The Billionaires: The Bosses

by Calista Fox

  “We can’t, of course. Not until we find a solid description in a narrative or caption.”

  Bayli nodded. “I remember taking the Amtrak from San Francisco to Albuquerque for a college research trip”—before she’d had to drop out because she could no longer afford tuition—“and we stopped in Flagstaff, Arizona, along the way. The freight depot was built in 1886 and the main Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe railroad depot in 1926. Then they morphed it into a Tudor Revival style that’s really beautiful in mostly brick, but there’s some bright-turquoise trim that’s kind of out of character with the rustic elegance of the mountain town—lumberjack land, as they consider it. Rumor has it, when it came time to spruce the place up in the 1990s someone convinced the City Council that was the original color of the depot.”

  “That does sound a bit off,” Phillip said.

  “It’s no sore thumb or anything. I just found it amusing that apparently someone of influence sold these people on turquoise paint when the original freight depot was red sandstone, and I just can’t imagine paint coming in bright turquoise in the early 1900s. Or, more appropriately, I don’t know how they would have pegged the color from black-and-white photos.”

  “Good point.” Phillip gazed at the colorful picture of the vase and said, “I’m a wee leery of the purple. But the pattern is a fabulous match.”

  Bayli gave him the highlights of what she’d discovered from the text, then said, “My friend Scarlet is an independent insurance fraud investigator. We can ask her to try to authenticate your more modern depiction. With the information I have here, she can also check with her global connections to see if there’s a trail to pick up regarding the vase’s whereabouts.”

  “Clever girl.”

  “You have no idea. Her business is booming and really, I think she’s beyond brilliant and—”

  “Bayli,” he said with a dry look. “I was talking about you.”

  “Oh.” She grinned. “Right. Well, then. Here’s plenty for you and Colin to pore over during cocktail hour.” She indicated the book. “And I’ll just be on my way.”

  “Why don’t you join us?” Phillip offered. “Colin’s two roommates from Oxford are in town and he’s cooking an enormous feast at the apartment. Come over for really bad food, bottomless bottles of wine, and lots of laughs.”

  “Phillip! Colin is an excel—”

  “Oh, bloody hell, Bay. If you dare say Colin’s an excellent cook, I’ll be forced to lie and say you’re an excellent karaoke singer. And really, I do hate to shine on people I adore.”

  She snorted. “That was oh, so delicate, friend of mine. But I get your point. So I’m not bringing my personally crafted, bejeweled mic over this evening. Your loss.”

  He gaped for a moment, then said, “You don’t really have—”

  “Of course not!” She laughed. “So gullible. Geez, Oxford will give anyone a PhD, won’t they?”

  “Keep applying and we’ll find out,” he joked.

  “Sure, like I want to hang out with a bunch of snobby Brits who would dare challenge my knowledge of Shakespeare.”

  “So predictable,” he said with a tsk. “Talk to me about a creative genius other than Shakespeare this evening, please.”

  “That sounded downright boorish,” she playfully chided.

  “Well, you did insult my alma mater.”

  “You insulted my singing.”

  “I had to put a stop to your madness over Colin’s cooking, didn’t I?”

  “I’ll be kind enough not to mention it to him. Now, what time am I coming over?”

  Phillip consulted his Rolex, a recent birthday gift from Colin. “Seven. That will give us sufficient time to get the smell of burnt Chicken Kiev from the apartment.”

  “Appetizing, Phillip.” She crinkled her nose. “Really.”

  “Be forewarned. You’ve only sampled Colin’s staples on picnics, like fish-and-chips. When he actually tries something new, it can be quite horrifying.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be just fine. What shall I bring this evening?”

  “That gorgeous smile of yours, love. And that’s all.” He gave her a stern look. “I’m serious, Bay.”

  She hedged. It was hardly polite to show up empty-handed, the only reason she typically turned down in-home dinner invitations. But this was Phillip and Colin. They knew she was a struggling model.

  Bayli also remembered she had a nice bottle of merlot her agent had given her upon her first assignment. She would gift it to Phillip and Colin this evening.

  That decided, she told Phillip she’d be there at seven and then she hefted her stack of books in her arms again and headed out of his office. She made her way through the library and to the front doors. She juggled the hardbacks as she reached for the handle on one door and pushed it open. Though it didn’t take any effort on her part, because someone on the other side jerked the tall wooden-and-stained-glass door open, pulling her along for the ride.

