by Calista Fox
She’s the one.
And he suddenly itched to phone Rory to tell him of this amazingly perfect discovery.
This woman just might be the answer to their problems. Both of them. Though he had to temporarily back-burner that second issue. Sure, Rory would find this woman attractive and mesmerizing. Would no doubt feel the same rush of heat through his veins and the same pulsing of his cock that Christian did at the moment. But that wasn’t the most important revelation at hand—significant though it was, since both men had been waiting, waiting, waiting for the right woman to enter their lives.
They’d sampled their fair share, yes. But had never found one capable of holding both their interests for more than a few nights. The way his blood turned to magma convinced Christian this one had the potential to be more than a temporary bedmate or a passing fancy. A woman both men would enjoy pleasuring. Repeatedly.
But, again, that wasn’t the current pressing matter.
Rather, an incredible idea popped into Christian’s head that just might get his and Rory’s derailed project back on track.
Christian’s testosterone level surged at this unexpected opportunity.
“Who are you?” he inquired. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I don’t mind at all,” she said, an alluring look on her face that enhanced her artistically crafted features. Her high cheekbones, her sculpted eyebrows, her aristocratic nose. “I’m Bayli Styles. Bayli with an i. Styles with a y.”
“And you’re a model, Bayli with an i, Styles with a y?”
She laughed at his bit of humor. “Aspiring, mostly,” she confessed. “I’ve only been in New York a couple of months.”
Hmm. As of yet undiscovered by anyone else …
Yes. Absolutely perfect.
Christian had just found a golden nugget.
Wait till Rory fucking finds out.
Christian’s best friend and business partner had been so wrapped up in the launch of their new steakhouse in Manhattan that he couldn’t be bothered with a night out at a premier fund-raising gala. Instead, Rory was in the kitchen this evening.
Well, that actually wasn’t out of the ordinary. Rory was a bit of a recluse. A famous recluse, but a recluse nonetheless. He made his presence known when necessary, but the man’s kitchen was his castle, in the restaurants they jointly owned and in Rory’s home.
Christian would have liked to persuade his friend to get out more often, but that was no easy feat. And neither here nor there at present.
Christian had something entirely different to focus on at the moment.
“I will take the Black Dragon,” he told Bayli, pleased with the sudden turn of events. “Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure,” she said, beaming and stealing his breath with her megawatt smile and easy demeanor. There was nothing forced about her conversation or her expressiveness. Nothing contrived or even practiced. She was so natural, so comfortable in her own skin. Confident and yet incredibly friendly and instantly likeable.
For months, Christian had needed a catalyst to spark his creativity. And damned if lightning hadn’t just struck!
While his mind buzzed with the sort of activity that always charged him to the core, Bayli’s assistant set up the stand and took the humidor from her to locate the coveted cigar she’d mentioned to Christian and opened the individual wooden encasement. A work of art unto itself.
Bayli retrieved the cutter and asked, “May I?”
“Please.”
She gingerly held the cigar with two fingers and her thumb and used an elegant, wafer-thin cutter, executing a clean wedge cut of the cap, as though she’d cut an eleven-hundred-dollar cigar a million times before. Christian nodded his approval. He’d actually tensed up for a moment, hoping like hell she wouldn’t mutilate such a highly regarded cigar. But Bayli Styles knew what she was doing.
She handed over the Black Dragon and then her assistant provided her with a well-crafted lighter. She held the flame close for Christian, careful to keep it from touching the tip of his cigar as he slowly rotated it, achieving a glowing ring. The whole time, his eyes were locked with hers. He noted the deep-orange color mixed with golden flecks that rimmed the tawny pools. Caught the hitch in her breath that pulled the cords of her neck tight. Felt the nearness of her seep inside him and bunch his muscles.
He wasn’t accustomed to reacting so quickly and so vehemently to a woman. Usually, he was more guarded. Assessing the attraction. It was Rory who had the immediate and strong responses to their objects of desire. Though Rory hadn’t really been feeling the vibe of late, Christian had sensed. And attributed it to the pressure of last month’s grand opening, and the new menu Rory spent all of his spare time working on. Completely understandable.
Hell, they hadn’t even found a few minutes over the past couple of days to catch up on business, because Christian had been inundated as well, with travel. They kept missing each other’s calls.
When Christian had the cigar going, Bayli snapped the lid of the lighter shut. A server appeared at her elbow with a silver tray holding a crystal tumbler.
She must have caught the movement from her peripheral vision, because Bayli’s gaze remained on Christian as she asked him, “Rémy Martin cognac?”
“Certainly,” he said.
She lifted the intricately cut Baccarat glass from the tray and graciously handed it over.
He took a sip, then assured her, “A perfect complement to the Black Dragon. You don’t miss a beat, do you?”
“I try not to. Enjoy.” She batted her long, sooty lashes. His cock twitched. His gut tightened again. Some women just possessed that certain je ne sais quoi. This one possessed it in spades.
Bayli moved on, making recommendations to his friends and lighting their cigars as well.
