Esmeralda frowned at the curt, overly proficient brunette, wearing jeans and a clingy top that made her look emaciated. “Waiting? My appointment isn’t until—”
“Twelve,” Marie finished. “I know. Perhaps I should say he is ‘expecting’ you, then, but he’ll be glad that you came early.” She smiled mirthlessly. “Always better to get business over with, that’s Mr. Benton’s motto.”
Well, don’t I just feel welcome. Esme followed the woman’s hand-wave into the house and looked around the cavernous living room as a prickle of apprehension came back. The woman wasn’t friendly—was she involved with her boss? Esmeralda had encountered the veiled hostility often enough in the past when someone was worried about a man straying. She’d gotten tired of it, in fact, and given up trying to reassure women who disliked her on sight.
“Please follow me,” Marie ordered crisply, keeping Esmeralda from trekking over to an ornate rock fireplace, with a mantel holding a collection of trophies, awards, and pictures of Cody Benton.
They climbed a winding staircase that took them to a second floor and went along a marble hall to the last door. Marie knocked, opened the door as slightly as she had opened the front door, and said into the crack, “Ms. Salinas is here to see you, Rafa.”
A muffled voice answered, and the door swung open. “Go on in, honey,” the brunette said, suddenly catty.
Thank you, sweetie. Esmeralda ignored the dig.
Across the room, behind a huge mahogany desk, Rafael rose gracefully, smiling, and she walked toward him, remembering again all the unease and dark feelings she’d had since running into him in the club kitchen.
He held out a hand, nodding at her as she arrived, and greeted her politely. “Ms. Salinas! Thanks for coming. Please, sit down.”
He sat after she did, and seemed momentarily at a loss for words. After a brief pause, though, he gestured at a nearby bar full of bottles and cut glass decanters. “Something to drink? Tea? Water?”
“No, thank you. Mr. Benton, my aunt asked me to come here to interview for some job she thinks I might be interested in. I’ll be honest—I have a profession, and I hadn’t planned on working this summer. I don’t think I’m interested in anything you could offer.”
Sparks danced in his eyes, chispitas of fire that burned. “Nothing?” he asked, dimples slashing his bronze cheeks. Then he shrugged and the slow-burning fire died away as the businessman he had to be took over.
“I don’t know that you’d meet the qualifications, either, but perhaps we should both look at the situation. I’m not offering a common job, and I don’t expect the applicant to accept a common salary. Because of the extremely complicated situation, I’m offering a salary—with expenses covered—which could close in on two hundred thousand. For six, seven weeks—maybe two months, tops.”
She stared at him, shocked. “You’re serious?”
He nodded somberly.
“Wow.” Disbelief still clutched her. “This isn’t a joke? I don’t have to hurt or kill or destroy someone?”
This time he shook his head, just as serious.
“Wow,” she said again, and just stared at him for a long time.
What kind of temporary position was worth more money than she could make in three years as a school counselor? For two months? She ran a hand through her hair, mussing it and not caring, then clutched the clunky necklace as if it could answer her questions.
What would she even do with close to a quarter million dollars? Unbidden the thought came: I could save Tía’s. Couldn’t I? But . . .
“I guess you’ll have tons of candidates to sift through,” she said at last. Why did she pretend she could win a job with that kind of salary? It couldn’t be clerical, could it? She could do correspondence and she was trained to deal with upset parents and children. She’d had training in suicide prevention and CPR. On a purely practical level, she didn’t consider herself worth a six-figure income for secretarial work. So what did the man want?
“I’m going to break all the rules and tell you you’re the only candidate I’ve considered so far.” He leaned back and locked his hands behind his head, watching her intently. “The job I need filled isn’t one I can advertise for.”
He might have seen something change in her expression, because he leaned forward again so abruptly he startled her. “Just to be clear, I don’t necessarily think you’re the best candidate. I’d need a lot more information. But I promised your aunt I’d at least consider you.” He paused again, then sighed. “Your aunt’s recommendation doesn’t help you. You should know that, too. I . . . we . . . detest each other. Unfortunately, sometimes that’s not reason enough not to deal with each other.”
