Secret: My Roommate is a billionaire!!!

He had the good sense to look sheepish. "I, um, just pretended to be with the tour group. I didn't want to bring attention to myself."

Iva couldn't help herself. "So now you're telling me that you came to Vancouver for the sole purpose of consuming Remington's seasoned fries---" she stopped, afraid it sounded like she was flirting when she was doing anything but.

"Oh! You remembered what kind of fries I ordered."

"What does that have to do with anything? We only serve two kinds. It was a lucky guess." Iva made a noise in her throat. She

needed to shut this guy down. "I.D.," she ordered, holding out her hand.

"I'll do that if you hand over your rental lease and cheque number," he countered.

Iva's eyes widened. The nerve! Then she realized that he was teasing---or flirting, but she wasn't going to take the time to figure out which one. "You're the one that hired Britney to represent this house and rent it out. Go ask her."

He took out his wallet and Iva held her breath when he looked up at her through the waves of his hair. Those eyes were penetrating and disconcerting. Why did he have to be so good-looking?

So nice. It would be easier to yell at him and throw him out in handcuffs accompanied by Sergeant Carter if he were a jerk.

When Iva reached over the banister to take his driver's license, their fingers brushed and she suddenly trembled.

Snatching her hand away, Iva's face burned. She was an idiot for appearing so nervous. Besides, she looked a wreck.

Stringy wet hair from the bath, her dirty clothes thrown back on, not a smidgen of makeup. Could it get any worse? She stared at the ID. Yes, it was definitely De-Peyster Cillian Otto the IV staring back at her, a mischievous glint in those buttery mint eyes. The address listed on his license was the very house she was standing in. Darn it.

Britney was right.

Which meant Otto was right, too.

"You've made your point," she said, biting at her lips when his eyes dropped to gaze at her mouth. "Now leave. I have to get up early. Fries wait for no woman, she added, trying to make her voice light, but her voice came out more like a demented toad a mile from the nearest pond.

"But I can't leave," he countered.

What was the man's problem? He was so darn stubborn!

"It's very easy," Iva said firmly. "You walk out the door, get in your car, and drive away. Now goodnight.

"Not so easy, I'm afraid." He gave her a guilty smile. "The Bed & Breakfast is full. I'm too tall to sleep in my car. And this is

my house. I'd planned to be right here the rest of the summer."

Iva stared at him in disbelief. "Doing what?"

"I'm a photographer. I've been hired to take pictures."

"of what? The bridge? There are probably thousands out there in the world already."

"Nope. I'm here on assignment. To take pictures of---well, the bridge from various angles and times of day among other things."

"I can't believe I'm hearing this. I'm not going back to my parent's house."

"But you could. You parents do have a room for you."

"That's beside the point." Iva was suddenly very possessive of this house. Her own Victorian dream house. Hers for the summer. So she could obsess and vent to the rooftops and weep---and, hopefully, get over Noah.