Beauty & Her Billionaire Boss

In Love with the Boss

From pennies to pearls, the Rush sisters are swept off their feet by their handsome bosses!

Sisters Patience and Piper Rush might not have had much growing up but they always had each other, through good times and bad. Now, oceans apart, can they find comfort, safety and acceptance in the arms of their drop-dead-gorgeous bosses?

In June 2015 …

Patience finds herself falling for the

man of her dreams in

A Millionaire for Cinderella

And

In September 2015.

Piper’s heart is captured by her brooding

Parisian boss in

Beauty & Her Billionaire Boss Only in Mills & Boon® Cherish™!

Beauty & Her Billionaire Boss

Barbara Wallace

www.millsandboon.co.uk

BARBARA WALLACE can’t remember when she wasn’t dreaming up love stories in her head, so writing romances for Mills & Boon® Cherish™ is a dream come true. Happily married to her own Prince Charming, she lives in New England with a house full of empty-nest animals. Occasionally her son comes home, as well.

To stay up-to-date on Barbara’s news and releases, sign up for her newsletter at www.barbarawallace.com.

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To Pete—Your patience and support are a gift for which I can never say thank you enough.

And to M.G.—for giving someone that dose of common sense when we most needed it.

Contents

Cover

In Love with the Boss

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THERE SHOULD BE a law against a man looking so good in a tuxedo. Staring at the man asleep in the chair, Piper felt an appreciative shiver. Monsieur Frederic Lafontaine had shed his jacket and untied his tie, yet he still looked like a million dollars, what with the way his shirt pulled taut across his linebacker-sized shoulders. She had to start using his dry cleaner. The guy must have been sprawled here for hours, and yet his clothes didn’t have a single wrinkle. Piper’s uniform wouldn’t last five minutes. In fact—she ran a hand down the front of her black skirt—it hadn’t.

Then again, she didn’t have cheekbones that could cut glass or thick brown hair that begged to be touched, either. Maybe perfection came in bundles.

Taking a deep breath, she touched his shoulder and tried not to think about the broad muscles beneath her fingers. Eight months of working for the man, and she still hadn’t shaken her attraction. “Monsieur? You need to wake up. It’s after seven o’clock.”

When he didn’t respond, she shook his shoulder again, this time a little more aggressively. The motion did the trick. Slowly, his eyes opened, and he blinked unseeingly. “You fell asleep in the chair,” she told him.

“Oh.” His voice was thick with sleep, making it deeper and rougher than usual. “What—what time is it?”

“Seven fifteen.”

“What?” He bolted to his feet, arms akimbo, his right hand connecting with the cup of coffee Piper set on the end table only seconds before. The cup took flight, sending coffee over everything.

“Dammit!” he hollered as the hot liquid splashed his shirt. He immediately started pulling at the cloth, lifting it from his skin. “How many times have I told you, you must tell me when you put something within reach? You know I can’t see anything put to the side.”

It was hard to say much of anything seeing as how he jumped up before she had a chance to open her mouth. “I’ll get you a towel.”

“Don’t bother.” He’d already yanked the shirt free from his waistband. “Clean up the rest of the spill before it stains the carpet. I’m going to take a shower.” He turned to head upstairs.

“Wait,” Piper called.

Moving this time before he could speak, she scooped up the cup from where it had fallen on the carpet, half an inch from the toe of his shoe. “You were going to crush it,” she said, holding the china teacup in front of his face.

If he appreciated her heads-up behavior, he didn’t say so. “Tell Michel when he arrives that I will be ready shortly. And make sure my briefcase is by the front door. On the left,” he added with emphasis.

As if she would leave it somewhere else. Piper bit back the sarcastic response. She learned a long time ago that some fights weren’t meant to be won. Arguing with a man who was wearing hot coffee on his stomach was definitely one of those fights. Instead, she waited until he’d stalked his way upstairs, then treated herself to a glare in his direction. It would serve him right if she moved his bag to the right just to spite him. Because goodness knows the world might end if the briefcase was on the wrong side of the doorway.

Not that she would actually move the thing. Put out or not, she wasn’t so petty that she’d pick on a blind man—or half-blind man as the case may be. Truth was, nitpicky as they were, monsieur’s “rules” served a purpose. When she took this job, it was made very clear his limited field of vision required everything in the house to be just so. Chief on the list was that nothing should be set to the side without his knowledge. His lack of peripheral vision might cause a mishap, he’d explained. Most of the time, the system worked. There were times in fact, such as when he crossed the room with his slow, purposeful strides, that Piper forgot the man had trouble seeing.

After double-checking on the briefcase—which was on the left as always—she headed for the utility closet. “So goes another fun-filled day in Paris,” she said as she marched into the kitchen for her cleaning supplies. Naturally, the coffee had fallen on the handmade Persian carpet. That meant instead of using the nice handy carpet-cleaning machine in the closet, she had to get the stain up with water and a vinegar paste.

