by Sasha Gold
“My grandfather.” She looks panicked. “They used to belong to my grandmother. Her name was Pearl. So he gave her pearls. Because of her…name.”
I drop the strand and nod. “All right. I’ll let you wear them, if they came from your grandfather.”
Her jaw drops and snaps shut. “Right. Okay.”
There’s one thing she needs to understand right from the beginning: I’m in charge. If I tell her she can’t wear something, she’s not going to wear it. I wasn’t planning to, but I just tested her, and she passed. She offers up no argument, she just looks at me for a moment. Her surprised look fades, giving way to a flicker that strikes me as attraction. It’s not a fake, syrupy-sweet interest that I get from plenty of women. It’s a subtle heat.
I cross the room to pour myself a glass of whiskey, needing to get some distance from Rebecca. I’m supposed to be a gentleman and keep my hands off her, at least to start off, but I know that won’t be happening. Damn, if she doesn’t make me want her. A soft, floral scent fills the air and that doesn’t help either.
Davy grins at me and lifts his glass. “Silver-tongued devil. I never knew how charming you could be.”
“Don’t you have something to do? Somewhere to be?” I glare at him. “Other than here drinking my liquor.”
“I reckon I do. Nothing as interesting as this, though, that’s for sure.”
“Go on,” I mutter, pouring myself a drink. “Leave us be.”
He drains his glass. “Don’t pounce on her,” he says softly so she can’t hear.
“I won’t. Not the first night.”
Davy strolls out of the office nodding politely at Rebecca. “Ma’am. I hope you enjoy your stay at the ranch.”
She looks from him to me and back to him again. “You’re leaving?”
“I got horses to feed.”
Biting her lip, she gives a quick jerk of her head. “Certainly. I’m sure there’s always so much to do at a big ranch. Many things. Ranch things.” She waves her hand in the air and gives a breathless laugh. “I’m babbling. Ignore me.”
He disappears out of the room and a moment later the front door opens and closes.
“Would you like something to drink?”
From her reaction, you’d think I’d just offered her prohibition rotgut. She pales and a hand flies up. “No! I can’t drink. Not here.”
I don’t know what that means but I’m not going to let it stop me. I’ve never been around a woman like her. I’m always in control. I fucking live for control and this woman’s making my self-control slip from my fingers like desert sand.
“No drinking on the job,” she says in a let’s-be-reasonable tone. “I don’t want to get fired before I’ve even unpacked my bags.”
Her laugh is tight, nervous, and even though I’m on the other side of the room, she backs away from me a few steps.
“You’d be fired?” I ask.
“So fired.” She bobs her head. “Out the door. And don’t let it hit you on the backside.”
“Backside?” It takes me a minute to understand what the hell she’s talking about. Who calls their ass a backside? This girl, apparently. She looks as proper as a Sunday school teacher and I wonder if that’s an act she’s worked on.
Her silk blouse is buttoned a little too high, but I’ll forgive that, because her skirt hugs sexy, curvy hips. Her legs taper beautifully to the almost-sensible heels she’s wearing. I’d prefer to see her in a pair of strappy heels, ones with an inch or two more of height.
A few girls wore some sort of get-up in their pictures. Schoolgirl. Librarian. Leather corsets. Personally, I hate that shit, but this innocent-girl-look is working for me just fine.
“I’m ready to get to business, Mr. Branson. Anytime you’d like to start is fine with me.”
I take a swallow of my drink trying to ignore the lust licking its way down my spine. I’d like to start all right. I’d start by tossing her onto the couch and stripping her bare. I should take her to the bedroom but she’s fucking with my mind in a powerful way. She’s the perfect mix of innocent and mind-blowingly sexy. I wonder how long she intends to keep up this act.
My preference in women runs along the line of a little more experienced, but for her I’d make an exception.
The aroma of dinner cooking wafts into the study. My cook is making a special dinner for Rebecca and me, and I remind myself that this is supposed to be a civilized process. I can’t just throw this sweet, young thing over my shoulder and storm upstairs like some deranged Viking. I need to put on the brakes.