  Bayli stumbled forward, her books went flying, and then she fell into a strong embrace, her body slamming against a hard and hunky one.

  “Ooof!” she cried out at the solid impact. She would have bounced off the brick wall of a chest if two strong hands hadn’t immediately gripped her biceps to hold her steady.

  “Holy shit!” a familiar voice roared.

  Her head snapped back and Bayli stared up at chiseled facial features, dark-chocolate eyes, and disheveled bronze hair.

  Her jaw fell slack for all of two seconds. Then she said on an unchecked outburst, “My books!”

  She wriggled out of Rory’s embrace—only finding the self-control to do so because her beloved hardbacks were scattered on the steps. Good Lord, he was a mountain of muscles and rigidity. And one sturdy-ass pillar of a man.

  Bayli sank to her knees to scoop up the pile. He knelt beside her to help.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “I’m here to see you,” he retorted in his gruff tone.

  Bayli took the books from him and hugged them to her chest. “Christian sent you?”

  “No.” He stood in one fluid move and offered his hand. She resisted the urge to sigh.

  This again.

  Her palm slipped into his and she felt the same high-voltage spark as last time, outside his kitchen. She got to her feet and was determined to rip her hand from his, just like last time. But Rory St. James was having none of it. He held fast to his grip on her. Not hurting her in any way, but his clasp on her hand left no doubt that he wasn’t going to let her make a hasty retreat.

  That wasn’t exactly on her mind. Though, damn, it’d be nice if just once she could be prepared for a run-in with him. Because he always caught her off-guard. And that was nerve-wracking as hell.

  Especially when she eyed him, looking devastatingly handsome, dressed all in black. He wore jeans and boots. A vee-necked T-shirt and sleek leather jacket. Rory wasn’t the GQ variety that Christian was. The chef was fashionable, no question there, but he had a more reserved style that complemented, not overpowered, his intense demeanor. He was edgy and sexy, and Bayli was drawn to him as fervently as she was to his business partner.

  Not exactly wise, she knew. But then again … human beings possessed feral instincts, whether it was in their best interests or not to act on them.

  Rory said, “I thought we should talk about Christian’s plans. Why don’t you let me cook you an early dinner this evening?”

  His offer took her by surprise. But she had a feeling it’d be a good idea to wait and hear from her agent tomorrow after Christian spoke with her before she got too caught up in this new world—and Rory St. James.

  So she wrenched her hand from his and told him, “I have a previous engagement, thank you anyway.”

  Rory’s squared jaw clenched briefly. As though she tried his patience. Probably a true assessment.

  He asked, “Any chance you can take a rain check? It’s kind of important.”

  “Related to the show?”


  “Yes.”

  Her belly quivered—because of Rory or the potential job? She had no idea, but strove for nonchalance regardless of the actual truth, whatever it might be. And went against her better judgment of keeping her distance from the man until all the dust had settled.

  Sadly, she wasn’t quite sure she achieved a calm demeanor as she caustically said, “Fine, then. I’ll cancel with my friends.”

  Phillip and Colin would understand, particularly when she told them who she was now dining with. Hell, they’d be ecstatic for Bayli. Rory St. James was one hell of a looker. And, again, there was that possibility of a TV show.

  Bayli knew she ought to be more thrilled about the latter, rather than how hot Rory was—how hot Rory made her. But she was literally incapable of dismissing or skipping over those pertinent facts. He got her juices flowing in record time and had her mind whirling with all sorts of sexy thoughts centered on how he might pleasure her.

  Christian had delivered several earth-shattering orgasms. She wondered about Rory doing the same, wondered just how talented his tongue might be, how aggressively he’d fuck her.

  Bayli pressed her bare thighs together as erotic pinpricks targeted her clit. Such bad timing. And much too taunting to ignore. But not at all convenient when she was trying to keep her wits about her around this man.

  Rory pried the books from her hands to carry them as his other palm pressed to the small of her back. Surprising her and heightening her arousal. He guided her down the stairs and along the busy sidewalk.

  He said, “We’ll shop first.”

  “Shouldn’t you be at the restaurant?”

