The Billionaires: The Bosses

by Calista Fox

For that matter, she wasn’t wholly convinced he’d had business with Jackson Rutherford while everyone was leaving, because it seemed pretty coincidental that she and Christian were the only ones left at the valet station.

  Or maybe that was the champagne bringing on a delusion of grandeur and a shitload of wishful thinking.

  She laughed. The man should intimidate the hell out of her. He was wealthy and affluent—famous in his own right. Had ice-blue eyes that could likely cut through diamonds. A set jaw. Squared shoulders. The whole nine yards. And yet when he looked at her … those ice-blue eyes melted a little. His rigid features loosened. His smile brightened.

  Unable to stop herself, Bayli let out a dreamy-sounding breath. Then rapidly pressed the tips of two fingers to her lips as her own eyes widened.

  Christian gave her a quizzical yet amused look.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled. “It’s the champagne.”

  “Is it really?” he quietly challenged.

  And oh, boy, did that push the door wide open!

  FOUR

  Christian still had his mind on the prospect of Bayli Styles being exactly what he and Rory needed to turn around their epic failure, a cooking show that had never gotten off the ground—which luckily wasn’t public knowledge at present. They’d managed to keep the development of the show under wraps in its infancy. The pilot hadn’t even launched, because, quite honestly, they hadn’t come up with a fresh, provocative idea.

  Well, that and the fact that test audiences had been more terrified than entertained by Rory, because he was a bit too abrasive and forebidding when in chef mode.

  A bit being a huge understatement.

  But Christian had been toying with the idea of having a friendly face to interact with the audience while Rory did his thing in the background. It’d only been a hint of a concept to nibble on, but it grew by leaps and bounds with every passing second in Bayli’s presence.

  She’d make a sensational frontwoman.

  Yet there really wasn’t anything Christian could do about his rampantly running thoughts this evening, prior to first discussing these new ideas invading his brain with Rory. Besides, Christian’s body had already moved on to another possibility. Sampling Miss Styles.

  Sure, he’d also prefer to do that first with Rory, because they worked extremely well together in arousing and satisfying a woman. And this was one Christian longed to apply their expertise to, provided she was game.

  But Rory was at the restaurant and Christian didn’t really want to wait until his next rendezvous with Bayli. He wanted her tonight.

  When they reached the hotel where she said she was staying, he climbed out of the limo and then offered his hand to assist her. He told her, “I’ll walk you inside.”

  She gave him a small, quirky smile. “That’s not necessary. There’s a doorman. Thank you, though. And thanks for the ride.”

  “Anytime,” he said. “But I’d still like to walk you to the door. Your door, to be precise.”

  He flattened a palm at her lower back to guide her down the sidewalk, toward the hotel.

  Bayli’s steps were slow, hesitant.

  Gazing down at her, Christian asked, “Something wrong?”

  “Um … no.” She gnawed her lower lip, then shook her head. “Yes, actually.”

  She stopped and turned to face him, her back to the double doors at the entrance and the man guarding them.

  “What is it?” Christian asked.

  “It’s a little embarrassing.”

  Several red flags sprang to mind. Perhaps she wasn’t single, after all. Or maybe she was perfectly aware of his intentions and it wasn’t a good time of the month to act on the mutual attraction.

  In a nonassuming tone, he said, “Whatever it is, you can tell me. Nothing to worry about.”

  Even if it turned out that she did belong to someone else. Though he really didn’t think that was the case. She didn’t seem like the type who’d flirt and bat her lashes, especially when he’d been forthcoming about his interest in her.

  “Bayli,” he said while she appeared to contemplate or debate whatever was going on inside her head. “We’re adults here. Just tell me—”

  “I’m not staying at The Cleveland,” she said. Then bit her lip again.

  This confused Christian. His gaze narrowed. “I don’t understand.”

  “I just wanted your driver to drop me here. The hotel bar is already closed and the doorman is going to ask to see my key in order to let us in. I don’t have one. Nor am I on their reservations list. I have an apartment.”

