His car was the one item he owned outright. He’d lost everything else, but he refused to sell the car. The day he turned eighteen, he’d bought it from the original owner and spent the next two years fixing it up. At first, his brothers had given him crap about it because he could’ve afforded to buy one that didn’t require any work. Hell, he could’ve bought a fleet of cars. But after watching him work under the hood every weekend for six months, they’d started to hang out with him, first watching, and then joining in. Ryan knew shit about cars, but his brother Sean had a natural affinity for mechanics, and his brother Drew for electronics. Between the three of them, they’d restored the red 1975 Corvette Stingray to mint condition and it had become his prized possession.
Not only because it was a hell of a classic car, but because it was the last time he’d spent quality time with his brothers.
The vehicle fit nicely with his image of a playboy millionaire who’d carelessly spent every penny of the five million dollars left to him by his grandfather before his twenty-fourth birthday. Who was he to correct their assumptions?
But he didn’t hear any judgment in Portia’s comment.
He fiddled with the radio, turning on some jazz, trying to keep his eyes on the road. “Thanks. It gets me where I need to go.”
Already, she was driving him insane. He didn’t know what it was about her feet, but he couldn’t stop looking at them. Back in George’s office, she’d obviously figured it out and used it to her advantage, trying to distract him. No, not trying. She’d succeeded. He’d intended to prove she couldn’t walk all over him, but instead, she’d done exactly that. And those legs . . .
“I’m sorry you have to drive me around. I promise I’ll try and find an alternative as soon as I can,” she said, interrupting his thoughts.
“No problem.”
Uncomfortable silence filled the car.
“So, what do you do?” he blurted out.
“I’m a dancer,” she slowly replied.
He imagined her wearing a red G-string and hanging off a pole. His throat tightened, as did his pants. “What kind of dancer?”
“A little bit of everything. Ballet, jazz, tap, you name it.” She sighed wistfully and looked out her window.
Not helping, her explanation didn’t erase the image. Now he imagined her in the G-string and silver-sparkled pasties, doing a fan dance in Vegas.
He undid the top button of his shirt and loosened his collar. “Where’d you do this dancing?” he asked, cranking up the air conditioning.
“New York. I trained in both tap and jazz, but my main love is ballet. When I was lucky, I danced in the chorus of a ballet or musical, and when I wasn’t, I worked at a diner as a dancing waitress. The sad part was I made more money waitressing than dancing.” She toyed with her necklace, a gold chain with a small heart locket dangling from it.
“Wow, musicals. Were any on Broadway?” Thank goodness his mind had shifted to a Portia dressed in a gold tuxedo and top hat doing a dance from A Chorus Line. He’d have to thank his mother for making him sit through that show.
She snorted. Her hand covered her nose and she blushed. That was the second time he’d heard that noise from her. Adorable.
“Not even off-Broadway. Most of the shows were smaller productions, but I loved every minute of it.”
She smiled, but he caught the sadness of her tone. Maybe he’d just found a way to convince her to sell. If she moved back to New York, she wouldn’t need a home in Michigan.
“I know you said you wanted to keep the house, but you’ll never make a living as a dancer here. I mean, we get some good shows, but most of them are tours, not local. If we sold the house—”
She blew out a breath. “I’m not going back to New York. I’ve retired.”
“Retired? You can’t be more than twenty-five years old.”
He was the oldest nephew at twenty-five and his other female cousins were all in their late teens. Portia could easily pass for a teenager if she wore her hair down, and he’d wager anything she’d get carded at the bar.
“Twenty-four. I’m not retiring because of my age. I’m retiring because I tore a tendon in my leg. My career is over.”
He didn’t hear any bitterness in her words. She spoke matter-of-factly as if it was an everyday occurrence to retire in your twenties.
“I’m sorry. I would’ve liked to see you dance,” he said, surprised he meant it.
She shivered. He reached for the fan to reduce the air at the same time she did. Their hands brushed, sending a light tingle through his torso and the air in the car instantly heated. Portia jerked her hand back as if she’d received an electric shock and mumbled an apology under her breath.