Kept by the billionaire, p.1
Kept by the Billionaire, page 1
Kept by the Billionaire
Sasha Gold
Please note that this is a work of adult fiction and contains graphic descriptions of sexual activity. It is intended for mature readers aged 18 and over.
No sexual activity occurs between blood relations, and all persons depicted in this story are 18 years old or older.
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Chapter One
Rebecca
“Miss Rebecca Bloom,” the voice calls from the crowded airport. I hear the man’s deep voice but I don’t see him. The secretary at the investment firm where I work told me Mr. Branson would send a driver to pick me up at the Colter Canyon Regional Airport. I assumed he would send one of his ranch hands. All I knew, for sure, was that it wouldn’t be Will Branson. The billionaire rancher never leaves his ranch, not since the accident.
Never.
A man strides toward me with a friendly smile, and as he draws near, he swipes the hat from his head. He’s older, maybe sixty, but he’s wiry and tanned, a body hewn from decades of hard, outdoor work.
“Knew it was you the minute I stepped through the door.” He offers his hand. “Davy Ralston, foreman of Branson Ranch.” His palm is calloused and rough.
I’d like to point out that the airport isn’t exactly huge, and I’m one of the only women here, certainly the only one in a skirt and heels. Mostly it’s men in cowboy hats and jeans, and a few who look liked they just dismounted a bull at the local rodeo. But me… I dressed carefully this morning, one hundred percent professional accountant, and I brushed my teeth twice… anything to help me from being so nervous about making a good impression on my first solo assignment.
“Should I get a cart for my bags?” I ask Davy.
“Nah, I got ‘em.”
Davy grabs my two suitcases, lifting them like they’re no more than a couple sacks of flour and heads toward the doors. He doesn’t give a backward glance and must assume I’m following. I’m trying to do just that, but it’s not easy in heels and a pencil skirt.
I’m a new hire at the agency. I’ve only completed two years of school, though, so I’m the lowest one on the totem pole. I’m competing with twelve other candidates for four full-time jobs that come with a ton of benefits and a salary I cannot believe. The company specializes in wealth management for the uber-rich. We manage investments, everything from real estate to fine art, jewelry, oversees holdings, intellectual property… everything.
We don’t just manage money. We pretty much do anything our clients ask, from tending portfolios to catering to their every whim. If a client wants a world-class chef to cook for his wife’s birthday party, we make that happen. Or when a spoiled heiress demands a horseback riding lesson from an Olympic medalist, we deliver.
The super-rich have strange tastes. And they can have anything they want.
My first week on the job, I had to find a male escort for an elderly widow. A hot dude who wouldn’t mind signing a confidentiality agreement and spend the evening with a woman old enough to be his grandmother. The woman wanted some cute young thing to squire her to a gala in New York. She had to be almost eighty but that didn’t stop her from demanding an underwear model. And he had to be six feet tall. Exactly.
The super-rich are all about the details. Even a lowly minion like me needs to pay close attention and get everything right, especially if she wants to make the step from candidate to freshman. The employees at the firm move up a ladder with mysterious names. They haven’t even told me what comes after freshman. I asked Lillian, my supervisor, if it was sophomore and she rolled her eyes.
Information is on a need-to-know basis.
It’s a relief to be out of the office this week. Atkinson and Wainwright will be a great place to make a career, but it is high stress and high politics, always. Spending the week at the Branson Ranch should be a nice diversion, like a working vacation.
Davy reaches the doors to the parking lot and finally he turns around to see where I am. I’m thirty feet behind. He gives me a sheepish, good-natured smile. “Sorry ‘bout that. I should have waited on you. Forgetting my manners.”
He holds the door for me and we walk out into the hot Texas afternoon. He slows his pace to match mine, not offering much in the way of conversation, but it’s a companionable silence. His boots thump the asphalt as we cross the parking lot, which is filled with pickup trucks. When we get to his truck, a dually, he opens the door for me and sets my bags in the backseat.
“How long is the drive to the ranch?” I ask him.
“About an hour. You need anything in town?”
“No, thank you.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. Soon I’ll meet Will Branson, the famous recluse. Famous recluse… seems like a contrary phrase. Like jumbo shrimp or something like that, but that’s what Mr. Branson is, a mega-wealthy, lone wolf.
I’ve been a bundle of nerves ever since I found out about this job. I’m not sure why they would send me, the newest hire, to work on such a big account. Will Branson is worth billions. He inherited some from his parents, but most he made buying and selling land when he was in his twenties.
I keep telling myself I can do this, but deep down, I’m not so sure. Even worse, the ranch is remote. There’s no cell service so I won’t be able to text friends from school if I run into a snag.
My assignment is to set up a nonprofit for Mr. Branson. He apparently has a thing for wild mustangs. It’s a pet project of his. My instructions were to find out about the ranch and what it will cost to care for the wild horses.
I’ve done something like this once before. A client wanted to set up a nonprofit to rescue hairless cats. She figured it would be a way to shelter some of her millions from Uncle Sam.
It only takes five minutes to get clear of Colter Canyon’s stoplights and stop signs. Once Davy gets the truck up to highway speed he snaps on the radio, filling the cab with country music.
He reminds me of my grandfather who raised me after my parents died. Gramps passed away when I was eighteen and whenever I hear country music, I think of him. He used to joke that his old truck wouldn’t run if he had the radio tuned to my music.
Gramps never went to college. Before he passed, he made me promise that I’d wait until I’d graduated from college to date. He said I was too pretty to date. That I needed to get an education first.
Fellas are going to take one look at you and want to put a ring on your finger the first chance they get. You get your degree. Then you can think about romance.
I’ve abided by his request. I like to think my grandfather would be proud of me, spending my summer working at a prestigious accounting firm.
I never intended to be an accountant. What I really wanted, deep down, and not-so-secretly, was to study Early Childhood Education. I love kids, I always have, but my advisor talked me out of it during my first semester. When she told me my college debt would be near impossible to pay off with a teaching degree, I relented.
If I’d stuck with an Education major, I would never have gotten an interesting job like staying a week on the Branson Ranch. The task shouldn’t take an entire week, but my supervisor told me to plan on giving myself plenty of extra time.
I take in the scenery, wondering if this is what Mr. Branson’s ranch looks like. Rolling hills. Fenced pastures. Horses grazing in some, cattle in others. It’s picturesque and I can’t wait to get back and tell my friends how beautiful Texas is. Several girls from the study group came over last night to help me pack, even lending me a few skirts so I’d have enough office-casual outfits for a whole week without repeating. They told me to post selfies with the hunkiest cowboys, but I made it pretty clear, that’s not happening.
“You like Willie Nelson, Ms. Bloom?”
Davy hadn’t said a word in the past twenty minutes and his voice startles me.
“I don’t really know his music.”
“Oh, he’s one of the greats. Take this song, for example, Blue eyes crying in the Rain. Just Willie playing his guitar and singing about lost love… it don’t get no better than that.”
I listen for a moment. I’ve been so immersed in my own thoughts I wasn’t even aware of the music. The song is simple, and pretty.
“It’s very beautiful.”
“Good, good,” he says with a pause. “You and me are gonna get along just fine.”
We give each other polite smiles. And then he’s quiet again.
My thoughts go back to my job.
None of the higher-ups at the agency could get my name right. The president called me Rachel a few times, then Rhonda. I told him my name is Rebecca four times. Finally, I gave up. One day, when I’m further up the pecking order, I’m sure he’ll get my name right, especially if Mr. Branson tells them I did a good job.
Before I head home, I’m going to ask him to write my supervisor with a positive report. I’ve never asked a client to do that before and it seems pushy, but that’s what it takes to get noticed. I have to distinguish myself from the oth er candidates.
I told a few of the older ladies at the firm about my assignment and they acted sorry for me. Like working for Will Branson was akin to pulling the short straw. I refuse to think that way. I’m happy to spend the week here on Will Branson’s ranch. I can hardly believe I’m getting paid to spend time near the man I have such a huge, secret crush on.
This summer job is only my second job, ever. The other one was working retail in a lingerie and sleepwear store. While I’d gotten plenty of pretty underthings and nighties, minimum wage doesn’t pay the bills.
“Just another fifteen minutes before we get to the ranch.”
Davy’s voice startles me again. This time I give a little jump.
He chuckles and his smile makes the skin around his eyes crinkle. “You’re a jittery little thing, aren’t you? Don’t you worry. Once you get out in that country air, you’ll settle in just fine.”
“I’m a little nervous about meeting Mr. Branson, that’s all.”
I don’t know what I’d hoped for by telling Davy about my apprehension, but he doesn’t look like he’ll be much help. He just grins and shakes his head. Like he’s enjoying my uneasiness.
Mr. Branson is impossible to get a hold of. He doesn’t answer emails, doesn’t have a landline and the cell service at the ranch is next to nothing. The senior secretary told me she communicated through regular mail and even that takes weeks.
That hasn’t stopped me from dreaming about Mr. Handsome Branson. I made up that name one night while I flipped through the pictures I had of him in his rodeo days. I know he’s scarred, but do I care? Not a bit. In a way, I feel like everything in my life has led up to this. Meeting this man. I know that’s just my silly infatuation, but this day still feels like a turning point.
“You sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?” Davy asks.
I wince, and wonder how much I’m giving away. “Can you tell I’m nervous? I’m one of the newest hires at the agency.”
“Are you now?”
He shoots me a hard look, like he’s appraising me. I have no idea what he’s looking for, but for some reason he’s eyeing me like a curiosity. It’s not a lewd gaze or anything like that. More like puzzled.
“You’re just a young thing, aren’t you?”
“I’m twenty years old.”
He laughs. “I got boots older than that.”
I can’t help but smile. Everyone thinks I’m too young, even in the agency. I take care to dress formally so I don’t look like a kid.
“I just hope you understand what you’re getting yourself into, Miss Rebecca.”
“I know exactly what I’m getting myself into. Thank you.”
I sound huffy. I can’t help myself.
“You haven’t bitten off more than you can chew?”
“Of course not.”
“Mr. Branson will be very…” His words fade off and he coughs and clears his throat. “Very demanding.”
“Good thing I’m good at what I do.”
He holds up his hand to keep me from saying anymore. “I try not to think about any of that business.”
I want to tell him he’s not alone. Most people hate thinking about their finances.
A few minutes later we pull into the driveway and a tremendous wrought-iron gate swings open. The ranch is magnificent, fields of green rolling up to the base of a rocky escarpment. A house sits atop a ridge with a Texas flag snapping in the wind.
“We’re home,” Davy drawled.
The house is a fortress of limestone. Immense. It looks like it’s been carved out of the rocky bluff. My heart jumps into my throat and I have the sudden, ridiculous urge to beg Davy to take me back to the airport. What was I thinking, offering to make this trip to Texas? And then I think about him. My secret, guilty fascination.
“All right, Miss Rebecca, let’s see if we can rustle up the boss man.”
I get out of the truck and sway on unsteady legs. “Yes,” I say softly. “I’m ready to meet Mr. Branson.”
Chapter Two
Will
As the sun begins its descent, I turn my horse back the direction of the barn and I think about the girl.
The agency sent all sorts of files with pictures and biographical information, like they thought I wanted to sort through that pile of lies. The pictures might be accurate, but the personal info was nothing but a load of bull. I read one of the girl’s profiles and was ready to call the whole thing off.
Candice or Candy or some such shit, said she liked walks on the beach and quiet evenings at home. Right. What she liked was cosmetic surgery. A lot. I’m pretty sure she had her plastic surgeon on speed dial. Her smile was more grimace than smile and if she was twenty-two, well, so was I.
And I’m not.
I’m thirty-two.
I told them to send me someone real. I’ll take authentic over plastic any day of the week. I didn’t want to sort through the hundreds of applicants and I told them they could go ahead and pick out a potential Mrs. Branson for me. They could damn well earn the twenty-grand finder’s fee I was paying.
They sent me a file and a note that she’d come this week. I haven’t looked through the file. I want to see her first. Look in her eye. I’ll know then if she’s the right one.
All I want is a woman who is reasonably smart, reasonably attractive and most of all gets along with Ben. It’s also important Ben likes her. I’ve raised my nephew since he was one, when my sister and brother-in-law died. He’s four now.
The one time I mentioned Ben to a woman I took out for dinner, she’d told me flat-out she thought he should go to boarding school when he was old enough. Like eight years old, she suggested. Who sends an eight-year-old boy to boarding school? Not anyone I’d want around, that’s for damn sure.
The woman I marry doesn’t need to be a virgin. I won’t hold it against her if she has a little experience. In fact, I like the idea. I like things a little rough and don’t want her complaining about my requirements in the bedroom.
Everyone tries to warn me off, talking about gold-diggers. I suppose there are women who get into this for a quick buck, but there are others who sign up for other reasons. Maybe they want to skip dating. I don’t care. If Ben and I like her and she likes us, we’ll figure out the rest. I’ll spend my days just trying to spoil her silly.
I have plenty of money. A fortune. The money is a blessing and a curse. I don’t spend much except on my nephew.
The girl signed a confidentiality agreement. I don’t want her to share anything about my life with the outside world. She’ll come to the ranch for a week. If we’re compatible we’ll proceed with the marriage. The agency said I can’t touch her until we’re married and by that they mean fuck her, because their reputation matters, and they don’t want people to think they’re running a prostitution ring.
Right.
Do they really think I’m not going to sample the whiskey before I buy the barrel?
I don’t even know the girl’s name, but I will by the end of the evening, maybe a whole lot more. My blood stirs just thinking about having a woman in my bed again. It’s been a while. I like to keep to myself but the nights out here get lonely. This arrangement is perfect. Both of us understand exactly what we’re signing up for.
If Ben likes her and she checks out in the other areas, the arrangement should be perfect.
I trot my horse up an arroyo and down a ridge that runs parallel to the fence line. I wonder if this girl rides horses. Would she want to learn? The ranch is secluded and a good distance from town. Not everyone likes to be so far from things.
Ranch life is particularly hard on women. Davy’s wife likes the ranch well enough but also made a habit of leaving for a week here and there to visit her sister in Florida. Plenty of the other ranch hands’ wives did the same, escaping the solitude for a few days of hustle and bustle in a city.
My mother loved the ranch, but maybe that was because she and my father had such a strong marriage. They were each other’s best friend. I can’t think of any other couple that were as close as my mother and father. When Mom passed away, Dad followed the next day.
No, I don’t expect to find that sort of relationship. Not with a woman who was basically selling herself.