  He shook his head. “What am I missing here? Why didn’t you just give me your address and I’d have my driver—”

  “I really don’t want you to see where I live, Christian.”

  His mind reeled. “Bayli, I—”

  “I appreciate the ride. Truly, I do. But I can get home from here. I’m not far and—”

  “I’m not going to just let you wander the streets alone at night!” he told her, incredulous.

  “It’s not exactly wandering,” she said with a hint of indignation. “I’m perfectly capable of getting from point A to point B on my own.” She let out a long sigh of resignation. “At least, most of the time.”

  “Bayli, I’m not trying to insult you. I just don’t find it necessary to lie about where you live.”

  “I’m sure you have a gorgeous apartment. It even overlooks Central Park. I, on the other hand, live in a micro-dump that I had to fumigate before I could move furniture into it. Not exactly on-par with what you’re accustomed to.”

  His teeth ground. Then he said, “You don’t know what I am or am not accustomed to—and I’m certainly not one to judge. You already told me you were new to town and that you’re an aspiring model. I wasn’t expecting you to say you were renting a residential suite at The Plaza.”

  She grimaced. “It’s just kind of awkward. You being who you are … and me being who I am.” She lifted her hands in the air and added, “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be difficult or complicated. It’s just uncomfortable to be driven home to my real place—in a limo, no less.”

  “For God’s sake, please do not feel awkward about your address or anything else for that matter. Just tell me where we’re going so that I can deliver you safely there.”

  She stared at him a few moments. He waited patiently until she came around and gave him the appropriate information. Christian led her back to the car, where he simply provided the chauffeur with the new location, no explanation given.

  They rode in silence, Christian not attempting to reengage her but rather giving her the opportunity to collect herself.

  It didn’t take long. When they reached her building, she said, “You might as well come up. See what I’ve done with the place. Maybe I can leave you with a better impression.”

  “Trust me,” he told her with notable conviction in his tone. “You’ve made a stellar impression all evening. But I will take you up on your offer.”

  He wasn’t ready to call it a night with Bayli. Not by a long shot.

  The whole humiliation on her part about her living situation made him want to reassure her that he wasn’t materialistic in a way that would make him look down on her. Sure, he liked the finer things in life and preferred his social and financial status. But his life hadn’t always been limousines, private jets, and penthouse suites. He’d endured his own hardships. And felt compelled to share a little something about himself that he’d never told anyone—the press, his friends, or any other woman. Only Rory knew of Christian’s humble beginnings.

  As Bayli let them into the building and they climbed the stairs to her floor, he said, “I didn’t grow up in River Cross.”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder. “But everything I’ve read about you says you did.”

  “Wishful thinking on my part, really. My dad disappeared before I was born. He’d never married my mother, so there was no child support or alimony. She raised me on her own, about ten miles from Ri
ver Cross town limits. I always felt like the kid on the outside looking in.”

  Bayli inserted her key into the first of many locks as she said, “That’s exactly how I felt—even though I actually did live in River Cross. It can be overwhelming to be surrounded by such elite residents.”

  “Agreed. My mother encouraged me to derive inspiration from it, though.”

  Bayli turned to face him. “That’s not in any of the articles, either.”

  He inclined his head to one side and asked, “When Vanity Fair or Vogue interviews you, are you going to tell them your entire life story, right down to this apartment you tried to keep from me?”

  Her hand faltered, the keys jingling in the quiet hallway. Christian didn’t say anything further, didn’t press.

  Eventually, Bayli swallowed hard and said, “I’ve had plenty of moments in my life when I’ve been ashamed of my financial circumstances, my address, my clothes. On the other hand, that shame and the fact that my mother always believed in me are what motivated me to dream as big as possible. Whether I make it or not, at least I’ve tried. At least she’ll know I tried.” Bayli’s eyes misted. “She’d be really disappointed in me if I just gave up and accepted this as my fate.”