“Why don’t I show you around so you can get a feel for the ranch?”
She smiles with a look of relief in her eyes. “I would love to see your property.”
“After that we’ll have supper.”
“That sounds perfect. And then if it’s not too much trouble I’d like to see the last three years’ tax returns.”
I stare in disbelief, wondering if I heard her correctly.
She curls her fingers into a small fist and makes a little rah-rah punching motion. “I’m ready to cut to the chase.”
It takes a hell of a lot of nerve to come right out and ask for tax returns, but I have to admire her for her gumption. If I want to sample the goods, it makes sense she wants to see what I bring to the table.
“Damn, well, if you’re that eager, I guess two can play this game.”
She laughs again, shaking her head, a shadow of confusion passing behind her eyes.
“How about we step outside? We can talk a little more while I show you the view from the terrace.”
“That sounds lovely.”
I drain my glass and lead her outside. I set my hand on the small of her back. She flinches but doesn’t pull away and I guide her to the railing. The view from here is breath-taking. When I built the house, I picked this spot because you can see for thirty miles in every direction.
I watch her face and hear her soft gasp. “My gosh. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite so pretty.”
Seeing her face light up makes something warm inside my chest. A hard knot of anger unravels just a bit. Even though she’s made it clear this is a business deal, I can’t help wanting to stare at her and drink my fill.
“I’m sure I’ve never seen anything quite so pretty either.” The look she gives me is part shock and part dismay. “Haven’t your other clients told you that?”
“No, sir,” she says softly. “Thank you.”
The blush that creeps along her neck is no act. I’m certain Miss Rebecca Bloom is a little bit of a liar, but she blushes beautifully. Earlier, I’d pictured tearing her little power suit from her and sinking into her, and reveling in her sweet l body until I couldn’t think anymore. Now, I imagine something slower, more leisurely. I’d like to see that blush again and I’d kiss every inch of it until she begged for more.
Chapter Three
Rebecca
After the tour of the ranch we come back to the house. Mr. Branson says he has family business to attend to and he leaves me at the base of the stairs. The only family I know of is his four-year old nephew, so I guess that’s who he’s talking about, but I don’t know. The only person I’ve met here is Davy, the Ranch Foreman, a man who says seven words an hour, whether he needs to or not.
I have some time before dinner and I relax in my room. My bedroom is amazing. A four-poster bed that’s twice the size of mine dominates the room. The bedding is white lace and I’m sure I’ll feel like a princess when I sleep there tonight. I unpack my bags, hanging everything neatly in the walk-in closet.
I can hardly believe I’m here. With Mr. Branson.
When I first got the assignment, I felt a hundred different emotions. At first, I worried that I wouldn’t be able to handle meeting such an important client, or that I might mess up, but then other feelings came over me. In the few days that I had to prepare for the trip, I spent countless hours looking at images I found online of Mr. Branson.
I’ve been on my o
wn since my grandfather died. I grew up fast, I had too. My life has been very serious, very focused. I need to know Gramps approves of me, it’s all I have. And he was such a hard worker. But I have a confession: had it been anyone else I would have finished my online research in about ten minutes. With Mr. Branson, I wasn’t very serious, or focused.
I allowed myself to daydream, for hours. I indulged in silly fantasies of him. There was a picture of him, taken after he’d ridden a fearsome black bull called Night Stalker. Will was the first one to ride him the full eight seconds and he’s smiling into the camera, his blue, blue eyes a startling contrast with his tanned skin.
This afternoon, when I looked into his eyes, I felt a sense of falling into some sort of dream. It was wonderful, and awful. I cannot allow my feelings for Mr. Branson to get in the way of doing a good job, no, a great job, for Atkinson and Wainwright. Sure he’s handsome, and scary in the right way, but I have a job to do.
