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Synopsis
“Sizzles with excitement and eroticism…” –Publishers Weekly on THE BILLIONAIRES
What do you do when you have not just one hot boss, but two? And they both want you?
What will it take to make her theirs?
Bayli Styles leaves California wine country behind for the bright lights of New York City, in search of fame and fortune. However, fame and fortune are a little further out of reach than she had hoped, so to supplement her meager modeling income, she seeks a hostess position at Manhattan’s hottest new venue, owned by billionaires Rory St. James and Christian Davila. Bayli gets much more than she bargained for when both devastatingly handsome and magnetic men make her blood sizzle…and offer her the guiltiest of all pleasures—themselves.
Bayli is the perfect solution to the two problems currently plaguing entrepreneurs Rory and Christian, professionally and sexually. She’d make the ultimate “face” for their current joint venture, but both men are thinking beyond business and waste no time seducing Bayli into their brand of double pleasure. In the end, the threesome will put it all on the line—their bodies, their hearts, their souls—either destined for failure, or for the redefinition of true love.
This is a standalone ménage romance with an HEA by Calista Fox. (Book 2 in the Lover’s Triangle Series)
Don’t miss the standalone ménage romance, THE BILLIONAIRES, featuring the sexy Rogen Angelini and Vin D'Angelo.
Release date: September 5, 2017
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group
Print pages: 320
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
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The Billionaires: The Bosses
Calista Fox
ONE
Bayli Styles had extra pep in her step as she made her way down Lexington Avenue toward Manhattan’s hottest new venue, the newly opened steakhouse Davila’s NYC. Owned by international restaurateur Christian Davila and his business partner, celebrity chef Rory St. James.
She had an interview for a hostess position. Not the ultimate gig she aspired to, but living in New York City didn’t come cheap. Even her crappy apartment in a sketchy neighborhood cost a small fortune in rent. She was willing to pay the price—she’d wanted to live here since she was seventeen. Until recently, however, circumstances beyond her control had precluded her from packing herself up and making the trek from the beautiful wine country of River Cross, California. Tragic circumstances, to be exact.
Yet a decade later, here she was. Starting a new life. One that required her to land several part-time jobs with flexible hours so she could also take on modeling assignments sent her way by the agency that had agreed to rep her when she’d arrived two months ago. The assignments were a bit too few and far between, but at least she was building her portfolio. Perhaps someday soon she’d make a name for herself.
In the meantime, she’d do whatever it took to keep this city from kicking her ass. This vibrant, energetic city that she’d already fallen in love with, even if it did intimidate the hell out of her sometimes with the honking of horns, the hordes of people walking brisk seven-minute miles to and from work, and the infinite number of sights to see.
Luckily, she’d spent a few years living in San Francisco with her friends from high school—Jewel Catalano, a wine heiress, and Scarlet Drake, an insurance fraud investigator. So Bayli didn’t feel too country bumpkin. Most of the time, at any rate.
Today was a good example. She was treating this interview as she would a modeling job. She wore her favorite sleeveless one-shouldered black mini, believing the manager of Davila’s would want to see that she was chic and fashion forward. And could work her shift in five-inch heels. She’d pulled her long dark hair up in a sleek style and added simple accessories. Slim, elongated silver hoops and the sparkly crystal bracelet her mother had given her for Christmas several years ago. It was a costume piece and not worth anything other than sentimental value. A pretty trinket that kept her dearly departed mom close to her in spirit.
Bayli knew her mother would be proud of her for finally breaking free of all the trauma back in California and finding her own path. Even if it was slow going and she had to put in extra effort to make ends meet. Bayli had never lived a charmed life. She had high hopes her luck might change now that she’d ventured east to chase her wildest dreams.
Her stomach fluttered as she approached the tall, arched double doors of the steakhouse.
This could be so huge.
The “in” she needed when it came to conquering this city. So much potential lay beyond those doors. It was up to her to seize the opportunity. Reach for her own brass ring.
You can do this, Bay. Just go for it!
The restaurant didn’t open until cocktail hour during the week, which meant there’d be little activity, likely a low-key environment, before the hustle and bustle of dinnertime. That helped to minimize her anxiety over really and truly needing to be hired so she could pay her bills.
Although she was borderline in dire financial straits and feeling a tiny bit desperate, exhilaration trilled down her spine. Bayli had an ace in the hole for this interview and wasn’t above pulling out her connection to the Davila enterprise, no matter how indirect and distant that connection was. She simply had to get this job.
It wasn’t just about the money. As she’d mentioned to Jewel and Scarlet before the restaurant had launched, she considered it a viable springboard for her modeling career. A famous restaurateur and celebrity chef would pack in the people and the press. What a great place for Bayli to be discovered!
The possibility made her more excited. More determined to slay this.
She pulled open one of the doors and entered the softly lit establishment. Standing in the middle of the vast foyer, she inhaled deeply, smelling a wood-burning fire, new leather, and the most tantalizing, mouthwatering aroma coming from the kitchen.
To her right was a wide hallway with a wine cellar and private tasting room. Farther down were the restrooms. To her left was a lounge that looked more like a cozy study, showcasing endless shelves filled with hardback novels, a fireplace, sofas, and coffee and end tables. Being a bookworm who loved libraries, Bayli felt right at home.
It was also all very upscale and gorgeous. As she’d expected.
She walked beyond the large round table in the middle of the entryway with an enormous floral arrangement serving as a centerpiece and a stunning chandelier hanging overhead. Bayli had already looked at the menu online, and that was why she wasn’t surprised by the elegant and expensive décor. Anyone who’d lay down a couple hundred dollars for a filet mignon deserved to dine in high style.
The restaurant wasn’t a big one—just enough to comfortably accommodate thirty. She’d been forewarned when the manager had contacted her for the interview that reservations were difficult to come by. And, if hired, she’d be turning away more people than she’d be seating. A daunting challenge, but Bayli understood the exclusivity of the place.
What did shock her, however, was that there was a group of four at a table, sampling a trio of soups in miniature artsy bowls. The restaurant served lunch only on the weekends, so she surmised they must be food critics, magazine editors, or bloggers.
