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 own 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 like 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….

I flee the room, escaping upstairs like my life depends upon it.

I’m in such a state I know I won’t be able to get started on the nonprofit paperwork I’m supposed to complete. Instead I draw a bath. A bubble bath to be precise. I pile my hair up on top of my head and settle into the mountain of bubbles and hot water. My whole body hums with some peculiar awareness that I blame on Mr. Branson.

The warmth seeps into my skin and I let out a small moan. Closing my eyes, I imagine what it would be like to kiss his lips. When I first met him, this afternoon, I sensed he was angry or disappointed or something. Often people think I’m younger than I am, so maybe he’s annoyed Atkinson and Wainwright sent a junior employee, a candidate instead of a seasoned CPA.

My mind drifts back to his frowning mouth and how this evening he’d smiled a few times over dinner. Especially when he showed me Ben. In the shadowed nursery, I could see how much he loved the boy. The smiles he gives me are different. They’re heated and my body responds in a way that’s both shameful and intoxicating.

My breasts tighten. My nipples harden to stiff peaks and I cup them, imagining how his hands would feel on my breasts. My breathing grows shallow, more rapid. I shouldn’t indulge in dirty thoughts about my client. I know that. I shudder as I cup my breasts. Arousal burns along every nerve in my body.

A noise startles me. A door closing. I jerk my hands away. Mr. Branson’s room must be right next door. I finish washing, feeling guilty and self-conscious about my wild imaginings. It’s not like he could possibly know, I assure myself, as I step out of the tub and dry off.

After my bath, I put on my nightgown and just when I’m about to get into bed, there’s a knock at my door. My heart jumps into my throat and I grab my thick terrycloth bathrobe. I shouldn’t answer the door dressed in a robe, but my feet move of their own volition. I crack the door open and see his handsome face. I’m surprised by how tall he is. Standing so close to him makes me feel like I’m tiny in comparison.

“Yes, Mr. Branson,” I whisper.

His lips quirk as he looks at the way my hair is piled up on top of my head. My friend Anna says I look like a pineapple with my hair like this. It’s not very becoming, but I remind myself, I’m not here to impress anyone. I’m here to work.

“I like the sound of my name on your lips, but I think it’s time you call me by my given name.”

What would Harvey Atkinson and Gerald Wainwright say about me calling such a big client by his first name? He must notice my trepidation because he adds, “I insist.”

“That seems a little…” His scent hits me with a force that undoes my reason and I can hardly think, much less argue.

“I won’t tell if you don’t. Come with me.”

Pulling back, I shake my head. “I’m not decent.”

“I’m only going to show you the full moon from the upstairs terrace. No one will see you but me and I’ll keep one eye closed.”

I can’t help but laugh at his charm. He’s not threatening at all, not like before. Perhaps a little forward, but not menacing. He holds out his hand. I take it and allow him to lead me down the hall. I’ve never touched a client before, much less held a client’s hand. Everything feels surreal, and even though I know I shouldn’t do this, I’m powerless to stop. We step out onto a terrace, the night sky dark with only the hint of the moonrise on the horizon.

A cool breeze blows, making me shiver. Walking barefooted sends a chill up my body. I should have put on my slippers. I’m underdressed compared to him. He’s still in jeans, a long-sleeved shirt and boots.

The brow of the moon crests the horizon, and lifts into the sky.

“Did you know,” I ask, “that the full moon in June is called the Strawberry Moon?”

“I think I heard that once upon a time.”

“It’s the truth. My grandfather read all the time and told me that each full moon has a name and that’s June’s name.”

We watch in silence as the moon ascends. The quiet evening, the stillness of the land, makes the moonrise seem magical. My grandfather loved the night sky and especially shooting stars or other such phenomena. I think about him when I see the starry sky, which isn’t too often, living in a city.

“I’ve never watched the moonrise. Like this.” I stumble over my words, not knowing how to say how special this feels to me.

Will turns to face me. “You really are an innocent girl, aren’t you?”

I feel my face heat. This isn’t really a professional conversation, but I suppose I have only myself to blame. I’m standing on this man’s terrace in nothing more than a gown and robe. If we’ve crossed a line, I’m not complaining.

“I promised my grandfather I wouldn’t date until I got my degree, and I’m only a sophomore.”

“You still have two more years of college?”

“I do.”

He knows that. I told him I’m only twenty, but every so often he asks an odd question or phrases things in a peculiar way.

His beautiful mouth curves into a smile. “You’ll have to go straight to marriage, won’t you?”

I laugh. “And skip dating altogether?”

“Dating is overrated.”

“That’s what all my girlfriends say, too.”

His gaze drops from my eyes to my lips and I’m not that innocent that I don’t know what he’s gunning for.

“It’s been such a long day,” I tell him, taking a step back.

He straightens. “Of course, Rebecca. Let me take you back to your room.”

I’m sorry to leave this beautiful spot and the sweet moment with him. My grandfather’s no-degree-no-date mandate never seemed like a sacrifice before, but I also never had a man like Will Branson inviting me to see the moonlight.

Mr. Branson, Will, has me so confused I can hardly think. When he looks into my eyes, I feel like I’m falling. That sounds like a terrible feeling, but with him, the sensation is pure bliss. There’s something about this place that casts a spell on me.

A sound calls my attention. A plaintive mew comes from a nearby tree.

“Did you hear that?” I ask.

“It’s just a kitten. Probably stuck in the tree.”

I peer into the foliage of the nearest tree. “Can we go downstairs and see if it needs help?”

“It will be fine, Rebecca. If it got up, it can get down.”

Will knows a lot about animals, obviously. He’s a rancher, after all. I’m sure he’s right, but the pitiful sounds make me feel so sorry for the kitten. It doesn’t help that I’ve always wanted a cat, but couldn’t have one. My grandfather wouldn’t have one, or a dog for that matter.

Another sad mewl comes from the depths of the nearest tree. The branches sway and the leaves rustle. It’s quiet for a moment and then a desperate scrabbling breaks the quiet.

I put my hand over my heart. “Poor thing. I’m going to worry all night.”

Will rubs the back of his neck and grimaces. “You want me to get it down, don’t you?”

“Very much.”

“I’m not used to taking orders.”

“It’s just a request.”

“Still...” he shakes his head. “I have people to do things for me. Take care of what I want taken care of, but there’s something about you that makes me want to take care of what you want.”

“You’re doing a good deed for the kitten too.”

I try not to laugh at his grumpiness. It’s true. The ranch is in the middle of nowhere, but there are dozens of people running back and forth to do his bidding. Gardeners, cooks, maids, cowboys.

“You’ll have to pay me, if I rescue that cat.”

Another mew tugs at my heart. “Name your price.”

I cannot believe I just said those words.

He growls in response and stalks back into the house. I follow him down the stairs and out the front door. I’m afraid to step off the porch because I’m barefooted, so I remain at the top of the steps and watch as he hoists himself into the tree. His powerful body vanishes. The tree swishes and I hear his soft voice as he speaks soothingly to the kitten.

A breeze stirs and fades. The night is quiet. I’m not used to the silence of the country. It’s nothing like the chaos of the city. Shouting, horns and sirens. Not huge open spaces and calm. I’m not used to men offering to rescue kittens, either, although I suppose he didn’t exactly offer. But he didn’t refuse.

He drops from the tree, his movements surprisingly agile for such a big man. Clasped in his strong hands is a small tuft of a kitten, her big eyes shining in the moonlight. She mewls and a cat, somewhere on the porch, gives an answering meow. The mother cat trots around the corner and brushes against my leg.

Will sets the kitten down and we stand on the stairs and watch the pair of cats until they disappear into the shadows.

“Thank you,” I tell him. “That was kind of you.”

His eyes hold me with an intensity I can’t resist. He stands a step lower than I do, but he still has several inches on me. We’re close, really close. Facing each other like this feels even more intimate and compromising than looking at the moon on the terrace. I want to back away, but can’t find the will.

“I don’t like cats,” he says.

“Really?”

“Not much. I guess they’re okay, but I did that for you.”

“And I appreciate it.”

He sets his hands on my waist. The touch is light but I know how powerful he is and I’m sure his strong hands hold me just where he wants me. Captive.

“That will cost you,” he murmurs.

“Will it?” My heart bangs against my ribs so hard I’m wonder if he hears.

“I want a kiss for rescuing that kitten.”

I respond without thinking, clasping his head and brushing my lips against his. It’s daring, crazy, impulsive, all things I’m not known for, but the feel of his lips on mine is perfect, and once I start, I don’t want to stop. I give him another kiss, a little firmer. My fingers brush over his scar and a jolt goes through his body. I didn’t mean to touch him like that, or to even kiss him, but when I pull back, I’m glad I did. The look of amazement on his face is worth the embarrassment that washes over me.

“Promise you won’t tell,” I whisper.

“Tell what?”

“That I kissed you my first night here.”

He scowls. “Who the hell would I say anything to?”

“Someone at the agency. My boss.”

He nods, like I’m talking crazy-talk or something. Of course, he doesn’t get what I’m saying. He’s probably never had a boss, and even if he did, he wouldn’t worry about getting fired for poor work performance. Kissing in the moonlight has got to top the list of what not to do with an important client.

He runs his finger under the fabric of my robe and his touch on my bare skin makes me shiver. When he tugs the robe, I know he can see the delicate lace of my nightie, a particularly expensive piece I got from the lingerie shop. I clasp his wrist but it’s no use. He’s so much stronger than I am, he hardly notices.

“That’s a wicked little temptation you have on, Rebecca.” His voice is gruff.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

I was the only girl in the store who didn’t have a boyfriend. They all talked about how much their guys loved certain outfits or fabrics and I never understood what they meant. I do now. He only sees the edge of the nightie but the hunger in his eyes makes me weak.

“Looks fancy. Pricey. Who did you buy that for?”

“I didn’t pay for it.”

His demeanor changes. The air between us crackles with tension as he waits for me to say something more. For some reason, he looks irritated. “That so?”

“They gave it to me. At my last job. All the girls got stuff like this.”

A growl rumbles in his chest. “Have you worn this for anyone yet?”

I shake my head. “Of course not. This is the first time I’ve had it on.”

He nods and keeps his gaze on me. I can see the hard look fading from his expression. “I better take you back to your room. Too much of this moonlight is going to have me imagining all sorts of different things.”

Me and him both.

Neither of us speaks as we make our way into the house and down the hall, but when we get to my room, he sets his hands on my shoulders. “My room is across the hall. Please let me know if you need anything.”

In the dim light, I can’t make out much, but his touch on my shoulders heats my skin, even through the thickness of the robe. Suddenly, I wish I’d stayed for another kiss or three. I don’t know what’s come over me. I’ve never had this reaction to a man. I’m on my first serious job and here I am crushing on the client.

“I don’t think I’ll need a thing. I already feel like a princess. I’ve never slept in a four-poster bed before.”

He smiles and draws a lock of hair from my face. “Rebecca,” he says softly.

The tone of his voice steals my breath.

“Yes, Will?”

He pauses for a moment as if trying to find the words. I wonder if he feels the same thing I do and thinks it’s crazy, too. We’ve just met and yet it seems like we’ve known each other far longer.

Finally, he breaks the silence. “I’m happy you’re here.”

“Thank you, sir. I hope you still feel happy a week from now.”

He laughs and it fades away to a groan. “I’m positive I will still be happy.”

I step into my room and close the door behind me. I lean against it and feel my heart soaring. That wasn’t even a real kiss, but the way his lips felt on mine was heaven. I can still feel the weight of his hands on my hips. When I get into bed, I lie there for a long time, wide awake. This is unethical. Beyond unethical. I feel like I’m watching myself make a terrible mistake, but I can’t hold back. I’m certain that if he wants me to kiss him again, I won’t say no.