This was not how she expected her year abroad to go. Her year here was supposed to signal the start of a new and exciting life. The wonderful moment when she stopped being dumpy Piper Rush and became Piper Rush, chef extraordinaire who dazzled the culinary institute with her skills and enthralled French men with her American wit. In short, the complete opposite of her life in East Boston.

She should have known better.

Didn’t take long for her to realize that Paris was exactly the same as Boston, only in French. Which actually made it worse than Boston. Despite spending hours shoulder to shoulder with a dozen other people, she hadn’t made a single close friend. Everyone was too busy trying to impress Chef Despelteau. In a way, you’d think the fact that she couldn’t impress the man if she tried would help her cause, but no. Yesterday, after she didn’t use enough confit to brown her chicken, he declared her cassoulet flavorless and spent ten minutes lecturing her on the importance of taste, even when making “peasant food.” All her classmates did was snicker. City of Lights, her foot. More like the City of the Unfriendly.

Even Frederic barely paid attention to her, unless there was an errand to run, or she needed to wake him up. He was too busy lecturing at the university or heading off to some fancy social event.

The perpetual loneliness she fought to keep under wraps threatened to wedge free. She had to swallow to keep it from rising up and choking her. God, what she wouldn’t give for someone to talk to. Or to go home.

Out of habit, her hand reached for the cell phone tucked in her apron only to leave it behind. It was still the middle of the night in Boston. Her sister, Patience, would still be asleep. Patience—the only reason she was sticking things out to completion. Her sister was convinced Piper was living the dream, and considering how much Patience had sacrificed so Piper could actually have a dream, she didn’t dare disturb the fantasy. Besides, her sister had issues of her own. She and her boss’s nephew were doing some kind of back-and-forth that had Patience on edge. The last thing she needed right now was a whiny baby sister burning up the data package complaining because her year abroad wasn’t all sunshine and roses.

She carried her supplies into the salon, pausing when she reached the front window. A few blocks away, the Eiffel Tower loomed tall, reminding her she really had no right complaining. She might be lonely, but she was a lonely person living in luxury. Instead of monsieur’s mansion, she could be living in some ratty apartment battling roaches for breakfast. Or worse, living on the streets. Been there, done both. She didn’t feel like doing either again.

If only she had someone to share Paris with, then things wouldn’t be so bad. It wasn’t going to happen, though. If she hadn’t found a kindred spirit yet, she wasn’t going to. She was simply going to have to suck things up, the way she always did.

Speaking of sucking, she had a carpet to clean. Staring at the stain darkening the beige carpet, she sighed. This better not be a sign of how the rest of her day was going to go.

* * *

Frederic winced as he peeled the wet shirt from his body. Not because the liquid stung his skin, although it did, but because he was appalled at his behavior. Yelling at his housekeeper that way. Like a child throwing a tantrum. Didn’t he swear he would never be that way? Become one of those angry invalids who took their bad moods out on others? Yet the first time he spills a drink, he lashes out. Embarrassment was no excuse.

What did he expect, falling asleep in the salon like that? It was the last glass of Bordeaux. Knowing the way alcohol went to his head and made him overly pensive, he never should have indulged. Last night found him sitting for hours, watching the tower’s twinkling lights, his mind a sea of morose thoughts.

The dampness from his shirt found its way to his palms. Resisting the urge to hurl the garment across the room, he draped it on top of the duvet for Piper to find later. He stripped off the rest of his tuxedo as well, making sure he returned the suit and his shoes to their assigned places in the closet. Oh, but for those days when undressing meant toeing off your shoes wherever you stood and tossing your clothes in a heap.

Obviously, last night’s moroseness hadn’t subsided. Why else would he be bemoaning a past that he couldn’t get back? After all, he’d come to terms with his failing eyesight long before it started to steal his peripheral vision. From the moment the doctors first told him his retina was degenerating, in fact. He knew full well that one day the tunnel through which he viewed the world would close completely, leaving him blind. He’d accepted his fate and framed his life in anticipation. And when the time came, he would shoulder the burden alone, the way a person should. He wouldn’t drag others down with him. A promise that, until this morning, he’d done a very good job of keeping.

He owed his housekeeper a very large apology.

When the employment agency first recommended the American culinary student, he thought the idea ridiculous. A temporary resident? She’d be too distracted by studies and sightseeing. But as it turned out, Piper was nothing short of exemplary. Today aside, she did her job quietly and unobtrusively. In fact, the two of them could go days without crossing paths. Precisely the kind of help Frederic preferred.

Today’s mistake with the coffee was as much his fault as hers. She no doubt set down the cup to wake him, not expecting him to stand up so quickly.