She shrugged and shifted in her chair, crossing her legs. “I’m a big girl, Mr. Benton. I don’t expect family to get me jobs. I never have.”
He rubbed a hand over his chin, and she thought he suddenly looked tired. Or sad. She couldn’t imagine why he would, though, and so she lifted her eyebrows and gave him a tight smile. “Before I give you any additional information, Mr. Benton, shouldn’t you tell me what this very lucrative position is? Because there are things I’m sure your money can’t buy.”
“I wish that were true,” he said, more to himself than her, his eyes fixed on his cell phone, though she hadn’t heard it ring or vibrate. Then he tossed it aside, straightened, and speared her with hard, dark eyes.
“My money needs to buy you,” he told her flatly. “I need to hire a temporary wife.”
• • •
I could have handled that better. Duh. He sighed and retrieved his cell phone, checking that nothing cracked when he’d tossed it. He skimmed the switch, and Justin’s innocent face peered up at him.
“Sorry, chiquito. That was about as dumb as it gets,” he muttered, standing and pushing the phone into his pocket. He walked over to stare out the window, looking out, seeing her pick-up disappear into the part of the drive hidden by cedars. She’d made her escape.
Damn. He leaned his forehead against the air-conditioned glass, hoping the smooth, icy surface would help him recover his composure. He wanted to buy her? Sure as hell not what most women wanted to hear from a complete stranger. He’d let his distrust—and dislike—of her aunt color his words. His father and mother would be horrified if they had heard him. Of course, they were the reasons for this subterfuge, this whole desperate shot at repairing Justin’s broken life. His parents and Doug Harper, he amended. Hadn’t that s.o.b. done enough damage without starting to bare his damn fangs and mutter he was Justin’s father and wanted custody? Parasitic, blood-sucking creep. The phone almost flew again, but he settled for slamming the desk with his fist, hard enough that it hurt. He could blow things so easily, not just as far as being awarded custody himself, but even endangering the temporary rights extended to his parents. If Harper was Justin’s father and found out that Rafael had entered a marriage primarily to look better in a custody dispute—and to placate his own parents—it would be easy to twist his motives to hell and back. Harper could claim that Rafael’s own parents didn’t trust him with Justin. That a man who would pay a woman to be his wife, wasn’t fit to be a father. And then his parents would face the attacks in social media and some business circles when their relentless belief in marriage before parenthood became a controversy again.
Cody had faced questions over that when news of her pregnancy first broke. A disgruntled Benton employee had accepted a settlement after suing the Bentons for creating a hostile work environment by actively encouraging marriage at company functions. A particularly vicious gossip reporter even had the nerve to bring the Bentons’s well-known views on marriage up as one of the reasons Cody embarked on her path to self-destruction. The Bentons had embraced their first grandchild and gone on loving Cody, even without a husband in the picture. Sure, they’d made offers to help the father if he married her, and sure, they wished Cody’s choices were different. But he still could hardly believe the attack they’d suffered over their own p
ersonal belief in marriage. He could give them the comfort of a traditional marriage for Justin until the danger of predatory “fathers” claiming the child faded away. And someday he would marry for real. His birth parents hadn’t married, hadn’t wanted him—hadn’t even known him. Every child deserved better, and he could take the first steps to ensure that Justin had a solid future.
That meant he needed to set things right. He doubted Esmeralda would be interested in the position, and he didn’t blame her. But she was one more person who knew whatever woman stepped into the small town spotlight of Truth, Texas, would be an actress, a woman pretending to be his life partner. He couldn’t afford to have her spoil everything, especially given the danger to his plans her aunt already represented. He sighed heavily, feeling a grinding weariness that hadn’t bothered him in years.
He tapped a button and spoke into the intercom. “Marie, I need to know where to find Ms. Salinas. Let me know right away.”