She didn’t have time to observe their reactions to the food, because a lanky, well-groomed blond in a tuxedo strode toward her with purpose. He extended his hand and swiftly and efficiently shook hers as he announced in a thick French accent, “I am Pierre LaVallier, the manager of Davila’s NYC. You must be Miss Styles.”
“Yes. And Bayli is fine.” She smiled politely.
“Tres bien.”
Thank God Bayli had taken a year of French in high school. Hopefully nothing would get lost in translation during the interviewing process.
“Come, come,” he lightly insisted.
Pierre directed her past the massive bar made of rich, dark wood with intricate scrolled accents and panels and a shiny copper top. The wall behind it was lined with glass shelves and every manner of premium-level alcohol.
“Chef St. James would like to meet you before you and I sit down to chat,” Pierre informed her. “He’s already reviewed your application. Though you’re early, so he’ll require you to wait in the kitchen while he finishes his work.”
Bayli drew up short and gasped. “Rory St. James is here? Now?”
Pierre turned back to face her. “Oui. Of course,” he said a bit haughtily. “The restaurant has only been open for a month. He stays on-site for the first quarter before making the rounds at the other kitchens. Obviously, that’s part of the grand-opening frenzy. Why our phones ring off the hook for reservations that have to be booked two to three months out. If they’re lucky,” he added with panache and a dramatic hand gesture.
“Right. That makes perfect sense.” It also made it incredibly difficult for Bayli to breathe. She was going to meet Rory St. James. The man, the myth, the legend.
The chef who made sure every one of his and Christian Davila’s restaurants earned Michelin stars. Putting them on the “best of the best” lists in their respective cities. The chef who reportedly roared like a lion when things didn’t go right in his den.
Oh, shit.
Her hands started to shake. She clutched her slim black leather folder, which contained a copy of her résumé and some highlights from her modeling portfolio, to her chest.
Bayli was a research buff by nature, and she’d done her homework before she’d even applied for this position. So she knew what she was getting herself into. Problem was, she’d never worked as a hostess before and, well, the idea of being interviewed by Rory St. James was downright nerve-wracking.
“Are you all right?” Pierre asked with notable concern. “You’ve gone a bit pale.”
“Fine. I’m fine. I just like to be fully prepared when I…” Become someone else.
Breathe, Bay. Just breathe.
She pulled in several long streams of air. Went to that place in her mind where positivity and optimism reigned supreme. Mentally shook off her tension.
Then she flashed her camera-ready smile.
“Bon Dieu!” Pierre’s blond brows shot up. “Liane was right about you. She said you could light up an entire room.”
“That’s very sweet of her.”
Liane was the former main hostess of Davila’s. A new friend of a friend Bayli had recently met. And likely the only reason Bayli had scored this opportunity, because according to Liane, there was a foot-high stack of submissions from much more qualified candidates on Pierre’s desk.
He said, “It was kind of her to make a recommendation after, unfortunately, we had to let her go.”
Bayli’s head cocked to the side. “Let her go? I thought she quit in order to start the fall semester at NYU.”
“Ah, is that what she claimed? She’s a lovely girl, so please don’t mention to her that I told you that Chef St. James excused her when she turned away the governor for a table.”
“Wow.” Bayli’s mind reeled. “The governor of New York? Who would be—”
“A man you do not shoo away because he doesn’t have a reservation. Especially when he shows up with foreign dignitaries he wants to impress. I’ll make it all perfectly clear how to accommodate situations such as that … provided Chef gives you the head nod.”
The head nod.
Oh, fuck.
She inhaled again. Held the breath. Let it out slowly.
Back to your happy place, Bay.
The smile easily returned. “I’m fine,” she assured Pierre again, though her heart thundered and her pulse raced.
Okay, desperation was a bit of a scary thing. But she bucked up, because being “on” came naturally to Bayli.
Finally stepping out of the shadows of her past and really being seen was what motivated her, what drove her to succeed no matter the bleak years and pain she’d suffered back in California. Like Jewel had told her, this was Bayli’s time to shine.
And shine she would!
Hitching her chin a notch, she said, “Let’s go meet Chef St. James.”
Oh, dear God, please let him like me!
* * *
Rory St. James was already planning the new menu that would roll out in a couple of months. It was his custom to keep changing up the selections that came from his kitchens, not just to ensure loyal patrons didn’t feel a sense of repetitiveness but also because there were endless dishes to surprise and enthrall diners. One of the reasons Rory preferred a different style of cuisine for each establishment.
Wine country chic in River Cross, California. Fresh seafood in Boston. Cuban fusion in Miami. Traditional pub-food-taken-to-the-next-level in London. Six courses with wine pairings in Paris …
At thirty-two, Rory did not yet feel as though he’d fully explored his culinary genius and therefore continued to study and practice and add to his repertoire. In his mind, there really was no such thing as being at the top of your game in this business, because around every corner there was a new discovery to make and a new direction to take.
The steakhouse was meant to provide a basis for some of the classics with Rory’s twist on them. Medium-rare filet mignon cooked at sixteen hundred degrees and drizzled with a decadent crab-béarnaise sauce. Pepper-encrusted New York strips. Beef Wellington. Chateaubriand. Thick, juicy T-bones. All with his own spices incorporated—and all of which he was currently preparing for an elite group of food critics sitting in his dining room. He also prepped samples of Australian rack of lamb and Chilean sea bass for variety.
He’d already offered three different types of specialty soups. Now he plated the salads and arranged them on a serving tray with a bread display and accompaniments. He hadn’t requested a server for today’s affair. Pierre poured the wine, and the sous and dessert chefs were on hand, but Rory wanted to take a more personable approach with these particular critics as they immersed themselves in his menu, so he chose to be more engaging than usual and deliver the food himself.
He knew his reputation preceded him. Type A, control freak, perfectionist. He’d heard it all—and deserved the labels. He’d lost his temper more than once in his kitchens. It was no secret he could be surly when he was in the zone. Not out of extreme arrogance, though, yes, he was proud of his achievements even as he continued to strive for greater excellence. Rory just wasn’t a people person, per se. It was the main reason he stuck to what had been deemed his “den” by the epicurean media and let Christian or Pierre or the front-of-house managers at the other restaurants converse with the customers.
