Billionaire Bosses Collection. Кэрол Мортимер

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