His scars are significant. I can see where most people would be shocked to see his face. But I’d done my research, really well, and I knew exactly what every inch of his face looked like.
Since the accident, he hates to be photographed, and he avoids the public, always. Even so, a few creative photographers found ways to catch him on film. And I’ve seen every one of those photos.
The scars run down the side of his face and trail under his collar. Despite that, he’s handsome. Terribly handsome.
And he looks different in person. His face is beautiful. Hard. Chiseled, both face and body. He’s tall and strong and probably twice my size. His eyes don’t spark like they did in the pictures I saw of him when he rode bulls. They’re dark and his gaze is ominous. Like he’s holding something back. Something dangerous.
I’m out of my league, I think, as I finish unpacking my main suitcase. I thought he looked at me with some sort of possessiveness and then he said he’d allow me to wear the pearls. I need to set that aside. Wealthy people are eccentric.
I look out my window at the beautiful backyard. There’s a pool with a fountain and a rose garden. Two gardeners tend flower beds and another man skims the pool.
The ranch looks like a movie set. The house is massive, solid stone with huge windows overlooking the dramatic landscape. The ceilings in the guest room soar twenty feet above me and the bathroom has got to be three times the size of my apartment. A dreamy feeling settles over me as I put my makeup and toiletries away.
When I open my messenger bag, I get a terrible surprise. I should find a MacBook and a satellite phone but there’s no phone, and the laptop is some ancient relic. This is not good. I try to power it up, but it shows no signs of life.
I went by the office before the airport and one of the ladies from HR handed me the bag. I never bothered to check. Candidates at the firm are issued computers and other corporate assets when needed for assignments, and then we turn them right back in. This is the third time I’ve taken a bag and never thought there might be a mistake.
I try as hard as I can not to freak out. So much depends on this trip if I’m going to have half a chance at Atkinson and Wainwright. How am I going to sweet talk Mr. Branson into a letter if I can’t even bring the right equipment? I’m sure Mr. Branson doesn’t have Wi-Fi or even a computer, so I’ll have to write everything down on a notepad and transfer the numbers when I get back.
It’s okay, I tell myself, as I organize my blouses by color. I can handle not having a computer, and no satellite phone. My crappy cell phone doesn’t get service half the time even in the city. So no computer, no phone, no communication except face-to-face, or by turtle-slow regular mail. I can do this. I just need to be resourceful.
I pace the floor and plan a strategy. I write notes on how to proceed and throw all my energy into trouble-shooting. One day, I tell myself, this might be funny. An hour later, one of his staff knocks at the door and calls me to dinner.
Dinner is so fancy I’m a nervous wreck. Mr. Branson’s dining table seats at least twenty. Three glittering chandeliers hang from the ceiling. At either end of the dining room he has bronze sculptures that I recognize from my art history class as Remingtons. Each time the cook brings out a dish, I watch Mr. Branson to see which fork or spoon he uses.
Dinner is something like five courses. Soup. Salad. Little beef cutlets with a savory sauce. Everything about the house is rugged and masculine, but the food looks like it came from one of those fancy cooking magazines.
He is so sweet during dinner and I decide to forget about some of the strange comments he made earlier. I’d taken the pearls off and left them on my bedside table, not sure if they’d offended him somehow. Earlier he’d seethed with a hard, unsettling intensity, but now he’s relaxed. He’s appraising me, but he’s not anything like he was in the study.
In fact, the conversation is lovely. I’m sure he notices me shaking during the salad course and tries to put me at ease. By the time the main course arrives he has me laughing about when he first learned to rope a calf.
Every so often I catch him watching me like I’m some sort of wonder. Like he doesn’t get much company. The idea that he’s lonesome makes me sad. The cook, an older lady, serves the food, but she averts her eyes and hurries away, like she’s a little afraid of him.
His gaze makes my face burn with embarrassment. This almost feels like a date. I’m silly for thinking that, but I can’t help it. Mr. Branson makes my heart race. His scars make him even more handsome.