Rory comprehended the importance of circulating throughout the dining room, inquiring as to whether everything had been prepared to guests’ satisfaction. But the majority of the time, he was deep in thought, challenging his own knowledge, concocting more creative dishes.
It was hugely helpful that Christian was so charismatic—and women fawned over him. It was also advantageous for both men that they were on the same page when it came to diversity at each of their restaurants. Neither settled for the status quo, and Christian was always open to new innovations.
They’d met at Columbia University and had hit it off instantly.
Ironically, they’d almost literally hit each other instantly. At the time they’d met, they’d both been dating the same woman. And hadn’t known it.
Turned out to be a fortuitous encounter. Because here they were, twelve years later, still best friends and business partners. Still sharing their women …
But that wasn’t something for Rory to think about at the moment. He had cutthroat foodies to win over.
He hefted the tray, flattened his palm in the center, and carried it above shoulder height through the kitchen and out the pass-through door. He only made it one step beyond the wide doorframe when he kicked something hard and unyielding. At first. Then the object gave way and a delicate shriek shattered the silence.
Just as Rory tripped—over a body.
“Jesus Christ!” he bellowed.
The tray went flying, slamming into the far wall of the servers’ station, the painstakingly chosen china crashing to the tile floor and resonating throughout the narrow space and nearly empty restaurant as Rory fell to his knees. Next to the body.
A very svelte, gorgeous body. One that shouldn’t have been squatting anywhere near the entrance to his kitchen.
The woman who was sprawled partially on the floor alongside him blurted, “Oh, my God! I’m so sorry!”
Pierre swooped in to hastily clean the mess while Rory hopped to his feet. His hand shot out in the general direction of the startled woman. He curtly said, “You must be Bayli Styles. Hostess wannabe?” His next words came on a near growl. “You’re early.”
She stared at him, a little rocked by the incident if he read her stunned expression accurately. Then she seemed to come around and actually glared. “Bayli, yes.”
He smirked at how she neither confirmed nor denied the tidbit about whether she now wanted to be a Davila’s hostess. Feisty thing that she apparently was.
With her head tilted back to look up at him, Rory got the full effect of her sculpted face, unbelievably long black lashes, and the most tempting crimson-colored mouth he’d ever seen.
He didn’t even have time to process the natural sparkle in her tawny eyes, because her palm slipped into his and everything in his brain went haywire. Her touch was warm and velvety and … electrifying. Jolting Rory.
She gripped his hand tightly, either fearing he might let go and cause her to fall back on her ass or to prove she wasn’t intimidated by him. He burned with curiosity to know which was more accurate.
He helped her up, and as Bayli Styles stood before him—almost eye to eye given the tall heels she wore—something even more profound happened to Rory.
A click. In his brain. In his gut.
His gaze slid over her, taking in every glamorous inch but mostly fixating on legs that didn’t quit. Holy hell, she had incredible legs. Bare, sleek, and sexy looking. They’d feel fucking fantastic wrapped around his hips.
But no. That wasn’t what the click was about. Not entirely, anyway.
She was insanely beautiful, yes. Poised, even after he’d laid her flat. Squared shoulders. Lifted chin. She was … sensational.
Not just in the way that instantly charged him, sexually. Especially as her nipples pebbled beneath her tight black dress. While Rory’s groin tightened at her physical response to him, his mind suddenly whirled with other thoughts. Potentially the solution to a professional problem that had plagued him and Christian the past several months. A project that had tanked miserably, with no plausible way in sight to rectify it. Until now. Because a new vision stood right before his very eyes.
But Rory wasn’t one to give anything away. He had to further gauge the situation, assess the ebb and flow between Bayli and his sometimes overpowering demeanor before he jumped to any brilliant conclusions about whether he was staring at the Holy Grail he and Christian desperately sought.
First, Rory would have to determine if this woman was a flight-or-fight one.
He sensed it would be the latter. Hoped it would be the latter.
“Are you all right?” he demanded, not curbing his annoyance that she’d disrupted his lunch service, had effectively made a calamity of it. He wanted her full-on, unchecked reaction to him not going all soft on her because of her pretty face and haunting eyes.
Bayli ripped her hand from his as though she’d been scalded, and rubbed her shapely left hip where he’d accidentally kicked her. In a husky tone that confirmed she felt the spontaneous chemistry as well, she told him, “Think you’ll leave a mark, but I’m sure I’ll survive.”
There was a tinge of sass to her voice, a flicker of it in her shimmering irises.
Definitely fight.
“Good to hear.” That sentiment held dual meaning for him.
She intrigued Rory. He could see quite clearly that he rattled her cage with his brusque disposition, but she was still willing to go toe-to-toe with him. And there was no mistaking the exhilaration and heat in her expression.
All very interesting …
Rory wasn’t thrilled he’d marred her, was irritated at himself as much as he was at her for being in his way. But he was still thinking three steps ahead. Far beyond the hostess position she’d come to see him about …
He scooped up her portfolio, along with the papers and pictures that had spilled from it. Then asked her, “Mind telling me why you decided to be a tree stump in front of my swinging kitchen doors?”
Snatching the leather folder from him, she said between clenched teeth, “A couple of photos slipped out and I bent down to retrieve them. I wasn’t expecting you to come charging through those doors like a bull in a china shop.”
“Ha!” he exploded. More of an admonishment than a jest. “First lesson in a restaurant—expect the unexpected. Second lesson—know these double doors swing both ways and there’s always someone coming or going.”
He spun around, shoved through the right-side door. Went straight to the salad station, where he replated salads, doing his damnedest to banish images blazing in his mind of long, luxurious legs and full, enticing breasts. Those puckered nipples that beckoned him to peel away her clothing and tease the little buds tighter with his tongue …
Jesus, man. Get a grip. You’re not an animal.
Yet Bayli Styles certainly brought out his primal instincts.
Focus on your work, asshole. There are food critics in your dining room. Remember?