  “Yes, she probably would be. Because you’re clearly meant for more than this. But you’ve got to start somewhere, right? And whether you choose to reveal your struggles when you do make it big, Bayli, depends on the type of image you want to reflect to the public. But in private … there’s no shame in admitting this is where you live, or that you need a job in order to fund your dream. You’re not the first, you know?”

  She swiped a wayward tear from her cheek. “That’s a really nice thing to say to someone like me.”

  He let out a frustrated sound. “Don’t categorize yourself. I didn’t get where I am without a hell of a lot of hard work … and help when I needed it most.”

  Bayli gave a fragile smile. “I suppose you might think sharing that with the world would undermine your power. I’m not sure it would.”

  She turned and pushed open the door.

  Christian’s gut knotted at her insightfulness, but when he followed her into her apartment he instantly grinned—genuinely, not just for effect or to make her feel better.

  “This is fantastic,” he assured her.

  The entire place sparkled—just like Bayli Styles.

  * * *

  Bayli had been rife with anxiety over foiling her own earlier fabrication and giving Christian all of these personal details of her life.

  And then he’d grinned.

  Her anxiety faded. Her heart fluttered.

  He took the place in with a blatantly assessing eye, nodding, earnestly making it appear as though all the effort she’d put into sprucing the place up was worthwhile.

  After the massive bug bombing, which had extended down the hallway to the garbage chute, she’d ensured the place was spic-and-span and then bought several gallons of glossy white paint to slap on the walls and the faux fireplace.

  She’d ordered furniture and accessories online—because Target was all she could afford and they’d offered free shipping on the larger items. A chocolate-colored rectangular area rug with golden scrolls covered the scuffed hardwood floor. Battery-operated pillar candles accented the mantle and hearth. She’d also purchased a spa-blue tufted love seat and a white Roman shade with sheers and a draping scarf bordering it to enhance a window that looked out on a boring gray brick wall five or so feet away.

  There were framed prints to match the décor and she’d installed alabaster-painted shelves at varying levels for her favorite books and round, squat vases filled with fake blooms.

  “This is really very nice,” Christian said.

  Relief washed over her. “Thank you.” She grabbed her casual wear from the armoire and told him, “I’ll just be a minute. I need to get out of these shoes.”

  She ducked into the bathroom and changed into a white T-shirt that slipped off one shoulder and had “Wake Me in Paris” elegantly scrawled across it in shimmering gold. She added white short-shorts and then hung up her dress and put away her high heels.

  In the tiny, open kitchen she retrieved a bottle of water, poured two glasses, and handed one to Christian.

  She didn’t bother giving the five-cent tour of the place. It was all laid out before their eyes.

  “Here’s to your own little slice of New York,” he toasted her.

  “It’s something I’ve wanted for a very long time. I’m willing to pay my dues.”

  “People who are usually find themselves richly rewarded.”

  Bayli smiled softly. “We’ll see if I follow suit.”

  “I have no doubt.”

  His sincere look and the admiration in his eyes tugged at her heartstrings. For someone so far out of her league and tax bracket, Christian Davila did not make her feel inferior to him. He made her feel hopeful, optimistic that the efforts she expended to succeed truly would pay off in the end. And that meant a hell of a lot to her.

  So much so that another tear welled in her eye and crested the rim.

  “Hey.” He set his glass on the mantle and then did the same with hers. His thumb swept over her cheek. “I had no intention of making you cry, sweetheart.”

  “I know. It’s just…” She gave a small shrug and sniffled. Laughed lightly at her unexpected emotional state. “You’ve been very kind to me. I appreciate it.”

  He stared down at her. “And I appreciate it when you’re candid with me.”

  Bayli nodded. She’d keep that in mind.

  Christian continued to stand close to her. So close. Too close. He seemed to permeate every nook and cranny of her, seep through her veins. Bayli wanted to step away, but that seemed cowardly.