He thought Marie huffed, but maybe he imagined it. He sighed. Marie was efficient and she needed the job desperately. She supported two aging parents. But sometimes he worried that she thought because there was no one permanent woman in his life, he was actively looking. She was the least of his problems, but a temporary marriage might even help assure that Marie knew he wasn’t available—at least not to her.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, and walked over to look out the window. Roses and bougainvillea were a riot in the stone-ringed gardens below. The Hill Country weather wasn’t optimal for the decorative plants, but given his gardener’s devotion and skill, they flourished. The bright gardens lightened the house’s dark mood, and he couldn’t say he minded that. When he’d followed his sister here, the house already had its damning name, Witches Haven. But he supposed he hadn’t exactly helped soothe the locals’ distaste for the property.
Marie knocked on the door instead of using the intercom, which he would have preferred. “She’s not at her aunt’s house, which is where she’s living, according to the man who answered the phone there. He thought she might have gone to Tía’s, or maybe she stopped at Irving Peterson’s to see her horse.”
“Thanks, Marie.”
“My pleasure,” she murmured. “Anything else you want, boss?”
He shook his head. “No. You may go.”
She shrugged and slid out, closing the door a little loudly between them.
He picked up his keys and his phone and headed out to find Esmeralda Salinas.
• • •
She wasn’t dressed for visiting Domatrix. The Petersons’ car and truck weren’t in the drive, but they’d told her she could just go down to see her horse anytime she wanted. She trekked carefully across the uneven ground, a little afraid of stumbling on a rock and twisting an ankle. Heels weren’t a good idea over Hill Country terrain, unless they were shorter and stubbier and on a pair of boots. She stopped halfway and glanced at the truck, parked back near the house. Maybe she’d just go home and change.
But she couldn’t, because Domatrix suddenly appeared from behind the wall of her shelter and whinnied pitifully. And loudly. Then she trotted back and forth along the fence line in desperation, stopping again after a moment to stomp the ground and whinny again.
Laughing, Esme discarded any idea of leaving and went to pet the mare.
“You big baby,” she scolded. “I dropped by yesterday. And Connie told me she gives you home-baked cookies every day, which you’ve never gotten in your life. In fact, my friend, at your age you should be careful of sweets.” She stroked a hand down the sleek neck, glad that there were few signs of the mare’s seventeen years. Constant care and gentle use worked wonders for horses, apparently.
Domatrix snorted and snuffed, reaching out to blow against her cheek.
“Look, let me go change and I’ll come back and ride you. How’s that?”
Domatrix’s head went up suddenly and her ears pricked.
Clearly she wasn’t alone any longer. Careful not to dig a heel into the rocky ground and trip herself, she turned to find Rafael there, even though she hadn’t heard him pull in.
The man who’d offered to buy her had followed her here? She frowned, anger flaring through her.
“Stalking me, Mr. Benton? I believe I refused your kind ‘job’ offer!”
He stopped where he was, and held out his arms, palms outward, as if to reassure her. Or fight her off if she lunged at him, which she was sorely tempted to do. The click of a heel against a rock stopped her, though, so she just glared at him, her hands knotting into fists again as she fought her own temper.
“I didn’t follow you here. I’m not a stalker.”
She snorted. “You just showed up at this shed in a mud field by chance? Please! How stupid do you think I am? Wait—don’t answer. You mistook me for a whore, so you’re pretty stupid!”
He looked . . . shocked. Appalled, maybe. His mouth opened slightly, wordlessly, and then he pressed his lips together, ignored her, and walked over to the fence.
“Hey, pretty girl,” he crooned, and the usually finicky mare went right up to him.
Traitor. First Connie, and now you’re in love with this . . . this. “Do you have some reason to be here?” She kept her tone neutral this time, though, not willing to show how furious—and uneasy—his coming here made her.
He half-turned toward her, leaning on the fence, and Domatrix leaned her head over his shoulder, looking like she, too, was waiting for his answer.
“You need to know that I was—am—offering someone a very legitimate position, Esmeralda.” He gently pushed the mare’s head away and stepped a little closer. “Look—I spoke stupidly. Agreed. But it wasn’t how I meant to say it, and . . . ” He shrugged. “I’d love to go some place you choose and explain myself.”