The commotion at the servers’ station had no doubt echoed out front—and in the ears of his special guests—so time was of the essence to serve them. Distract them from the shattering of china and the clattering of serving utensils behind the scenes.
But as Rory stared at the dishes before him, he had another startling revelation. Why the hell had he prepped Caesar salads? Sure, they were complementary to all meals at a steakhouse. But fuck. He had a list of more colorful, flavorful selections. So he put away the single-serving plates and reached for the sampler ones that were specific to a trio of smaller portions.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Bayli Styles tentatively entering his domain, holding her portfolio to her ample chest.
She watched him from afar for a few moments and then took several strides toward him.
As though she’d read his thoughts earlier and now followed his every movement, keeping a mental pace with him, she said, “Very clever. An arugula, pear, and walnut salad. Field of greens with strawberries. And endive with apple crisps and Gorgonzola. Fancy, but nothing to overpower whatever the hell it is you’re cooking that smells like heaven.”
“You know your salads. Where does that come from?” It was meant to be mindless chatter, but she didn’t seem to catch on.
“Well, I’m a model, so lettuce is my best friend. But aside from that, I pretty much devour books and magazines on every topic. Including food.”
“Devour, eh?” He didn’t look up as he made quick work of the new round of salads.
“Sorry. My brain operates in silos. I compartmentalize, so when we’re discussing meals I—”
“I get it. Now, why don’t you tell me why you’d like to be a hostess at this restaurant, particularly when you have no prior experience?”
He didn’t miss the hitch in her breath at his abrupt change of subject, even though his focus was on ladling a traditional balsamic vinaigrette and a lighter white one into dressing boats.
“I enjoy working with the public, have excellent customer service skills, and I’m a fan of yours and Mr. Davila’s,” she said.
“I see.” He spared a glance her way. She was certainly polished. A quick thinker. But she wasn’t the right woman for the hostess job. He knew it innately. Having worked in restaurants since he was ten, starting with his uncle’s bistro, Rory had a lifetime of expertise tucked under his belt and could easily deduce that Bayli Styles didn’t quite grasp the intensity of restaurant work. Yes, he based that assessment primarily on the incident at the servers’ station.
Rory, Christian, and their staff had to be seasoned. And even then, there were certain things Rory wouldn’t turn a blind eye to—say, telling the governor of the state in which you operated that there was no table for him and his associates. Not recognizing him was even more unforgivable. Christ, would Liane have overlooked Michelle Obama and sent her on her merry way because the First Lady didn’t have a reservation?
There were little secrets in Rory’s world, and one of them was that a few seats were always held in reserve for VIPs who showed up on the fly.
Yet that wasn’t the main issue he had with Miss Styles.
He suspected greeting and seating diners wouldn’t challenge her. At least not beyond a week or two. Then she’d move on to something more her speed—likely a coveted modeling job, because a woman who looked like her was meant to be in front of the camera—and they’d be back to square one at Davila’s NYC, needing to interview and train someone else.
Conversely, believing she belonged in front of a camera was what solidified in his mind that there could very well be a suitable alternative with this situation. The gnawing sensation grew with every second she lingered close to him. Rory felt an intrinsic pull as her darkly stirring scent wafted under his nose, so very distinct and alluring as it competed with the aromas from the ovens, and something contradictory about her very presence captivated him.
Her beauty was certainly an appealing feature, but Bayli didn’t strike him as the sort who’d rely strictly on her looks to get what she wanted, to land her a job such as this. The way she watched him so intently told him she was a woman with a thirst for knowledge and a need to learn new things, see new sights. She seemed to take great interest in everything around her, and Rory found that refreshing.
He only wished Christian were here at the moment to discuss the potential of hiring Bayli for their next joint venture, which was currently in the retooling stage.
Unfortunately, Rory couldn’t propose anything to Bayli without consulting his partner—and there was no time for that at present—so he simply told her, “I’ll be in touch.”
He loaded up his second round of salads, bread, and a cracked pepper mill.
“Wait. I’m sorry,” she hastily said. “What does that mean? Should I still sit down with Pierre?”
“No need. You’ll hear from me personally.” He lifted the tray high. “Thank you for stopping by, Miss Styles.” He breezed past her to get on with his business.
Though the image of Bayli was burned into his brain and thoughts of their disastrous, though fortuitous, meeting continued to simmer …
* * *
Bayli stood outside of Davila’s NYC, fuming. She hit the speed dial number on her phone for Scarlet, who conferenced in Jewel.
“You guys are not going to believe this.” Bayli jumped right in. “I was kicked in the hip and then dismissed!”
“What?” Jewel shrieked. “At your interview?”
“Oh, there was no interview! There was a loud crash and a gruff chef and then an ‘I’ll be in touch.’” She huffed. “Yeah, right. He’ll be in touch when he goes vegan with his next restaurant—which is the equivalent of hell freezing over for this man. Shit!”
It’d all happened so fast. And she’d let it.
What the fuck?
“I don’t understand,” Scarlet said as Bayli stalked down the crowded sidewalk toward the subway, a bit too far away for a woman in five-inch heels, but she didn’t really notice the strain on her feet, in her current agitated state.
Jewel told her, “You’re perfect for the job! You’re attractive. Friendly. Professional. Smart. What more could they possibly be looking for in a hostess?”
“Beats the hell out of me,” she grumbled. “But His Royal Culinary Highness Rory St. James tripped over me, his tray went sailing, and two minutes later he was like, ‘Bye-bye, baby.’”
“What an ass,” Scarlet scoffed.
“I don’t know,” Bayli lamented as she came to an abrupt halt, miraculously not interrupting anyone else’s flow so that they slammed into her. She whirled around and stared in the direction from which she’d come. She considered marching back into the restaurant and demanding an actual interview. But what good would that do? If Rory and Pierre agreed, it’d only be to humor her. Then they’d promptly toss her application in the trash.
On the other hand, they’d probably already done that, so what the hell?
Except that she still had a hand to play.
And if Rory St. James was the type who wanted an interviewee to “sing for their supper,” then by God, she’d start warming up her pipes.