Just as she had clearly researched him right down to the cognac he preferred, Christian would find out what he could about her. Piper and Jackson Rutherford, the owners of the estate and the hosts of this evening’s event, would be able to provide the information on the modeling agency that represented Bayli, and Christian could easily track her down that way.
As he contemplated this and his gaze remained on her while she gracefully migrated to a larger group, Christian’s brain already churned with a new spin for his and Rory’s project. A completely different construct that would capitalize on the raven-haired beauty’s radiance and personable demeanor. She’d draw a huge crowd, tons of fans. She just needed a bigger audience than tonight’s festivities, a grander stage.
Christian and Rory could give it to her.
If Bayli Styles truly wanted to be a star, Christian was positive he and Rory could make it happen for her.
* * *
Bayli felt his gaze on her as she continued to make the rounds. She didn’t glance over her shoulder, though of course she’d hoped from the get-go to garner Christian Davila’s attention. What she hadn’t considered was how he’d affect her. There was some serious sizzling and crackling going on inside her over having caught his eye—over the fact that she held his interest.
She’d experienced a vibrant spark when she’d first met Rory at the restaurant and he’d unabashedly taken her in from head to toe. But they’d both been irritated with each other and then their introduction had turned into a crazy hot mess and she’d pretty much ignored that he’d lit her up. The way Christian Davila did. So that her clit tingled and her inner thighs flamed.
Like Rory, Christian was ridiculously gorgeous. She’d known this already, had perused plenty of articles on him in Forbes and Time and a slew of epicurean magazines. He was tall and had thick, luxurious obsidian-colored hair that went well with his tanned skin and his mesmerizing ice-blue eyes. Eyes that were alert and intelligent, even a trifle cunning in a mysterious, intriguing way. As though he were perpetually mulling over his next great success.
And there wasn’t a hint of recognition in them, telling her Rory had not mentioned her to Christian. A little disappointing, because
that meant she hadn’t been the least bit noteworthy to the chef, even though she’d felt the searing heat between them.
But she surmised this gave her the chance she needed to connect with Christian without the dark cloud of her misadventure with Rory looming over her head.
Still, it was kind of odd that the culinary god had looked at her with flames fringing his eyes and had then promptly dismissed her. There’d been something else reflected in those smoldering dark-brown irises of Rory’s … something undefinable. As though he were running scenarios well beyond her comprehension through his mind. Sexual or otherwise?
A little thrill raced down her spine at the prospect of it being the former.
Admittedly, it’d been a bit challenging to focus on the conversation and searing dynamic with him, because Rory St. James was magnetic with his primal intensity and his overwhelming presence. He was tall and athletic looking, likely riddled with rigid muscles under his chef’s jacket. His bronze-colored hair was thick and bushy. Unruly by design, she suspected.
He had rough edges to him, no doubt there. Whereas Christian was much more refined.
They were the perfect complement to each other.
Which made an interesting—though highly lascivious notion—pop into her head regarding the high-profile entrepreneurs. Bayli had seen Rory featured in most of those articles with Christian and they made for a double dose of sexiness. Especially since a beautiful woman usually stood between them, a mischievous expression on her face. As though she had a naughty secret she was dying to tell the world.
Bayli had seen that look before. One of her best friends, Jewel Catalano, wore the expression well when she was out and about with her two lovers, Rogen Angelini and Vin D’Angelo.
At first, the idea of being shared by two men had confused Bayli. Not just the physical mechanics of the situation but also the emotional aspect. It seemed there’d be a hell of a lot of jealousy and fragile egos and feelings to work with, not to mention three hearts were always on the line.
But Rogen and Vin had been best friends since they were kids and Jewel had always been tangled up with them. First Rogen, then Vin. Then the two of them at the same time.
At the same time.
Another wicked shudder ran through Bayli.
What must that be like?
To have two men devoted to her pleasure, devoted to giving her whatever she wanted in bed, whatever she needed.
Bayli couldn’t help wondering if Christian Davila and Rory St. James believed in the power of three as well.
An incredibly forbidden and yet highly scintillating fantasy …
One that wove a spell on her as she finished making the rounds. Obviously, she’d had a specific reason for saving the Black Dragon for Christian and ensuring he knew she’d taken the time to study up on him. Bayli hoped she’d left that indelible impression she needed so that Christian would mention her favorably to Rory and then Bayli could reengage the chef about the hostess position.
The party wound down and she returned the humidor to the Rutherfords’ event planner, Kristin Harding, who told her, “Piper and Jackson are quite pleased you pulled off your hostess role so fantastically. Numerous guests commented on your grace and how inviting you were. Mr. Davila, in particular, expressed his appreciation for your expertise.”
Precisely the validation Bayli needed.
Kristin continued. “The Rutherfords will contact your modeling agency to let them know what a fabulous job you did. And they’ve added a generous tip to the hours you spent training for the evening and the time you were here. Their check will be couriered over on Monday morning.”
Ah … rent money. A beautiful thing.
“I’m grateful they’re so prompt with the payment,” Bayli said.
“They’re known for that. Say, I have several parties coming up that I’ll keep you in mind for, including as cigar hostess. You really pulled it off, Bayli.”