“We don’t need to go anywhere. I got the gist—you’re offering me money to go to bed with you. Does calling it a ‘temporary marriage’ make it any cleaner or more proper than calling it ‘hooking up’ or ‘shacking up’ or . . . ”
“You’re the one who brought up sex,” he pointed out. “Makes me wonder . . . ” He shook his head, chasing away whatever he was apparently thinking. “I offered marriage.” He waggled his bare ring finger at her. “Gold ring, pre-nuptial agreement, license in the courthouse, marriage at church if you want . . . marriage.”
“And just why would you be doing that, Mr. Benton? And how is that not paying for sex?”
The sounds of tires crunching down the drive kept him from answering. The Petersons were pulling up to the house. Connie slid out first, then waited until her husband came around the truck to grasp her arm and pat her shoulder, leaning close to say something that made her nod. Together they walked over, never letting each other go.
Now that’s marriage. Esme smiled as the two reached them, stepping forward to kiss Connie’s cheek.
“Hi. Just dropped in to tell Domatrix I’d come ride a little later. Do you all know Rafael Benton?”
“Phillip Irving,” Connie’s husband introduced himself. “And this . . . ”
“Is Connie, right?” Rafael shook Irving’s hand, but smiled warmly at Connie. “You work over at the Bait and Wait, right? You’ve sold me bait the last couple of times I decided to waste a day on those legendary big mouths in the lake!”
Connie flushed, but looked pleased he knew her name. “There are fish there, but I don’t deny they’re tricky ones. You gotta fish years to catch a good ’un!”
“Is that where the ‘Wait’ part of the name comes in?”
Connie laughed. “That, and the owner’s wife Ellen used to have snit fits every once in a while. Wouldn’t wait on anyone she didn’t cotton to.”
“So . . . should I ask where Ellen is now?” Rafael asked.
“She’s okay—hasn’t run off or passed, if that’s what you didn’t want to find out,” Connie chortled. “She’s found being a grandma’s more fun than being a worm saleswoman.”
Everyone laughed at Connie’s tale and
for a moment, the tension eased. Then lines of worry filled the older woman’s face. “Guess I should say I worked there, Esme, Mr. Benton. They let me go today.”
“Why?”
Irving shook his head and patted his wife’s arm again. “Told my Connie not to worry. Times are hard, and the owner said he can’t afford help—just not many people stopping by and his oldest boy don’t have a job, so he’s fillin’ in for his pa.” He shrugged weary shoulders. “It’s what should be, families helpin’ their own.”
“I don’t begrudge ’em,” Connie added. “They gave an old woman a job when lots of folks wouldn’t. It’ll just take getting used to.” She forced a smile. “Why don’t y’all come have some sweet tea? I’ve got some nice and cold, just waitin’.”
“No, thanks,” Esme and Rafael chorused together, drawing a look of speculation from the elderly couple.
“I’m not dressed . . . I . . . had a business appointment,” Esme explained, not looking at Rafael. “I’m going to go home and change, then I’ll come ride, if that’s okay.” She smiled. “I’ll have a glass of tea then, if you’ve still got some.”
“I have to go, too,” Rafael put in, and Esme knew he’d shot her a glance before addressing the Petersons. “Nice to meet you, Irving. Connie. Hope things work out for you both.”
“Ms. Salinas, wait . . . ” She turned as he fished a business card and pen from a pocket and jotted something down. “Here.” He extended the card, and she reluctantly reached out to take it. No point in making the Petersons part of this whole charade.
“That might help you with the questions you had about jobs around here,” he added smoothly, then nodded again to the Petersons and left. When he started backing out, she said goodbye again and walked to her truck, buckling in and checking the rearview mirror before curiosity got the best of her and she glanced at the card again.
Lillie Mae. Silver Boot and Booty. Ask her.
Lillie Mae. She’d spoken to the woman weeks ago, when she checked out the Irvings before considering their place to board Domatrix. She’d only been in town a couple of days, but she’d heard the name everywhere. An old woman, from what little she knew, whom everyone in Truth seemed to adore. And she knew the Silver Boot and Booty—the newest bar in town, right next to the traditionally named Silver Dollar, which she supposed had been the first building in town. But why she was supposed to go talk to a strange old lady in some bar that represented a real economic threat to her aunt?
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