  And she wasn’t a coward. She was a woman determined to stand her ground with him—and, eventually, Rory St. James.

  This moment could be deemed her actual starting point—to hell with what had happened in Rory’s kitchen, right?

  Christian was interested in meeting with her again, beyond this evening. That was a positive affirmation for her, professionally. But there was no doubt that more hovered on the horizon at this very moment.

  She couldn’t misconstrue the look he gave her if she tried. And she really didn’t want to misconstrue it. She wanted him to be gazing at her the way he did. With heat in his blue eyes, need rimming the mesmerizing irises.

  Bayli had no delusions they were about to cross a line. She also had no ability to stop it … because it was what she wanted as well.

  Christian’s head dipped and his warm mouth grazed hers. A whisper of a kiss that sent ripples of anticipation through her.

  He murmured against her lips, “You want me to touch you, don’t you?”

  A soft moan escaped her. Completely unbidden and filled with lust. One corner of his mouth lifted in response. Not too cocky, but the man had no doubt what he did to her.

  His fingertips grazed along her neck and then lightly across her collarbone, leaving a burning sensation in their wake.

  “Not just here, right?” he said, his tone still low and evocative.

  He rotated his wrist and his knuckles brushed over the top of her breast, exposed because of the cut of her tee’s neckline.

  His free hand rested in the curve of her waist and he gave a gentle squeeze as his mouth sealed with hers, his tongue sweeping over hers, twisting and tangling. Drawing her into a deep, dark kiss filled with erotic promises.

  Her fingers curled around his biceps and she held on tight. Let him take her someplace far beyond medical bills that beleaguered her mind, a job in his restaurant that still seemed out of her reach, a career she wasn’t sure she’d ever excel at, a tiny apartment she’d been embarrassed to show this man.

  All of it fell by the wayside as his kiss intensified and her knees threatened to buckle as shock waves rippled down her legs, making them tremble.

  The spell couldn’t even be broken when his mouth pulled away
just enough for him to mutter, “Here?”

  He palmed her breast and massaged with a hint of roughness that caused a flash of excitement to burst against her clit. He captured her moan in his mouth this time. His thumb whisked over her puckered nipple, making it impossibly hard as he stroked her through the thin material. She hadn’t bothered with a bra or panties when she’d changed. The crotch of her shorts was already damp. Would be soaked in a matter of seconds if she didn’t stop him.

  Not that she had the slightest inclination of stopping him. Oh, hell, no.

  His kiss alone could transport her to some beautiful, ethereal place where her worries and troubles faded into oblivion and the only thing that registered was how hot his mouth felt on hers, how expertly his tongue led her in a sexy dance. How hard his muscles were as her fingers coiled tighter around them. How badly her body begged for more of his skilled touch, the pebbled nipple not currently receiving his affection aching for it.

  And it wasn’t just his hands Bayli wanted to feel on her tingly, sizzling skin. She wanted his lips and tongue on every inch of her. Every single inch of her. Driving her wild, pushing her higher. Until she lost all control for him.

  He kept up his hungry devouring of her mouth as his hand on her breast slid downward. Slowly. So fucking slowly. She itched to cover his hand with hers and hasten his pace to the destination she knew he sought. But the titillation of his teasing was so captivating, she let herself revel in the anticipation that rapidly mounted and blazed through her.

  When his fingers glided over the apex of her legs, she ripped her mouth from his and gasped as the fire ignited deep within her, erupting in her core.

  “Definitely here,” he whispered smugly. Two fingers glided along her folds, the drenched material providing no barrier against his touch, his heat.

  He targeted her clit, setting off all kinds of wicked sparks.

  Christian’s arm slipped around her waist in a semi-embrace and he pulled her closer to him as he rubbed the knot of nerves between her legs while she burned brighter.

  “Have you been wet for me all night?” he asked, his lips brushing her temple as he spoke.