“I’m a bit on the obsessive-compulsive side when it comes to things like these,” she admitted. “I don’t mind studying up or practicing. Maybe it’s more neurosis than OCD.”
Kristin laughed. “Either way, it works in your favor and is huge for building your reputation.”
They said their good-nights and Bayli retrieved her pashmina and handbag. Most of the guests had already departed. She’d planned that, taking her time so that when she eventually reached the valets out front, there was only a small group of guests waiting for their drivers. It’d be a bit embarrassing to have the bright-yellow cab she’d called earlier pull into the circular driveway that was filled with gleaming black limos.
She stood off to the side, partially in the shadows, hoping no one noticed her. Of course, one of the ultra-efficient valets did. He gave her a casual grin and asked, “Would you like me to phone your driver, miss?”
“No, thank you. I’ve already contacted him. He’s not too far away.” She mentally crossed her fingers.
“Great. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.”
She kept her head high as some of the remaining partygoers slid looks her way. Yes, she was part of the hired help—and had forgotten to mention the service entry to the cabbie as a pickup point. So she maintained her distance. And prayed they were all gone before her ride arrived.
At least she didn’t spot Christian Davila as a straggler. Thank God he’d already left. She feared her confidence would take a substantial hit if he witnessed her mode of transportation.
She played the waiting game with as much dignity as one could muster when in this sort of situation. Tapped her toe impatiently, though she projected calm with her easy smile and nods when someone glanced her way. Despite there still being tuxedo- and gown-clad guests milling about, she grew anxious over getting the heck out of there and back to Manhattan. Where the hell was her cab?
Nervous energy ran through her. What if he’d blown her off? Picked up a more convenient fare and ditched her in the country? Shit! How would she get home? There was no public transit in this remote area, and she didn’t have enough cash on her for any other alternative. Not to mention, her credit card was maxed out. She’d needed a bed to sleep in, a sofa to sit on, and a dozen cans of Raid to spray her bug-infested apartment, after all.
Why the hell hadn’t she just suffered through a few months with the 1970s lawn furniture that had come with the place and left a reserve on her card?
No … instead, Bayli had needed to clean and disinfect every square inch of the place and then paint the dreary, dingy walls. And she simply hadn’t been able to bring herself to sleep in the used-by-however-many-hundreds-of-aspiring-stars-before-her futon that’d been tucked into the small alcove off the living room. A glorified closet advertised as an actual bedroom.
But the price on the apartment had been just right, and it was either that or … Jersey. Or a borough. Anywhere that wasn’t the city proper in her mind. And since Manhattan was her dream, she’d had to suck it up.
Now she was starting to panic because she just might be stranded out here in the Land of the Richies.
She swallowed down a lump of anxiety as she glanced around.
Unfortunately, her current awkward and somewhat heart-wrenching scenario of practically being “last man standing” tonight with three valets shooting glances her way brought back all the insecurities she’d suffered as a child. Fearing her mother was going to be turned away from a few nights in the hospital. Agonizing over where the next meal would come from or whether they’d make rent.
So at this moment, what was she supposed to do? Ask one of the valets if he could drive her into the city, and hand over all the cash she had in her purse? Pray he didn’t ask for more payment—of the nonmonetary variety?
Her stomach roiled. This was a nightmare.
She fished her cell out of her clutch and hit the redial number for the cab. It went straight to voice mail.
Bayli’s eyes squeezed shut. She suspected that this was something people with money didn’t gras
p. A strained desperation. The horror of humiliation. That what the hell am I supposed to do now? sensation that frazzled her nerves.
She pulled up the Web browser on her phone to find another cab company. She’d call a dozen of them if she had to. Posthaste, because now the valets appeared a bit nervous. For her. The last of the limos was pulling away. With the exception of a silver stretch Jag, shimmering in the glittery moonlight.
She had her cell pressed to her ear when she sensed a commanding presence behind her, felt his heat at her back, and smelled his sinfully delicious cognac-and-cigar-scented breath as he murmured, “If your boyfriend’s stuck in traffic, I’d be happy to give you a lift.”
Christian Davila.
THREE
Bayli would never mistake his low, deep, intimate tone.
She sucked in a sharp slice of air. Every nerve ending that had been frayed moments earlier now exploded. Her hand fell away from her ear and she hit the disconnect button with her thumb.
In a breathy voice, she said, “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
Christian made a soft tsking sound as he stepped around her and they were suddenly face-to-face.
“That’s shocking,” he told her.
“Not really. I’m new to the city,” she reminded him. “And I have my career to focus on.”
Plus, Bayli had decided long ago that she’d never settle for flickers of excitement when fireworks might be waiting for her around the corner.
She fought the smile now as she considered that she’d turned that corner this very night. Because her pulse pounded erratically at the sight of Christian and his wildly charismatic grin.
“Well, then. Duly noted,” he said, his gorgeous blue eyes penetrating and hypnotic. “Can I drop you somewhere? I had business with Jackson Rutherford while everyone was leaving. That’s my limo.”
Bayli spared another glance at the Jag.
Christian told her, “I’m on the Upper East Side overlooking the park, and you can have a drink with me there. Or my driver will take you straight to your apartment. Whatever you want.”
