He’d saved her from the embarrassment of giving herself to him then regretting it in the morning once he tried to convince her to sell. Money was important to him and she didn’t have any. He’d never want a poor, out-of-work, uneducated woman like her when he was used to supermodels and heiresses.
If she made love with him, she’d hand him her heart. She’d give him all of her, just as her mother had done with Portia and Viola’s fathers. What had her mother gotten in return for inspiring the inner artists of those two men? Other than a couple of fatherless daughters—nada. Her mother claimed those men were not her soul mates, but as their Muse, she had a duty to inspire them. Apparently, in her mind, a Muse’s inspiration must require unprotected sex. Portia didn’t buy it for a second. Her mother wouldn’t have given herself to them unless she loved them. And Portia didn’t want to live her life drifting in the wind, endlessly searching for someone to give her life meaning. Her life already had meaning . . . even if she didn’t know exactly what that was at the moment.
Loving Ryan could destroy her. She couldn’t allow that.
She pushed her thoughts of Ryan out of her head and concentrated on what was really important . . . the house.
Later that day, while he cleaned the gutters of leaves, she tackled the dining room, scrubbing the walls and sweeping up debris left from the fire. Holding a broom in one hand, she used it as a partner and waltzed around the room. Whenever she got confused, dancing helped clear the clutter in her head.
There was more to that story about the fire. The creases on Ryan’s forehead and his rigid demeanor when he’d told her of Alexander’s delusion attested to that. She wished he would open up to her. Last night, he’d let the mask slip, and she saw a glimmer of the passion lurking inside of him. His possessiveness, his territorial claiming of her on the dance floor, the way his eyes had narrowed their focus to her, tracking every move she made. She’d never felt more desired in her life. Then something had scared him enough to slam those walls back up and shut her out again.
She was tired of the hot and cold game he was playing, but if she wanted the game to end, she’d have to take the initiative and stop it.
Pulling her cell from her pocket, she took a deep, cleansing breath. She had to do this for the both of them.
She dialed, half-hoping she’d get his voicemail. No such luck.
“Good morning, Portia,” Dillon said smoothly.
Goose bumps prickled all over her skin, and not in the good, ‘I’ve got to have you’ kind of way. Waves of guilt bombarded her, twisting her stomach and squeezing her throat. She closed her eyes and went relevé. As wrong as this felt, it was a necessary evil. “Hi, Dillon. I thought about it, and I’d like to take you up on your offer to go to dinner, just the two of us this time.” With Ryan at her side the whole night, she hadn’t given Dillon a chance. She’d rectify that and hopefully force Ryan out of her mind and, God willing, out of her heart for good. Once she started dating someone, the attraction and flirtation between her and Ryan would end.
“That would be fantastic. Are you available this evening?”
She ignored the sensation of somersaulting monkeys in her belly. “Yes, tonight would be great. I think it would be best if I met you somewhere.”
He chuckled. “I get it. I’m not anxious to have another run-in with your roommate, either. How about we meet at my uncle’s restaurant, Grecian Taverna, at seven?”
Another pang of guilt slammed into her. Not only was she going on a date with a guy she wasn’t interested in to get over her infatuation with Ryan, she was going to eat at a restaurant which competed with Braden’s. Guess when she did something to feel guilty about, she did it to the extreme.
“That sounds fine,” she responded with fake enthusiasm.
“Portia . . . are you sure you want to do this? If you and Ryan—”
“There’s nothing going on between Ryan and me,” she lied, digging her nails into her thighs. She hated to lie, but after tonight, it would be the truth.
He paused. “Okay, then. I’ll see you tonight.”
She hung up and slumped to the floor. Why should she feel guilty? She and Ryan weren’t in a relationship. She wasn’t promising Dillon her everlasting love and devotion. Just dinner. And she owed no allegiance to Braden even if he did lend her a car. If Viola could hang out with Jon—the man who owned the competing restaurant—then Portia could go on a date with the owner’s nephew.
Loud music blared from down the hall. She tipped her head and smiled, recognizing the high note of Steven Tyler in Aerosmith’s “Dream On,” one of her favorite songs. Ryan must have finished the gutters. Where was he?