She hadn’t come all the way to New York to be stonewalled. She’d put her heart and soul into freeing herself from shackles and heartbreak, and Bayli Styles would not give up so easily!
Her enthusiasm returning, she told the girls, “I have a modeling job of sorts on Saturday night. Some uber-exclusive fund-raising event. The organizers had me familiarize myself with the guest list—Christian Davila is on it. I might be able to turn this whole thing around with one good impression.”
“You really want to work for angsty chef guy after today’s debacle?” This from Jewel.
“It’s suddenly become more personal vindication than survival tactic,” Bayli said. “I’ll keep you posted.”
She disconnected the call. And plotted her next encounter with the famous duo.
Copyright © 2017 by Calista Fox
Bayli Styles had extra pep in her step as she made her way down Lexington Avenue toward Manhattan’s hottest new venue, the newly opened steakhouse Davila’s NYC. Owned by international restaurateur Christian Davila and his business partner, celebrity chef Rory St. James.
She had an interview for a hostess position. Not the ultimate gig she aspired to, but living in New York City didn’t come cheap. Even her crappy apartment in a sketchy neighborhood cost a small fortune in rent. She was willing to pay the price—she’d wanted to live here since she was seventeen. Until recently, however, circumstances beyond her control had precluded her from packing herself up and making the trek from the beautiful wine country of River Cross, California. Tragic circumstances, to be exact.
Yet a decade later, here she was. Starting a new life. One that required her to land several part-time jobs with flexible hours so she could also take on modeling assignments sent her way by the agency that had agreed to rep her when she’d arrived two months ago. The assignments were a bit too few and far between, but at least she was building her portfolio. Perhaps someday soon she’d make a name for herself.
In the meantime, she’d do whatever it took to keep this city from kicking her ass. This vibrant, energetic city that she’d already fallen in love with, even if it did intimidate the hell out of her sometimes with the honking of horns, the hordes of people walking brisk seven-minute miles to and from work, and the infinite number of sights to see.
Luckily, she’d spent a few years living in San Francisco with her friends from high school—Jewel Catalano, a wine heiress, and Scarlet Drake, an insurance fraud investigator. So Bayli didn’t feel too country bumpkin. Most of the time, at any rate.
Today was a good example. She was treating this interview as she would a modeling job. She wore her favorite sleeveless one-shouldered black mini, believing the manager of Davila’s would want to see that she was chic and fashion forward. And could work her shift in five-inch heels. She’d pulled her long dark hair up in a sleek style and added simple accessories. Slim, elongated silver hoops and the sparkly crystal bracelet her mother had given her for Christmas several years ago. It was a costume piece and not worth anything other than sentimental value. A pretty trinket that kept her dearly departed mom close to her in spirit.
Bayli knew her mother would be proud of her for finally breaking free of all the trauma back in California and finding her own path. Even if it was slow going and she had to put in extra effort to make ends meet. Bayli had never lived a charmed life. She had high hopes her luck might change now that she’d ventured east to chase her wildest dreams.
Her stomach fluttered as she approached the tall, arched double doors of the steakhouse.
This could be so huge.
The “in” she needed when it came to conquering this city. So much potential lay beyond those doors. It was up to her to seize the opportunity. Reach for her own brass ring.
You can do this, Bay. Just go for it!
The restaurant didn’t open until cocktail hour during the week, which meant there’d be little activity, likely a low-key environment, before the hustle and bustle of dinnertime. That helped to minimize her anxiety over really and truly needing to be hired so she could pay her bills.
Although she was borderline in dire financial straits and feeling a tiny bit desperate, exhilaration trilled down her spine. Bayli had an ace in the hole for this interview and wasn’t above pulling out her connection to the Davila enterprise, no matter how indirect and distant that connection was. She simply had to get this job.
It wasn’t just about the money. As she’d mentioned to Jewel and Scarlet before the restaurant had launched, she considered it a viable springboard for her modeling career. A famous restaurateur and celebrity chef would pack in the people and the press. What a great place for Bayli to be discovered!
The possibility made her more excited. More determined to slay this.
She pulled open one of the doors and entered the softly lit establishment. Standing in the middle of the vast foyer, she inhaled deeply, smelling a wood-burning fire, new leather, and the most tantalizing, mouthwatering aroma coming from the kitchen.
To her right was a wide hallway with a wine cellar and private tasting room. Farther down were the restrooms. To her left was a lounge that looked more like a cozy study, showcasing endless shelves filled with hardback novels, a fireplace, sofas, and coffee and end tables. Being a bookworm who loved libraries, Bayli felt right at home.
It was also all very upscale and gorgeous. As she’d expected.
She walked beyond the large round table in the middle of the entryway with an enormous floral arrangement serving as a centerpiece and a stunning chandelier hanging overhead. Bayli had already looked at the menu online, and that was why she wasn’t surprised by the elegant and expensive décor. Anyone who’d lay down a couple hundred dollars for a filet mignon deserved to dine in high style.
The restaurant wasn’t a big one—just enough to comfortably accommodate thirty. She’d been forewarned when the manager had contacted her for the interview that reservations were difficult to come by. And, if hired, she’d be turning away more people than she’d be seating. A daunting challenge, but Bayli understood the exclusivity of the place.
What did shock her, however, was that there was a group of four at a table, sampling a trio of soups in miniature artsy bowls. The restaurant served lunch only on the weekends, so she surmised they must be food critics, magazine editors, or bloggers.
She didn’t have time to observe their reactions to the food, because a lanky, well-groomed blond in a tuxedo strode toward her with purpose. He extended his hand and swiftly and efficiently shook hers as he announced in a thick French accent, “I am Pierre LaVallier, the manager of Davila’s NYC. You must be Miss Styles.”
“Yes. And Bayli is fine.” She smiled politely.
“Tres bien.”
Thank God Bayli had taken a year of French in high school. Hopefully nothing would get lost in translation during the interviewing process.
“Come, come,” he lightly insisted.
Pierre directed her past the massive bar made of rich, dark wood with intricate scrolled accents and panels and a shiny copper top. The wall behind it was lined with glass shelves and every manner of premium-level alcohol.
“Chef St. James would like to meet you before you and I sit down to chat,” Pierre informed her. “He’s already reviewed your application. Though you’re early, so he’ll require you to wait in the kitchen while he finishes his work.”
Bayli drew up short and gasped. “Rory St. James is here? Now?”
Pierre turned back to face her. “Oui. Of course,” he said a bit haughtily. “The restaurant has only been open for a month. He stays on-site for the first quarter before making the rounds at the other kitchens. Obviously, that’s part of the grand-opening frenzy. Why our phones ring off the hook for reservations that have to be booked two to three months out. If they’re lucky,” he added with panache and a dramatic hand gesture.
“Right. That makes perfect sense.” It also made it incredibly difficult for Bayli to breathe. She was going to meet Rory St. James. The man, the myth, the legend.
The chef who made sure every one of his and Christian Davila’s restaurants earned Michelin stars. Putting them on the “best of the best” lists in their respective cities. The chef who reportedly roared like a lion when things didn’t go right in his den.
Oh, shit.
Her hands started to shake. She clutched her slim black leather folder, which contained a copy of her résumé and some highlights from her modeling portfolio, to her chest.
Bayli was a research buff by nature, and she’d done her homework before she’d even applied for this position. So she knew what she was getting herself into. Problem was, she’d never worked as a hostess before and, well, the idea of being interviewed by Rory St. James was downright nerve-wracking.
“Are you all right?” Pierre asked with notable concern. “You’ve gone a bit pale.”
“Fine. I’m fine. I just like to be fully prepared when I…” Become someone else.
Breathe, Bay. Just breathe.
She pulled in several long streams of air. Went to that place in her mind where positivity and optimism reigned supreme. Mentally shook off her tension.
Then she flashed her camera-ready smile.
“Bon Dieu!” Pierre’s blond brows shot up. “Liane was right about you. She said you could light up an entire room.”
“That’s very sweet of her.”
Liane was the former main hostess of Davila’s. A new friend of a friend Bayli had recently met. And likely the only reason Bayli had scored this opportunity, because according to Liane, there was a foot-high stack of submissions from much more qualified candidates on Pierre’s desk.
He said, “It was kind of her to make a recommendation after, unfortunately, we had to let her go.”
Bayli’s head cocked to the side. “Let her go? I thought she quit in order to start the fall semester at NYU.”
“Ah, is that what she claimed? She’s a lovely girl, so please don’t mention to her that I told you that Chef St. James excused her when she turned away the governor for a table.”
“Wow.” Bayli’s mind reeled. “The governor of New York? Who would be—”
“A man you do not shoo away because he doesn’t have a reservation. Especially when he shows up with foreign dignitaries he wants to impress. I’ll make it all perfectly clear how to accommodate situations such as that … provided Chef gives you the head nod.”
The head nod.
Oh, fuck.
She inhaled again. Held the breath. Let it out slowly.
Back to your happy place, Bay.
The smile easily returned. “I’m fine,” she assured Pierre again, though her heart thundered and her pulse raced.
Okay, desperation was a bit of a scary thing. But she bucked up, because being “on” came naturally to Bayli.
Finally stepping out of the shadows of her past and really being seen was what motivated her, what drove her to succeed no matter the bleak years and pain she’d suffered back in California. Like Jewel had told her, this was Bayli’s time to shine.
And shine she would!
Hitching her chin a notch, she said, “Let’s go meet Chef St. James.”
Oh, dear God, please let him like me!
* * *
Rory St. James was already planning the new menu that would roll out in a couple of months. It was his custom to keep changing up the selections that came from his kitchens, not just to ensure loyal patrons didn’t feel a sense of repetitiveness but also because there were endless dishes to surprise and enthrall diners. One of the reasons Rory preferred a different style of cuisine for each establishment.
Wine country chic in River Cross, California. Fresh seafood in Boston. Cuban fusion in Miami. Traditional pub-food-taken-to-the-next-level in London. Six courses with wine pairings in Paris …
At thirty-two, Rory did not yet feel as though he’d fully explored his culinary genius and therefore continued to study and practice and add to his repertoire. In his mind, there really was no such thing as being at the top of your game in this business, because around every corner there was a new discovery to make and a new direction to take.
The steakhouse was meant to provide a basis for some of the classics with Rory’s twist on them. Medium-rare filet mignon cooked at sixteen hundred degrees and drizzled with a decadent crab-béarnaise sauce. Pepper-encrusted New York strips. Beef Wellington. Chateaubriand. Thick, juicy T-bones. All with his own spices incorporated—and all of which he was currently preparing for an elite group of food critics sitting in his dining room. He also prepped samples of Australian rack of lamb and Chilean sea bass for variety.
He’d already offered three different types of specialty soups. Now he plated the salads and arranged them on a serving tray with a bread display and accompaniments. He hadn’t requested a server for today’s affair. Pierre poured the wine, and the sous and dessert chefs were on hand, but Rory wanted to take a more personable approach with these particular critics as they immersed themselves in his menu, so he chose to be more engaging than usual and deliver the food himself.
He knew his reputation preceded him. Type A, control freak, perfectionist. He’d heard it all—and deserved the labels. He’d lost his temper more than once in his kitchens. It was no secret he could be surly when he was in the zone. Not out of extreme arrogance, though, yes, he was proud of his achievements even as he continued to strive for greater excellence. Rory just wasn’t a people person, per se. It was the main reason he stuck to what had been deemed his “den” by the epicurean media and let Christian or Pierre or the front-of-house managers at the other restaurants converse with the customers.
Rory comprehended the importance of circulating throughout the dining room, inquiring as to whether everything had been prepared to guests’ satisfaction. But the majority of the time, he was deep in thought, challenging his own knowledge, concocting more creative dishes.
It was hugely helpful that Christian was so charismatic—and women fawned over him. It was also advantageous for both men that they were on the same page when it came to diversity at each of their restaurants. Neither settled for the status quo, and Christian was always open to new innovations.
They’d met at Columbia University and had hit it off instantly.
Ironically, they’d almost literally hit each other instantly. At the time they’d met, they’d both been dating the same woman. And hadn’t known it.
Turned out to be a fortuitous encounter. Because here they were, twelve years later, still best friends and business partners. Still sharing their women …
But that wasn’t something for Rory to think about at the moment. He had cutthroat foodies to win over.
He hefted the tray, flattened his palm in the center, and carried it above shoulder height through the kitchen and out the pass-through door. He only made it one step beyond the wide doorframe when he kicked something hard and unyielding. At first. Then the object gave way and a delicate shriek shattered the silence.
Just as Rory tripped—over a body.
“Jesus Christ!” he bellowed.
The tray went flying, slamming into the far wall of the servers’ station, the painstakingly chosen china crashing to the tile floor and resonating throughout the narrow space and nearly empty restaurant as Rory fell to his knees. Next to the body.
A very svelte, gorgeous body. One that shouldn’t have been squatting anywhere near the entrance to his kitchen.
The woman who was sprawled partially on the floor alongside him blurted, “Oh, my God! I’m so sorry!”
Pierre swooped in to hastily clean the mess while Rory hopped to his feet. His hand shot out in the general direction of the startled woman. He curtly said, “You must be Bayli Styles. Hostess wannabe?” His next words came on a near growl. “You’re early.”
She stared at him, a little rocked by the incident if he read her stunned expression accurately. Then she seemed to come around and actually glared. “Bayli, yes.”
He smirked at how she neither confirmed nor denied the tidbit about whether she now wanted to be a Davila’s hostess. Feisty thing that she apparently was.
With her head tilted back to look up at him, Rory got the full effect of her sculpted face, unbelievably long black lashes, and the most tempting crimson-colored mouth he’d ever seen.
He didn’t even have time to process the natural sparkle in her tawny eyes, because her palm slipped into his and everything in his brain went haywire. Her touch was warm and velvety and … electrifying. Jolting Rory.
She gripped his hand tightly, either fearing he might let go and cause her to fall back on her ass or to prove she wasn’t intimidated by him. He burned with curiosity to know which was more accurate.
He helped her up, and as Bayli Styles stood before him—almost eye to eye given the tall heels she wore—something even more profound happened to Rory.
A click. In his brain. In his gut.
His gaze slid over her, taking in every glamorous inch but mostly fixating on legs that didn’t quit. Holy hell, she had incredible legs. Bare, sleek, and sexy looking. They’d feel fucking fantastic wrapped around his hips.
But no. That wasn’t what the click was about. Not entirely, anyway.
She was insanely beautiful, yes. Poised, even after he’d laid her flat. Squared shoulders. Lifted chin. She was … sensational.
Not just in the way that instantly charged him, sexually. Especially as her nipples pebbled beneath her tight black dress. While Rory’s groin tightened at her physical response to him, his mind suddenly whirled with other thoughts. Potentially the solution to a professional problem that had plagued him and Christian the past several months. A project that had tanked miserably, with no plausible way in sight to rectify it. Until now. Because a new vision stood right before his very eyes.
But Rory wasn’t one to give anything away. He had to further gauge the situation, assess the ebb and flow between Bayli and his sometimes overpowering demeanor before he jumped to any brilliant conclusions about whether he was staring at the Holy Grail he and Christian desperately sought.
First, Rory would have to determine if this woman was a flight-or-fight one.
He sensed it would be the latter. Hoped it would be the latter.
“Are you all right?” he demanded, not curbing his annoyance that she’d disrupted his lunch service, had effectively made a calamity of it. He wanted her full-on, unchecked reaction to him not going all soft on her because of her pretty face and haunting eyes.
Bayli ripped her hand from his as though she’d been scalded, and rubbed her shapely left hip where he’d accidentally kicked her. In a husky tone that confirmed she felt the spontaneous chemistry as well, she told him, “Think you’ll leave a mark, but I’m sure I’ll survive.”
There was a tinge of sass to her voice, a flicker of it in her shimmering irises.
Definitely fight.
“Good to hear.” That sentiment held dual meaning for him.
She intrigued Rory. He could see quite clearly that he rattled her cage with his brusque disposition, but she was still willing to go toe-to-toe with him. And there was no mistaking the exhilaration and heat in her expression.
All very interesting …
Rory wasn’t thrilled he’d marred her, was irritated at himself as much as he was at her for being in his way. But he was still thinking three steps ahead. Far beyond the hostess position she’d come to see him about …
He scooped up her portfolio, along with the papers and pictures that had spilled from it. Then asked her, “Mind telling me why you decided to be a tree stump in front of my swinging kitchen doors?”
Snatching the leather folder from him, she said between clenched teeth, “A couple of photos slipped out and I bent down to retrieve them. I wasn’t expecting you to come charging through those doors like a bull in a china shop.”
“Ha!” he exploded. More of an admonishment than a jest. “First lesson in a restaurant—expect the unexpected. Second lesson—know these double doors swing both ways and there’s always someone coming or going.”
He spun around, shoved through the right-side door. Went straight to the salad station, where he replated salads, doing his damnedest to banish images blazing in his mind of long, luxurious legs and full, enticing breasts. Those puckered nipples that beckoned him to peel away her clothing and tease the little buds tighter with his tongue …
Jesus, man. Get a grip. You’re not an animal.
Yet Bayli Styles certainly brought out his primal instincts.
Focus on your work, asshole. There are food critics in your dining room. Remember?
The commotion at the servers’ station had no doubt echoed out front—and in the ears of his special guests—so time was of the essence to serve them. Distract them from the shattering of china and the clattering of serving utensils behind the scenes.
But as Rory stared at the dishes before him, he had another startling revelation. Why the hell had he prepped Caesar salads? Sure, they were complementary to all meals at a steakhouse. But fuck. He had a list of more colorful, flavorful selections. So he put away the single-serving plates and reached for the sampler ones that were specific to a trio of smaller portions.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Bayli Styles tentatively entering his domain, holding her portfolio to her ample chest.
She watched him from afar for a few moments and then took several strides toward him.
As though she’d read his thoughts earlier and now followed his every movement, keeping a mental pace with him, she said, “Very clever. An arugula, pear, and walnut salad. Field of greens with strawberries. And endive with apple crisps and Gorgonzola. Fancy, but nothing to overpower whatever the hell it is you’re cooking that smells like heaven.”
“You know your salads. Where does that come from?” It was meant to be mindless chatter, but she didn’t seem to catch on.
“Well, I’m a model, so lettuce is my best friend. But aside from that, I pretty much devour books and magazines on every topic. Including food.”
“Devour, eh?” He didn’t look up as he made quick work of the new round of salads.
“Sorry. My brain operates in silos. I compartmentalize, so when we’re discussing meals I—”
“I get it. Now, why don’t you tell me why you’d like to be a hostess at this restaurant, particularly when you have no prior experience?”
He didn’t miss the hitch in her breath at his abrupt change of subject, even though his focus was on ladling a traditional balsamic vinaigrette and a lighter white one into dressing boats.
“I enjoy working with the public, have excellent customer service skills, and I’m a fan of yours and Mr. Davila’s,” she said.
“I see.” He spared a glance her way. She was certainly polished. A quick thinker. But she wasn’t the right woman for the hostess job. He knew it innately. Having worked in restaurants since he was ten, starting with his uncle’s bistro, Rory had a lifetime of expertise tucked under his belt and could easily deduce that Bayli Styles didn’t quite grasp the intensity of restaurant work. Yes, he based that assessment primarily on the incident at the servers’ station.
Rory, Christian, and their staff had to be seasoned. And even then, there were certain things Rory wouldn’t turn a blind eye to—say, telling the governor of the state in which you operated that there was no table for him and his associates. Not recognizing him was even more unforgivable. Christ, would Liane have overlooked Michelle Obama and sent her on her merry way because the First Lady didn’t have a reservation?
There were little secrets in Rory’s world, and one of them was that a few seats were always held in reserve for VIPs who showed up on the fly.
Yet that wasn’t the main issue he had with Miss Styles.
He suspected greeting and seating diners wouldn’t challenge her. At least not beyond a week or two. Then she’d move on to something more her speed—likely a coveted modeling job, because a woman who looked like her was meant to be in front of the camera—and they’d be back to square one at Davila’s NYC, needing to interview and train someone else.
Conversely, believing she belonged in front of a camera was what solidified in his mind that there could very well be a suitable alternative with this situation. The gnawing sensation grew with every second she lingered close to him. Rory felt an intrinsic pull as her darkly stirring scent wafted under his nose, so very distinct and alluring as it competed with the aromas from the ovens, and something contradictory about her very presence captivated him.
Her beauty was certainly an appealing feature, but Bayli didn’t strike him as the sort who’d rely strictly on her looks to get what she wanted, to land her a job such as this. The way she watched him so intently told him she was a woman with a thirst for knowledge and a need to learn new things, see new sights. She seemed to take great interest in everything around her, and Rory found that refreshing.
He only wished Christian were here at the moment to discuss the potential of hiring Bayli for their next joint venture, which was currently in the retooling stage.
Unfortunately, Rory couldn’t propose anything to Bayli without consulting his partner—and there was no time for that at present—so he simply told her, “I’ll be in touch.”
He loaded up his second round of salads, bread, and a cracked pepper mill.
“Wait. I’m sorry,” she hastily said. “What does that mean? Should I still sit down with Pierre?”
“No need. You’ll hear from me personally.” He lifted the tray high. “Thank you for stopping by, Miss Styles.” He breezed past her to get on with his business.
Though the image of Bayli was burned into his brain and thoughts of their disastrous, though fortuitous, meeting continued to simmer …
* * *
Bayli stood outside of Davila’s NYC, fuming. She hit the speed dial number on her phone for Scarlet, who conferenced in Jewel.
“You guys are not going to believe this.” Bayli jumped right in. “I was kicked in the hip and then dismissed!”
“What?” Jewel shrieked. “At your interview?”
“Oh, there was no interview! There was a loud crash and a gruff chef and then an ‘I’ll be in touch.’” She huffed. “Yeah, right. He’ll be in touch when he goes vegan with his next restaurant—which is the equivalent of hell freezing over for this man. Shit!”
It’d all happened so fast. And she’d let it.
What the fuck?
“I don’t understand,” Scarlet said as Bayli stalked down the crowded sidewalk toward the subway, a bit too far away for a woman in five-inch heels, but she didn’t really notice the strain on her feet, in her current agitated state.
Jewel told her, “You’re perfect for the job! You’re attractive. Friendly. Professional. Smart. What more could they possibly be looking for in a hostess?”
“Beats the hell out of me,” she grumbled. “But His Royal Culinary Highness Rory St. James tripped over me, his tray went sailing, and two minutes later he was like, ‘Bye-bye, baby.’”
“What an ass,” Scarlet scoffed.
“I don’t know,” Bayli lamented as she came to an abrupt halt, miraculously not interrupting anyone else’s flow so that they slammed into her. She whirled around and stared in the direction from which she’d come. She considered marching back into the restaurant and demanding an actual interview. But what good would that do? If Rory and Pierre agreed, it’d only be to humor her. Then they’d promptly toss her application in the trash.
On the other hand, they’d probably already done that, so what the hell?
Except that she still had a hand to play.
And if Rory St. James was the type who wanted an interviewee to “sing for their supper,” then by God, she’d start warming up her pipes.
She hadn’t come all the way to New York to be stonewalled. She’d put her heart and soul into freeing herself from shackles and heartbreak, and Bayli Styles would not give up so easily!
Her enthusiasm returning, she told the girls, “I have a modeling job of sorts on Saturday night. Some uber-exclusive fund-raising event. The organizers had me familiarize myself with the guest list—Christian Davila is on it. I might be able to turn this whole thing around with one good impression.”
“You really want to work for angsty chef guy after today’s debacle?” This from Jewel.
“It’s suddenly become more personal vindication than survival tactic,” Bayli said. “I’ll keep you posted.”
She disconnected the call. And plotted her next encounter with the famous duo.
Copyright © 2017 by Calista Fox
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The Billionaires: The Bosses
Calista Fox
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