Page 16 of The Billionaire Alpha's Assistant

Rafael’s eyes crinkle as the corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk. “Relax, will you? I just had new all-terrain tires put on this thing. It can handle it.” He turns his head a few degrees to the side. “I’m a very good driver.”

I make a dubious “eh” sound that turns into a panicked squeal, and a strange choking noise fills the SUV.

I look over in time to see Rafael chuckling — actually chuckling. His hand is partially covering his mouth, and it sounds as though he’s out of practice.

“Oh, does it amuse you to put my life in jeopardy?” I snap, suddenly fed up with Rafael’s arrogance. “I would have insisted on driving myself if I knew you were such a reckless asshole!”

Rafael stops laughing at once, and a dark look flashes through his eyes. He whips his head around to stare at me, and in the muted silver daylight, his eyes look more golden than brown.

An involuntary shiver works its way through my body, but I force myself to hold his gaze.

“I would never endanger your life,” he growls, his eyes seeming to lighten even more. “And I wouldn’t be driving like this if it were in anyway reckless.”

A harsh glare follows that little statement, and it’s all I can do not to open the door and roll out of the vehicle Tom Cruise–style.

A crushing silence hangs over us for the rest of the trip, but Rafael does seem to adjust his driving style as we head into the mountains. The snow grows heavier as we ascend, and I can’t help but gape at the views. Towering pine and fir trees line the winding mountain road, practically groaning under the weight of the glittering snow.

I’ve never been to Aspen before, but the town looks as though it was ripped off a Christmas card. Even though it’s only November, the old-timey street lamps are festooned with garland. Lights and greenery adorn all the store fronts, and the ski slopes are just a snowy blur in the distance as more fresh powder blankets the mountain.

Rafael slows to a crawl in front of the Hermès store, stops in the middle of the road, and puts his hazards on.

“What are you doing?” I ask as he opens his door and starts climbing out of the SUV. “I thought we were going to your place.”

“We are,” he says, looking up and down the street. “I just have to pick something up first.”

I glance around. Traffic is moving slowly due to the weather, but downtown is buzzing with ski traffic and holiday vacationers.

Unwilling to stay in the vehicle and look like the asshole who parked in the middle of the road, I hop out and follow Rafael into the store.

The smell of leather and expensive perfume hits me the second I walk through the door of the boutique, and I self-consciously wipe my scuffed boots on the mat. Soft piano music is playing inside, and I tug my puffy coat more tightly around me to hide my lumpy gray sweater. In his designer coat and immaculately polished shoes, Rafael looks as though he belongs here. I, on the other hand, don’t.

At the sight of the famous billionaire, the man behind the counter lights up. He scurries around the counter to greet Rafael, pumping his hand as though they’re old friends. “Mr. Cabrera Garcia! So good to see you. Wonderful you could make it in. Are you here on business or pleasure?”

“Business and pleasure, I think,” says Rafael, his gaze flickering over to me in a way that makes liquid heat pool in my belly.

The shop owner casts a curious glance in my direction, but he doesn’t bother to ask my name. I’m guessing he took one look at my boots and my goofy-but-practical winter coat and figured I wasn’t important.

“What can I help you find?”

“A gift,” says Rafael, turning his attention to the row of leather handbags gleaming under gold-toned lights.

“Excellent choice, sir,” says the shop owner. “A Birkin bag is the perfect gift for any woman. Did you have a specific color in mind?”

“No,” says Rafael, studying the row of bags. His mouth twitches, and he makes a frustrated noise in his throat before turning to look at me. “What do you think?”

“Me?” I stammer, wondering why on earth he’d want my help.

Rafael nods once, those dark-brown eyes roving over me.

“Uh . . .” I gape at the row of gorgeous handbags that probably cost more than I make in a year. “The cream is nice.”

Rafael gives a small shake of his head. “Not for Elena.”

The name hits me like a punch to the gut, and my face burns with embarrassment.

Elena.

Before this moment, I never questioned why he was shopping for a ridiculously expensive handbag or whom it was for. Of course he’s buying a Birkin bag for his girlfriend.

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