Page 24 of The Billionaire Who Saved My Cat From The Mafia

I see surprise and disapproval written all over his face.Judgement.At least there’ssomethingin his expression.It must take a lot of energy to maintain that poker face of his.

“Never seen a cat on a leash?”I ask, sitting on a stump next to him.

“First time for everything,” he says.He spreads out the map on a thin layer of pine needles and taps the tip of a stick against the map.

“We’re here,” he mutters.“On top of Washoe Ridge.”

His body appears mellow and relaxed, but his poker face has returned.I stare at his profile under the shadow of his hat brim.

His face is chiseled and masculine, with a sexy, wide mouth and maybe even the hint of a dimple.If he’s aware that I’m studying him, he doesn’t let on.

He uses the stick to make a big circle on the map.“This whole thing, one thousand square miles of land, is Yosemite Ranch.Owned and operated by the MacLaine family since Lee surrendered to Grant in Appomattox.”

“Thanks for the history lesson, but you must be talking about Yosemite National Park.”I gesture around us.“This is not that.”

He looks up at me, one eyebrow arched.I thought I’d gotten used to his violet eyes, but in this light, they’re dark and glistening, bottomless, and I can’t stop staring.I bite down on my lower lip and try to snap out of it.

“Correct,” he says after a minute, his voice flat.“Yosemite Ranch and Yosemite National Park are two different things.”

“And?”

“The park is bigger.”

“Okay?”

“The park is beautiful, but so is the ranch.We don’t have huge waterfalls, but we have grazing lands, low desert, high desert, lakes, two rivers, countless streams, natural hot springs, and three mountain ranges.We’re on one of them.”

“An idyllic vacation spot,” I say.“I picked wisely.”

“No, ma’am.You did not.”He sets his jaw.“This is dangerous country.If you can avoid the bear, mountain lions, and the feral pigs, you’ll most likely get stung or bitten by the creepy crawlies that provide the foundation for our ecosystem.”

“Feralwhat now?”

“You know, wild boar.”

I did not know, and I’m not even sure if I should believe him.I shuffle my feet and stare down at the ground to make sure nothing’s slithering my way—just to err on the side of caution.“I’m not afraid of creepy crawlies,” I lie.“In my experience, it’s the two-legged creatures that you need to watch out for.”

His expression is blank.I see him shake his head ever so slightly, as if he can barely tolerate me.I decide it’s pretty fun to fuck with my surly-but-hot rancher friend.

Then I remind myself that he’s not my friend.

“Also, there’s the weather,” he says, looking directly into my eyes.“Sudden blizzards and ice storms in the spring.Flash floods in the summer.Near-zero humidity in the fall that can dry out your body within a day, killing you.Here on Washoe Ridge, no one can hear you scream.”

I know the biology lesson and horror movie tagline is meant to scare me, but he’s delivering the message in that mellow, humorless voice of his, accented by a flat expression, which I find oddly mesmerizing.I could listen to him try to scare me all damned day.

I detect something carnal below his smooth surface.I get the feeling he’s a tightly wound rubber band that’s about to snap—but in a good way.“You sound just like a used car salesman, trying to sell me a clunker.”

“I don’t need to sell you anything,” he says.“The truth is the truth, and it can’t be bought or sold.Show me the deed.”

“Why?So, you can take it from me and claim I never had it in the first place?”

My logic surprises him a bit, but he doesn’t answer my question.

“You can’t scare me,” I tell him.He really has no idea who he’s speaking to.

I’m a girl who grew up in a roadhouse with a bartender father who ran a motorcycle club.I’m a Vegas stripper.My last boyfriend was a Russian mobster.Not much terrifies me.

Except the Russian mobster.