Michelle, my friend, likes to tell me that when I walk in the room, every guy stops talking or even thinking, so they can check me out. I doubt it. If guys stop what they’re doing to look at me, it’s because I’ve just dropped my phone or bumped into a chair or a waiter carrying a tray of dishes. If I’m slightly less clumsy these days, it’s because she makes me go with her to Zumba three times a week.
I always thought she was just being nice, saying men check me out, because I’ve never dated. Never. Gramps made the rule and I follow it. I haven’t missed it because the guys at school don’t appeal to me. They’re into drinking and partying and hook-ups.
Will Branson is all man. I knew that from the first time I saw pictures of him in his rodeo days, grinning at the camera as he swaggered out of the ring after eight seconds on some monstrous bull. And the way he looks at me this evening has my body responding in ways I’ve never felt before.
We linger over dessert.
“I have a nephew I’m raising,” he says. “I’d like you to meet him.”
I nod, stunned and unsure what to say. I knew he had a nephew, but I didn’t know he was raising him, and I almost can’t imagine him caring for a small child. But very quickly, I can picture him in that role. He’s gruff, but there’s a gentleness there too.
“Do you like children?” he asks.
“Most of them,” I say. I know this is a test and he’s waiting for me to say I adore all children. “I find that if I like the parents, I like the children. Do you know what I mean?”
He smiles. “I do.”
We leave the table and go upstairs, the opposite direction of my room.
“It’s past eight,” Will says, slowing as we get to the end of the hallway. “He’s down for the night.”
I want to know all about him and I don’t want the evening to end either. “Can we just take a peek?”
We step into the bedroom and my breath catches to see the boy asleep in his bed.
“He just turned four and was so excited to get a big-boy bed.”
The boy rests on his side, hugging a teddy bear, his face framed by golden curls.
“He looks like an angel,” I whisper. Mr. Branson grumbles something indistinct, making me smile. “Is he not an angel?”
“When he’s sleeping.”
The look of exasperation makes me almost laugh out loud. It’s fleeting and an instant later, he’s watching Ben once again with a tenderness that melts my heart.
After we leave Ben’s room, we go to Mr. Branson’s study. I feel li
ke I’m in a dream and any moment I’m going to wake up in my efficiency apartment with the alarm blaring. Seeing the way he looked at Ben has done a number on my thoughts. I never thought something like that would make my heart beat faster, but his affection for the small, sleeping child affects me deeply.
He goes to his desk and pulls a file out of the drawer. He comes back to me, just in front of me, and hands it to me.
“Would you like to sit a while?” He gestures to the couch. The invitation feels like something more and the look in his eyes has warning bells clanging inside my head. “I’m happy to answer any questions you have, Rebecca.”
I flip through the thick file. Harvey explained that I just need to get a few figures to get the nonprofit started, I can tell it’s going to take a while. I can’t imagine sitting side by side and trying to concentrate on business. Just being in the same room with him overwhelms my senses.
“I’m actually quite tired,” I murmur. “I should work on this in the morning, with a good cup of coffee.”
His lips quirk, and he folds his arms across the expanse of his powerful chest. His shirt stretches across his shoulders and molds to his upper arms. His biceps flex. I can hardly keep from staring. My gaze wanders to his forearms. He’s folded his cuffs back a time or two, revealing thickly banded muscles. He wears a watch. None of the guys in school wear watches and I’m struck by how different Will Branson is from any man I’ve ever known.
I’ve fantasized about this man for so long, but suddenly, I’m intensely aware of needing to get away from him.
“I think I’m going to take a bath,” I tell him, instantly feeling a hot burn of embarrassment drift over my skin.
He arches his brow and his lips curve a little more. “All right. That sounds like an interesting idea.”
His voice is sultry. I wonder if he’s using that tone on purpose. Am I being vain to think that a man like Will Branson might desire an awkward girl like me?
I back away a few steps, clutching the file. “Good night, sir.”
“Good night, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart….