Her Billionaire Rancher Boss Read online

“I’ve got to get ready for church,” Lucia said with a wave. “I’ll see you later.”

  Traitor. But Lucia didn’t hear the insult Pilar thought at her and beat her retreat.

  She faced down her boss, shoeless on a Sunday morning. “Did I forget something at work?” she chirped.

  “No.” He took off his hat, tapped it against his thigh. It hadn’t even mussed his hair. How did he do that? “I thought I might take you to church.”

  To church? That wasn’t discreet or private—that was dating.

  “I go to the Spanish Mass,” she said.

  “I know. I speak Spanish.”

  “You speak Castilian,” she countered.

  “Huh. I didn’t know the Spanish translation was so different from the English.” He grinned at her.

  Beast. Of course he’d be able to follow along—she’d only wanted to give him an out. And he wasn’t taking it.

  She wanted to cross her arms and glare at him, but that would be impolite. “I thought this was supposed to be a secret.”

  He sighed. “Maybe this was a bad idea. But… I really wanted to see you.”

  Jesus. Did he intend for her insides to liquefy when he said that? “I… I missed you too.”

  It was true. She’d spent yesterday wondering what he was up to. Did he spend his weekends working? What did he do for fun? He must have fun sometime. He laughed too much not to.

  He ran a hand through his hair, pushing back that unruly bit she loved, and gave her an intent look. “If you don’t want me to take you, I won’t,” he said. “But I really, really want to.”

  Walking into Mass with Benedict Merrill was going to be a whole new level of notoriety. If they weren’t swarmed at the end of the service by curious parishioners, she’d eat a hat.

  But she was leaving in three months. Of course, she’d come back to visit, but she wouldn’t have to live every day with the gossip. And why not leave in a blaze of glory? Or at least the minor blaze that attending church with Benedict would ignite.

  “Sure, why not?” she asked.

  Wait, had she just used the exact same words as when she’d said yes to this affair business? What was it about this solid, responsible man that made her so reckless?

  That smile he was giving her right now, the one she hadn’t even known existed before agreeing to his crazy, sexy scheme—that smile was probably the reason.

  “We can get some menudo at Pancho’s after if you want.”

  He knew the way to her heart. “If you’re buying, I’m eating.”

  He looked toward the front door questioningly. Oh Lord, she’d have to invite him inside, and the place was… Well, she hadn’t been expecting company. Maybe he’d wait here while she got her shoes?

  “Is Javier coming?”

  Crap. She’d rather he’d asked to see the house. “He refuses to come to church,” she answered stiffly. That had been a battle royale, one she’d lost. “But he came home last night.”

  Little victories. She had to savor the little victories.

  “Well, it’ll just be the two of us then.” He held out his arm for her.

  So chivalrous. A girl could get used to this attention. And the look in his eyes, as if she’d made him so happy. And proud. It looked a lot like… like love.

  And that didn’t completely scare her.

  She stepped toward him, meaning to take his arm and—

  “Crap.” A pebble on the walkway cut hard into her heel, right through her tights. “Can you wait here while I get my shoes?”

  Pilar could confidently say she now knew how rock stars felt—if they were the kind of rock stars who went to church.

  Every eye was on them as they walked down the aisle. She picked a likely looking pew—near the middle, kind of empty—made her reverence, and sat down.

  Benedict acted as if he didn’t notice at all, coming to sit next to her with easy assurance, as if he always attended this service, as if no one—instead of everyone—was staring at them.

  Her parents’ friends peered with suspicious gazes. Little Pilar Lopez coming in with Benedict Merrill was not good. They were worried for her.

  But her friends… her friends stared just as hard, but with a winking twist that said, Benedict Merrill? How’d you do that?

  He asked me to have an affair. And I said, Sure, why not?

  She coughed into her hand to keep from laughing out loud. Laughter was certain to make the older generation that much sniffier about the entire situation.

  Benedict leaned in, not lasciviously, but almost husbandlike. It gave her hot chills all over, the way he bent himself toward her.

  “All right?” he asked softly.

  “Yeah.”

  She tried to keep her attention on the service, but it was difficult with him next to her and everyone’s covert attention on them. For his part, Benedict went through the Mass with an expression of attentive serenity. Some of the nosier ladies could take lessons from him on maintaining a properly reflective demeanor.

  After the service ended, they were mobbed as she’d predicted. But not just by curiosity seekers; several prominent people stopped to talk to him about projects he was involved with in the community. Standing next to him, making small talk with the spouses as Benedict went about being… well, Benedict, she felt rather First Ladyish.

  And she liked it. Which she shouldn’t have, considering she wanted to be free of the Merrill family and not dating one of its members.

  Later, they were tucking into steaming bowls of menudo at Pancho’s, the place surprisingly slow for a Sunday morning.

  “Does everyone stare at you like that every Sunday?” he asked casually.

  “Pfft. Everyone was staring at you and you know it.”

  The bells on the door jangled as a couple came in. The man spotted them and called out, “Benedict! How are you today?”

  Benedict nodded and said, “Pretty good. And yourself?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  They went up to order and Pilar leaned in toward Benedict and whispered, “You’re always on, aren’t you?”

  His jaw twitched as his expression went wary. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean whenever you’re out in public, you have to be Benedict Merrill. Everyone in this town knows you or your family. Everyone expects you to be this—this community leader, successful businessman, glad-hander all the time.” The easy, funny Benedict he was with her when they were alone—that wasn’t the Benedict the rest of Cabrillo got.

  He swirled his spoon through his bowl, studying it grimly. “I’m not complaining about it,” he muttered. “I know I’m lucky to have the life I do.”

  “I never said you were complaining.” She didn’t think she’d ever heard him complain, not once. “Just that it must be exhausting.”

  He smiled, all wry self-deprecation. “I’m not a rock star or anything. Once I leave Cabrillo, no one gives a damn who I am.”

  She’d care. No matter where he went.

  Which meant that when she left Cabrillo, she might not leave her feelings for him behind. They might be too deep to easily shake off.

  Crap.

  She took a sip of coffee, trying to corral her thoughts. And her silly feelings.

  “Well, I guess you’re used to it,” she said, “being stared at like that.”

  “Me? Why would they stare at me?” He gave her a lazy perusal. “Now you—who wouldn’t want to stare at you?”

  Heat bloomed on her skin. “I thought we were going to be discreet. Secret lovers.”

  “I was discreet. You wouldn’t believe the things I was imagining during Mass—and I never did one.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh. “And here I was thinking that you were just being pious.”

  His gaze went hot. “I’m good at looking innocent. In fact, I’m imagining all kinds of things—things involving you naked—right now.”

  She dropped her voice. “You can’t ravish me in Pancho’s. The menudo’s too good—I want to be able to
come back here again.”

  His laugh was addictive. The more he did it, the more she wanted to make him do it.

  “God, I really did miss you,” he said.

  Missed her? But he saw her all week. Of course, she’d missed him too…

  “What did you do yesterday?” she asked. “Did you work?”

  “Most Saturdays I do,” he admitted. “But I had a lot of thinking to do yesterday, so I went for a long ride through the preserve.” Before she could ask him what he’d had to think about, he went on: “What did you do yesterday?”

  “Chores. Painted my nails. Read.” A boring Saturday. Which were sometimes the nicest kind.

  “Your e-reader working out well then?”

  It had been a Christmas gift from him two years ago. At first she’d thought it was impersonal—that everyone who worked for him got one. But when he’d asked her if she liked it and what she was reading on it, she realized he’d bought it just for her. Because he knew she liked to read.

  She’d never explicitly told him that, but he’d known.

  “I love it,” she told him. “But I think you already know that.”

  The moment between them slowed, stretched.

  “I do,” he said carefully.

  “And you know I eat peanut butter sandwiches every day.”

  He pulled his spoon through his bowl, his gaze never leaving hers. “I do.”

  “What else have you noticed about me?”

  He dropped his spoon, his gaze taking on weight. “We’ve worked side by side for five years. I couldn’t help but”—an odd catch there, as if he meant to say something different—“couldn’t help but notice things. You probably noticed stuff about me too.”

  If someone had asked her a week ago what she’d noticed about Benedict, she’d have given some quip about his ass in Wranglers. But she would have been using that flippancy as a shield, to deflect from the truth she was only just now beginning to understand.

  She’d noticed that he was decent, and responsible, and thoughtful. Not really nice, at least not how most people used the word, but… compassionate. Considerate.

  On some level, she’d known that before. He had, after all, given her the job. But seeing this new, easier side to him made her understanding of him go beyond the superficial.

  And her attraction to him went beyond that as well.

  She swallowed hard and tried to come up with something light, amusing. You didn’t tell a man that kind of stuff over menudo in Pancho’s.

  “You like to read too,” she said finally. “But only nonfiction. And thrillers. You like those.”

  He went still, attentive. As if deeply curious to know what she knew about him. “Yeah. What else?”

  “You like baked salmon with garlic mashed potatoes for lunch.”

  A smile twitched at his mouth. “Well, it beats peanut butter sandwiches. Go on.”

  Food and books: stuff that almost everyone liked. She wanted to give him something more personal.

  “You’re very focused,” she began. “You work hard, not to build wealth for yourself but for your family. To preserve what was passed on to you so you can pass it on to those coming after. You feel responsible for everyone around you—and feel it deeply when you can’t protect them all.”

  Maybe that was too personal. But it beat I might be falling in love with the way you care for me.

  He stared at her, food forgotten, his gaze starkly open. “Are you talking about me?” he asked slowly. “Or yourself?”

  Whoops. When she’d wanted to make her answer more personal, she hadn’t meant to get so… personal.

  “Maybe both of us,” she admitted shakily. “But this is much too philosophical for a Sunday morning.”

  “What better day to get philosophical than on a Sunday?” His gaze was too intent, too piercing—it made her feel exposed. Unnerved.

  “Not this Sunday.” Cheery and light as she tried to get away from this heavy mood between them. “I have to go repair sink pipes—can’t be too philosophical then.”

  “Your sink is leaking?” The way his mouth set made her heart drop. She hadn’t been fishing for help.

  “I’m not asking you to fix it,” she said. “I can handle it myself.” Oh, much too rude and snappy, but wasn’t the whole point of this to stop having Benedict do things for her? It didn’t help that in her heart of hearts, she wanted him to fix the sink. Mucking about down there was not her idea of a good time.

  It didn’t matter how much she liked having him fix stuff for her—falling in love with him because he took care of her would be the worst mistake of her life.

  “I know you can handle it yourself,” he said quietly. As if she’d hurt his feelings. “But I want to do it for you.”

  And now she felt all bitchy. He didn’t know she was tied up in knots about continually taking his charity. He thought they were just having an affair—he probably fixed all his girlfriends’ sinks. He was that kind of guy.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you,” she said. “If you really want to take a look, you’re welcome to.”

  An hour later he was under her sink, doing something pretty strenuous with a wrench, while a fearsome smell came from the disconnected pipes.

  “I guess I should have cleaned out the pipes before you did this,” she said weakly, holding her hand over her nose. He was going to ruin that shirt of his. And the smell was probably getting into his hair.

  “No worries,” he called from under the sink. “We’ll just pour a shit ton of drain cleaner down it when I’m done.”

  She propped her hip against the kitchen counter and watched him work. Or watched his legs, really, since the rest of him was under the sink. Having a man fix something for her was pretty nice.

  Having Benedict Merrill fix something for her was better than nice. He was lean hipped, flat stomached—and the way he cocked one leg was kind of hot. Which was kind of silly, because all he was doing was bending his knee, but it did things to her to see him like that in her kitchen. Relaxed enough to get underneath her sink and cock his leg as he worked.

  Her parents had spent countless Sundays just like this, her dad fixing something around the house while her mom watched and gave advice.

  Pilar slid her hand along the counter, her fingers finding the note Javier had left.

  Gone to Hugo’s—won’t be back till tomorrow.

  Never asked if he could, never told her what he might be doing at Hugo’s—she might have been his roommate for all the consideration he’d shown her.

  But at least he’d left a note.

  Don’t let him get into trouble, she prayed. Please give him the sense to stay out of trouble.

  Benedict swore at something from under the sink, and a wave of stench came from the drain. Poor guy, stuck fixing her sink and getting coated with stinky gunk on a Sunday.

  She sighed. Real life was so very unsexy. If only she lived in a romance novel—then they’d be banging on the kitchen counters by this point.

  “What time is it?” he called from under the sink.

  “About three,” she answered. He had to be home in time for Sunday dinner—the entire Merrill family gathered for dinner on Sunday nights and had for as long as she could remember.

  She wasn’t a Merrill, so she’d eat some frozen entree from a cardboard tray here at home.

  His hand came out from the cabinet and felt around the floor.

  “Do you need something?” she asked. Finally, she could be a little helpful.

  His amazing stomach tightened as he lifted up to look out. “That pipe.” He pointed.

  She handed it to him, and he went back to wrestling with the pipes, grunting with whatever he was doing.

  “Got it,” he announced triumphantly. “Or at least, I think I do. Run the water.”

  She flipped on the faucet, bracing herself for his shouts of outrage if the pipes leaked.

  “Okay, turn it off,” he said after a few moments. He slid out from the cabinet, his hair
falling over his forehead, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and grease streaked across his shirt. At least, she hoped it was grease and not black sink muck.

  “I can try to wash your shirt,” she offered hesitantly. But she might not be able to save it. How much were his shirts? She supposed he could take that out of her salary along with the tires.

  He looked down at himself, then climbed to his feet. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “At least let me get you one of Javier’s shirts. You don’t want to rub that all over your truck seats. Will you have time to shower before dinner?”

  His smile went wicked. “Why? Gonna offer to let me use yours?”

  Yes. And can I share it with you? “You’re, uh, welcome to…” Stop blushing. “I’ll just grab one of Javier’s shirts for you.”

  She went to slip away, but he set a hand on the counter, blocking her in. She swallowed hard as all of her went tingly and tense. She slowly lifted her face to his.

  He looked like he could eat her up in one snap of his jaws, then lick his chops after.

  “If I didn’t have this dinner to go to…”

  Yes. This was what should be between them, this pressing heat, this smoldering awareness. Not all that caring romance stuff.

  “What would you do?” she breathed.

  He stepped closer, forcing her against the counter, her back bowing as she made space for him where she’d been. “I’d have you bent over in that shower,” he growled, “water pouring down the both of us as you gripped the bar, me fucking you from behind. It’d be so good, baby. So hard, but so good.”

  She made a noise of want, of need, of pure feral greed. Oh yes, let’s go do that.

  “I know.” He stepped away. “I know. But we can’t today. Now go get that shirt before I lose it and get grease all over your clothes when I tear them off.”

  If he thought she could walk after that little speech… But her legs held when she peeled herself away from the counter and wobbled off to Javier’s room.

  When she came back, he’d put all the tools away and was washing his hands.

  “I got it.” She held out the shirt to him. He finished drying his hands, took the shirt and stripped off his own.

  She sucked in a breath. His stomach wasn’t just flat—it was etched. She could spend the rest of her life exploring the peaks and valleys of those abs.