He would definitely apologize.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t time right now. Leaning in close, he read the time on his nightstand clock. With luck, he could shower and make his first class in plenty of time. Whether or not his morning began poorly didn’t matter to his superiors at the university. They expected him to deliver his lectures on time, regardless. This evening, then. Before the symphony. He would find Piper and explain that he overreacted. Then they would both forget this morning ever happened.

* * *

Staining the carpet turned out to be the high point of the day.

First, cleaning the rug took longer than planned. In addition to the major stain, there were a dozen or so tiny spots that needed blotting. It took her forever to find them all, so by the time Piper finished, she was running late. Chef Despelteau was less than thrilled to see her slip through the door five minutes into his lecture.

Now this.

“Uninspired,” Chef Despelteau pronounced. “Your spices, they do not dance, they plod. I expect my students to produce magic in the kitchen, not...” He dropped his fork back onto the plate with an expression that was usually reserved for walking around landfills. Shaking his head, he moved on, his silence letting everyone know Piper wasn’t worth more of his time.

“...so pathetic. Why is she even here?”

The whispered comment drifted from the stovetop across the aisle. Apparently whoever said it didn’t care if anyone heard him. Why should he, when the whole class was thinking the same thing?

Keeping her shoulders square, Piper stared straight ahead and pretended she didn’t hear a thing. That was the number one rule. Never let them think they were getting to you. Never lose control. Never let them see you cry. Crying only gave the bullies power. Let them whisper behind her back all they wanted; she would not give them the satisfaction of seeing so much as a twitch.

She succeeded, too. All through Chef Despelteau’s final remarks, through the Métro ride home, and even into the house. She managed to last until she saw the living room carpet and the faint brown ring reminding her she’d failed that task, too. Letting out the coarsest obscenity she knew, she broke down.

Screw cooking school. Tossing her bag in the chair, she stomped into the kitchen. Screw monsieur, too. Him and his impossible-to-clean carpeting. Screw Paris with its beautiful buildings and sidewalk cafés and shops she couldn’t afford. She hated them all.

Carbs. She needed carbs. Yanking open the refrigerator door, she grabbed a wedge of cheddar cheese and an onion. Creamy, gooey macaroni and cheese, that’s what this pity party needed. How’s that for peasant food, Chef Despelteau?

Now if she would only stop crying. Sniffing back a fresh batch of tears, she grabbed the cheese grater and took to demolishing the cheddar to a shredded pulp.

“There you—”

“What now?” she snarled. What else could she add to her list of mistakes today?

Frederic blinked in shock. Great. Yelling at her boss. That’s what she could add. Because, of course.

Horrified, she turned back to the cheese. “I mean, about this mor—morn...” The tears were back. She scrunched her face trying to stop them.

A paper towel floated in front of her face.

“Is everything all right?”

Why’d he have to sound nice, too? It made things worse. “Fine.” Taking the paper towel, she wiped her cheeks and blew her nose.

“You don’t look fine.”

“The cheese is making my eyes water.”

“I see. It must be quite pungent.”

Piper ignored the comment, choosing to wipe her nose again instead. “Did you need something, monsieur?”

A tentative smile worked its way across his features. Afraid to set her off again, probably. “I wanted to apologize for losing my temper this morning. The coffee, it was not your fault.”

No, it wasn’t, she wanted to say. She didn’t. Since he apologized, the least she could do was be gracious in return. “I should have known better than to put a cup where you couldn’t see it.”

“And I should know better than to behave like a brat,” he countered, one-upping her. “It’s rude to blame others for my shortcomings.”

Piper wasn’t sure she’d call partial blindness a shortcoming, but she accepted the apology anyway. If she didn’t, the two of them might spend all night exchanging regrets. “Thank you,” she said with a sniff. The man would never know that his “I’m sorry” had just beat out the coffee stain as the day’s bright spot.

“Do you need another paper towel? I would offer you something nicer, but I’m not a handkerchief person. A napkin perhaps?”

That made her smile, picturing him retrieving a napkin from the linen closet. “Thanks, but I’m okay now.” There remained a slight pressure behind her eyes trying to push out tears, but she could keep that under control. A quick splash of water and she’d be fine.

“Are—” She took one last swipe at her nose. “Are you in for the evening?” As if she didn’t already know the answer. Frederic was seldom “in.” His evenings were one big social engagement. How one person could squeeze so much activity into a week, she didn’t know.

Just as she expected, Frederic shook his head. “I have tickets for the symphony. I came home to change my shirt is all.”

Meaning he would be home late, as usual. “I’ll make sure to leave the foyer light on before I turn in.”

“Thank you.” He turned to leave only to pause. “Why don’t you take the evening off as well? Some time with friends might make you feel better.”

Sure it would, if she had friends to go out with. “I...” Thankfully, the beep of an incoming message on her cell phone saved her from having to make up some embarrassing lie.

“Sounds like your friends have the same idea,” Frederic said.

She reached into her pocket, smiling when she read the message on her screen. “It’s my sister,” she told him. Why she felt she needed to tell him that, she didn’t know.

“You have a sister.”

A question as much as a statement. Surely he knew. Then again, he might not. This was the longest conversation they’d ever had.

“She works as a housekeeper back in Boston.”

“Ah, so cleaning is a family business.”

“More like a family situation we both fell into.” From his expression, she could tell he didn’t get the joke. No surprise. It wasn’t very clear, or funny. “She wants to video chat.”

“Sounds like you’ve got something to look forward to.”

“Yeah.” Piper smiled. Talking to Patience would definitely make her feel better.

“I’m glad.” And for the first time she could remember, he gave her a warm, genuine smile. “I’ll leave you alone so you can talk. Good night.”

“Good night.” To her horror, she almost said “Don’t go” instead. Her loneliness was out of control if a smile could make her slip up like that.

Piper waited until she heard the front door shut before going to get her computer. Her apartment sat at the back of the house. Technically, it was more like a suite of rooms—bedroom, bathroom and sitting room—but they were still nicer than anything she could afford on her own. They also came with kitchen privileges and monsieur’s kitchen was a dream come true even for an uninspired cook like her.

It was into the kitchen that Piper carried her laptop. Patience specifically said video chat, which meant she was planning on a nice long conversation. By putting the laptop on the counter, Piper could cook while they talked. It would be almost like home.

Almost.

A few keystrokes later, Patience Rush’s face appeared on screen. Took the older woman about two seconds to frown. “Your eyes are all red and puffy,” she said. “Is everything okay?”

Wow, was that the question of the night or what? Maybe she should have looked in a mirror to see how awful she actually looked. “I was chopping onions,” Piper replied. At least it was more believable than blaming the cheese.

Too bad her sister didn’t let the lie slide as easily as her boss had. “Onions, huh? You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Patience arched a brow. Her form of mother guilt. It worked every time.

“Okay,” Piper admitted, “maybe I was thinking about home a little bit too.”

“Oh, sweetie, I miss you, too. But hey, a couple more months and you’ll be back in Boston bragging to everyone you know how you’re a fancy French chef. Do you have any idea how proud I am of you?”

“I do,” Piper replied, the familiar knot starting to twist in her stomach. She got the heavy unsettled feeling every time Patience started gushing about her great Paris adventure.

“So what is it that has you video chatting me in the middle of your day?” she asked, changing the topic. Her sister seemed especially bubbly today. A big difference from the last few phone calls. Her image on the screen glowed and not from computer glare either.

“What? A girl can’t miss her baby sister?”

“A girl can definitely miss her baby sister.” Same way the baby sister could miss her. Piper blinked back some fresh tears. “But usually you text. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate.”

“Never too much for you.”

“Awww.” Sweet as the sentiment was, Piper wasn’t buying. Not with the way her sister’s eyes were sparkling. “Seriously, what do you want?”

“I have a favor to ask.”

“I knew you wanted something.” Although what kind of favor could Piper do from halfway around the world? Send someone a souvenir? “What do you need?”

“I need you to pay a visit to someone there in Paris.”

“Who?”

Piper listened as her sister explained. The favor was for Piper to visit the sister of a dead artist named Nigel Rougeau.

“Hey, isn’t your boss’s cat named Nigel?” she interrupted. Patience was always telling stories about the big Maine coon cat.

“The cat’s a namesake,” Patience replied. “Nigel was Ana’s lover in the seventies.” Ana being the little old lady Patience worked for.

Her sister went on to explain a very tragic story involving Ana and the painter. “There’s a small chance that one of the paintings Ana posed for still exists,” she said.

“And you want me to talk with Nigel’s sister and find out for you.”

“If anyone knows if one of Nigel’s paintings survived, it would be someone in his family.”

True enough. Especially if Nigel and his sister were as close as she and Patience were.

“I think she’d find talking to you a lot less intimidating than a private detective.”

“I am definitely unintimidating,” Piper replied. More often than not, she was the one intimidated.

“So you’ll do it?”

“Of course.” A couple hours of her time was nothing. In fact, it would break up the monotony. “I’ll call her tomorrow and see if she’ll meet with me. Maybe you’ll luck out and there’ll be a big old painting of Ana hanging in her house.”

“Wouldn’t that be something,” Patience said with a laugh. “Stuart and I will be glad for any information you can find out.”

“Stuart, huh?” That was a new development. Until recently, Patience’s descriptions of Stuart Duchenko leaned more toward the suspicious jerk variety. Putting down her knife, she leaned close to the screen. “How are things going with the two of you? Is he still cool with, you know, the club?”