep, he’d sworn off sex and his uncle had him thinking it had been his own decision. It wasn’t until college that Ryan figured out how his uncle had manipulated him. Turned out, Alexander was the master of manipulation. Hell, he was dead and still manipulating Ryan.
Yet, Ryan couldn’t deny his uncle had his best interests at heart. Could he possibly have left the house to Portia and him otherwise? Maybe that was what the dream meant.
Thinking back to her response to his earlier flirtations—her nipples hardening, her quickened breathing, her eyes closing and lips parting in anticipation of his kiss—he’d nearly exploded on the spot. Rather than give in to temptation, he’d denied them both and left her sitting alone in the kitchen.
Hell.
They’d spent the rest of the day working on different parts of the house. He’d finally figured out where the leak was coming from, and after researching it on the Internet, he set out to replace the corroded pipe, then fixed the drywall. Hopefully they wouldn’t have to worry about mold, but he’d made a note to check on it in a month.
He spent the rest of his day on a secret project, enjoying the feel of wood under his hands again. Ever since grade school, he’d found solace in sanding down wood and whittling. By high school, he’d gotten pretty good, even catching the attention of the art teacher, but it wasn’t something he wanted people to know about him. He always carried his chip-carving knife in his backpack, and when he’d gotten older, he had one specially designed with tempered steel to fold so he could carry it in his pocket. He’d never told anyone other than the occasional teacher about his love affair with the art of whittling. He was a Sullivan and part of the Stavros family. He was expected to go to law school and join the family in running the multi-billion dollar corporation, not become an artist. But he’d never completely let go of his passion.
And Portia had inspired him to create something beautiful.
Now he found himself planning and designing while he worked on the house. At least it kept his mind occupied on something other than how good it would feel to have her naked body draped over his as they slept in that bed together.
Hopefully, she’d continue to buy his story that he’d bought a bed online. So far, she didn’t seem to mind sharing, and if he got his way, they’d end up naked in it together anyway. Why waste money they didn’t have?
His pacing increased as he continued to wait for her . . . for their night out with a group of strangers. Not exactly what he’d have planned for their first date. But he’d use the opportunity to show her how great they could be together. Once she believed he cared for her, she’d listen to him about selling the house. It was the only way, and he had to convince her of it.
He raked his fingers through his hair. Who was he kidding? He cared for Portia more than he wanted to admit. Every minute he spent with her wrapped him into a tighter knot, but he needed to keep his eye on the prize. Maybe there was a way to have the money and Portia.
Zeus sat on the fourth step, apparently keeping him company. He’d swear the cat had a grin on his face.
“Portia, we’re going to be late,” Ryan called up to her.
“I’m coming,” she responded from the top of the stairs. Her shoes clicked on the first few steps as she rounded the corner and came into full view.
Dressed in a red sequined tank top with spaghetti straps and a short, black leather skirt, she looked like a devilish version of the woman from his dream. Gone was the innocent people-pleaser, and in her place was a woman who’d tempt a priest to sin. She’d left her hair down and added waves to it, so that strands of it curled around her breasts as if holding them in their grasp. Who could blame them? He’d do the honors himself if it wouldn’t get him slapped across the face. No bra straps. His groin tightened at the knowledge. And, as always, her feet drew his attention. Tonight she wore some kind of high-heeled sandal with thin ribbons wrapping around her ankles . . . tied up like a Christmas present begging to be unwrapped.