Matchless Millionaires. Elizabeth Bevarly

inclined his head, then added drily, “Except where you come in is during my damned month.”

      For the first time, though, he could see some humor in their situation.

      Kelly watched as Ryan held up the curtain rod at the level they’d marked on the wall.

      “Okay?” he said.

      “Mmm-hmm,” she responded. She really needed to get her mind off the way his rear end looked encased in those jeans and the way his green shirt stretched across the expanse of his broad back.

      She was reluctantly grateful for the help he’d offered earlier, but she still didn’t completely understand why he’d offered it. Plus, he’d said nothing to indicate his opinion had changed about her negotiations with Webb Sperling.

      She just hoped the wheels of the administrative process at Sperling, Inc. moved quickly from here on out.

      Ryan turned to look at her, and she started guiltily.

      He cocked an eyebrow. “How am I supposed to interpret ‘mmm-hmm'?”

      “Looks good.” Everything looked good.

      “Great,” he said, taking the curtain rod off the wall and stepping off the stepladder.

      He set the rod on the floor and looked around. “Now that we have the right height, I’ll need a screwdriver to get the rod in place.”

      “I’m capable of doing it myself.”

      “Yeah, I know, but humor me. I’d be bored otherwise.”

      “Wouldn’t you be bored if I didn’t challenge you?” she parried.

      His eyes glinted. “With women, it depends on the time and place, but since we are in the bedroom, I’d have to concede you’re right.”

      “Sexist pig.”

      He laughed. “I knew that comment would get a rise out of you.”

      Despite the tremor that went through her in reaction to his words, she decided to steer the conversation to safer ground, and gestured to a pink case on the floor. “It’s in there.”

      He lowered himself to his haunches and opened the case, then looked up at her. “Tool kit?”

      “At least we’re getting in the game,” she shot back.

      She sold the woman-sized tool kits in Distressed Success and used one herself at home.

      He flashed a grin. “I’ll try to adjust.”

      She was fairly sure he meant to the tools and not to women being in the game but still, she asked, “Why should a woman have to beg and prod her husband or boyfriend to get some curtains hung?”

      “I’m all for female empowerment,” he said easily, taking the screwdriver out of the case and straightening.

      “And yet, given a say in the matter,” she shot back, “you’d pull the plug on Distressed Success in a second.”

      Any hint of humor disappeared from his face. “That’s personal.”

      “How is what I do different from what you do?” she pressed. “You’re an entrepreneur and I’m a boutique owner. We’re both trying to grow a business.”

      “I don’t try to fleece people with feminine wiles.”

      “No, you just twist their arm with your money and power,” she retorted.

      His expression tightened. “Are you going to try to convince me your deal with Sperling has nothing to do with your being the daughter of my father’s former lover?”

      She threw up her hands in exasperation.

      “Look, we’ve got different perspectives on this issue and neither of us is going to convince the other.”

      “Agreed.”

      She watched as he climbed the wooden ladder and started to put a bracket in place for the curtain rod.

      It shouldn’t have been so sexy to watch him do a menial task, but it was. He was effectively acting as her handyman and she found it all incredibly arousing, no matter how infuriating she found his opinions.

      She really needed to put their relationship back on a more professional footing, she thought.

      “I need to pay you,” she said into the silence.

      He glanced at her, amusement stamped on his face once again. “Do you know how much I’m worth? The opportunity cost alone would put me out of your price range.”

      She flushed, but persisted stubbornly, “Still, I ought to compensate you …”

      He turned back to put in another screw. “Okay,” he said finally, “but I need a point of reference. How much do you charge for your services?”

      “You couldn’t afford me,” she responded automatically.

      He gave a bark of laughter and looked at her again. “Okay then, we’re even.”

      On the contrary, she disagreed silently. They were far from even and she seemed to be losing ground with every passing second.

      “All right, when I say lift, we’re going to pick up this mattress and set it down upright on its shorter side at the foot of the bed.”

      Kelly blew tendrils of hair out of her face.

      Ryan Sperling, she’d discovered over the course of the past four days, was a man used to issuing commands.

      Still, she knew she ought to be charitable. He’d done physical labor uncomplainingly all week. He’d helped her put up curtains, lay down rugs, move furniture and hang pictures. He hadn’t even balked when she’d announced today there was a change of plan and she wanted to put this bed in another room.

      She watched now as Ryan planted his hands at his waist. “Let’s pay attention.”

      “Right, sorry.” There was no way for him to know what she’d been thinking about, but nevertheless heat rose to her face.

      She grasped the handles at the sides of the mattress and watched as Ryan did the same on his end.

      “Lift,” he ordered.

      When they got the mattress upright, he grasped it around its shorter side and maneuvered it to lean against the bedroom wall.

      Kelly reflected that though Ryan’s help had been invaluable these past few days, it had come at a price: their physical proximity was beginning to wear on her.

      Just this morning, she’d been aghast to discover she’d dreamed about him. And it hadn’t been a sweet dream, either. No. In her dream, he’d come to her, massaged her breasts and looked into her eyes with a look of desire. In her dream, he wasn’t Webb Sperling’s son and she wasn’t Brenda Hartley’s daughter.

      And somewhat more disturbingly, these past few days she could feel his hot eyes on her when he thought she wasn’t looking.

      What’s more, she’d become quite the expert at surreptitious glances herself.

      It was clear, however, that his was an unwilling type of attraction. And she didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended because she felt likewise.

      Of course, it made no sense for her to be attracted to him. From the day he’d walked into Distressed Success, he’d made it clear he thought she was a slut—a floozy, who, like her mother, was one step away from earning her living in one of Nevada’s famous brothels.

      Wouldn’t Ryan be stunned to learn the truth! she reflected. She only wished she was having as much fun as her supposed scarlet reputation warranted.

      “Now the box spring,” Ryan said, heading back toward the bed.

      She sighed.