Matchless Millionaires. Elizabeth Bevarly

finally hit the magic number for Oliver,” Dan noted.

      “Everyone’s got his price,” Ryan said cynically. “Now that Oliver’s given us his verbal okay, I want the transfer of shares done ASAP. The last thing I need is for him to change his mind.”

      “I’m sending the paperwork to his attorney as we speak,” Dan replied.

      After ending his call with Dan, Ryan glanced around the room.

      A noise from downstairs alerted him to the fact that Kelly was still in the house.

      Damn it.

      He felt trapped. It was a feeling he was unaccustomed to and he didn’t like it.

      Suddenly a loud thud sounded from another part of the house.

      Ryan swore and strode to the door.

      Four

      Walking through the open doorway of one of the unfurnished bedrooms, Ryan pulled up short at the sight that greeted him.

      Kelly sat on the floor surrounded by cardboard boxes, curtain rods, yards of fabric and an old wooden ladder.

      She glanced up at him distractedly and he wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or amused. Women never looked through him. He could say without ego that he was a commanding presence.

      She, on the other hand, looked young and fresh faced sitting on the floor, her hair pulled back in a ponytail and her face devoid of makeup. She was wearing jeans and a pink T-shirt that she looked like she’d been poured into.

      After quelling a rush of lust, he reluctantly realized she wasn’t too different from the way she’d been a few years ago. She was young and eager to make her mark on the world, full of bright dreams and hungry to see them to fruition.

      He had to remind himself she was also a scheming little hussy, just like her mother.

      “I heard a crash,” he said.

      He didn’t want to admit to the alarm he’d felt when he thought she might have been hurt.

      “I accidentally backed into a box that I’d left on the ladder.” She shrugged. “It won’t happen again.”

      “I’d be grateful for small favors.”

      Sexual awareness made his tone mocking. She’d been here three days in a row now, and her constant presence was starting to wear on him.

      Every time she’d shown up, she’d been in some outfit guaranteed to entice, though never overtly sexual.

      On Monday, she’d been wearing a short-sleeved striped shirt that resembled many of the ones he owned, except hers had had a bright white collar and cuffs. She’d paired it with midcalf-length black khakis and ballet flats.

      On Tuesday, she’d been wearing an outfit he’d been at a loss even to describe. There’d been some sort of white peekaboo peasant blouse, a knee-length skirt, and peep-toe plaid sling backs.

      Who the hell wore plaid shoes? he’d thought, right before the effect of her whole outfit had slammed into him like a fist of lust.

      He knew she showed up at the lodge before or after her day at Distressed Success and, now that he knew how she dressed for work, he wondered that she didn’t get more male customers. Lots more.

      Today, mercifully, she was dressed a little more normally. Like him, she wore jeans—but that pink top was giving him ideas.

      He looked around in a deliberate attempt to cool off. “You hauled in this stuff?”

      She must have when he’d been on the phone.

      “Yes,” she replied.

      “Tell me you’re not planning to do this yourself.”

      “Have you got a better idea?” she asked, her tone defensive. “I need to stay on schedule with this project, and I need to get things done whenever I can get away from the shop.”

      “Who’s holding down the fort?” he asked curiously.

      “Erica, the employee who walked in when you walked out on Friday.” She added, rising, “Not that it’s any of your business.”

      “You’re right,” he agreed. “It’s not.”

      He should leave. Now. There was no room for misplaced gallantry in his life.

      “I’m about to hang curtains in here.”

      Her message couldn’t have been more clear. She was waiting for him to leave.

      “You’re going to kill yourself trying to get this job done while keeping the shop open,” he found himself saying.

      He was acquainted with eighteen-hour days from his own climb to the top of the corporate world.

      “I’ll get it done,” she said, seeming to want to cut off further discussion.

      “I’ll give you a hand.”

      She looked as shocked as he felt over his unintended offer.

      After a moment, she said, “You’re offering to help me?”

      He shrugged. Heck, even he wasn’t sure what motivated him. “There’s not too much else to do while I’m here.”

      “Aren’t you on vacation?”

      “A working vacation,” he replied. “I need to stick close to the phone and computer.”

      Until I oust Webb Sperling, he added silently.

      He needed to be available for any communications from Dan, and though he had capable managers at his company, El Ray Technology, he had the final say as founder and CEO.

      She folded her arms. “Okay, what do you know about hanging curtains?”

      “I did volunteer work on low-income housing in high school.” He shrugged. “I went to a place where character-building activities were big on the agenda.”

      There hadn’t been nearly enough of the character-building stuff going on in the Sperling family. But he’d managed to hammer and paint his way into Harvard.

      She dropped her arms. “Why would you want to help me? After all, you’d be helping my business and you’ve already made it clear what you think of the direction that’s heading in.”

      “Maybe I’m hoping to distract you so you’ll forget all about Sperling, Inc.,” he said with dry humor.

      “I frown on corporate sabotage,” she said disapprovingly, and he gave a snort of laughter at the earnest expression on her face.

      “Aren’t you on vacation, even if it is just a working one?” she persisted.

      “Not quite a vacation.”

      In response to her inquiring look, he asked, “How much do you know about the lodge and why it was built?”

      “Almost nothing,” she replied. “But there was plenty of speculation among the locals when the house went up, and rumor has it there has been a different man staying here every month since March.”

      “Nathan Barrister, Luke Barton and Dev Campbell,” he said, identifying them. “We were all good buddies and housemates at Harvard. Hunter Palmer was a close mutual friend of ours.”

      “The guy whose foundation built the lodge,” Kelly stated comprehendingly.

      “Yeah, he’s dead.” A wave of nostalgia, then sadness, unexpectedly washed over him. They’d all been young and full of hope back then. Much less cynical and hardened to the world.

      “I’m sorry.”

      He fixed her with a bland look. “It’s been ten years. He died of melanoma right before graduation. In his will, he set aside money to have the lodge built. If each