  “I like to throw my executive chefs for a loop every now and then,” he revealed in a conspiratorial tone. “Put them in charge when they least expect it. That way I find out how prepared they are to take over when I’m gone.”

  “What if it all goes to hell in a handbag because Rory St. James isn’t there to rule the roost?”

  He chuckled. A low rumbling sound that reverberated deep inside her.

  “I know before I hire them whether they’re going to crack under the pressure. Still, it doesn’t hurt to test the staff from time to time. And to also demonstrate my faith in their abilities.”

  Bayli gazed at him. “So you’re not so much tossing them into the deep end to see if they’ll sink or swim. You’re proving you trust them.”

  His head dipped and he whispered in her ear, “Shh. Don’t tell anyone.”

  Her heart did an odd little flip. In a breathy voice, she said, “Far be it from me to give away your secrets.”

  Rory grinned. “Sometimes being an asshole garners the best responses—and work—from others.”

  “Sometimes honey catches more flies than vinegar.”

  “In certain situations,” he agreed. “But I’m not interested in catching flies. I’m interested in stars.”

  She nodded. “Of the Michelin variety.” Bayli mulled this over a moment, then added, “But come on, Rory—may I call you Rory?”

  “Of course.” He stared down at her as though completely taken aback by her inquiry. “What were you planning on calling me?”

  “I don’t think you want to know.” She flashed a sassy smile that made him laugh. Then she said, “Just kidding. Anyway, I do appreciate your devotion to your profession and your commitment to protecting your business assets. I don’t even mind that you’re intimidating as hell in your kitchen. Well, in life in general.” She swallowed hard.

  Rory stopped walking, effectively pulling her up short with him. “I’m not trying to intimidate you, Bayli. This is just who I am.”

  “I know.” She smiled again. “Which is one of the reasons why I hoped to make a good impression with Christian at the fund-raiser, so that I could come back to the restaurant and maybe get a real interview with you. I’ll admit that, at first, I considered the position a foothold for my modeling career. But after I met you…” Her head cocked to the side as she took in his six-foot-two- or three-inch stature and his imposing build. “My mind started to whirl with all sorts of possibilities about who you really are and what you’re really trying to accomplish. It isn’t just about the stars, right?”

  Rory let out a sigh that could have been part dejection, part frustration. Part agitation? She couldn’t be sure.

  He continued walking, leading her to a gunmetal-gray sports car parallel parked alongside the walkway. His hand slipped away and she felt the void in the way she had when Christian had withdrawn from her body the night before. Foreign sensations, because Bayli was used to being a loner when it came to male companionship.

  She had her “sisterly” love with Jewel and Scarlet. But physical affection had always been lacking in Bayli’s life. Until she’d met both Rory and Christian she hadn’t noticed the deficiency—or perhaps she just hadn’t acknowledged it before this point. But these two men … they did something to her. Made her feel a part of something, made her feel a sense of belonging. So much so that when the physical contact was broken she felt empty and cold inside.

  It was a little scary to own up to all of that. But also inevitable.

  Yet she tried not to dwell on it or, God forbid, dissect its meaning.

  Rory said, “The ratings and reviews our restaurants receive are critical to me, yes. But you’re right. It’s not just about the stars. It’s the overall customer experience and what we do as a team to make each dinner service the best it can possibly be … night after night. Everyone has ‘off’ days. And people in every profession strive for greatness yet oftentimes fall short. Not every movie is a blockbuster; not every novel makes the New York Times bestseller list; not every baseball player hits a grand slam to win the World Series and become a national hero.”

  He gestured toward the car to indicate it was his. Then continued. “Sometimes, something comes out of my kitchen that just doesn’t make the grade. Is it intentional? Hell, no. Forgivable by the consumer?” He shrugged. “It depends. Does it personally affect everyone in my kitchen, including me? Absolutely. Because those are the kind of conscientious people I hire and because I take it all to heart, too. I don’t want to disappoint my diners. But sometimes, Bayli, I do.”

  Her heart melted a little. “Because you’re human, Rory. No one’s infallible. Including you.”

  “And doesn’t that just piss me off.” He hit a button on the remote and yanked open the passenger door for her.

  Bayli didn’t immediately slide onto the dove-gray leather seat. Instead, she gazed up at Rory and said, “You can beat yourself up all you want when something goes awry in your kitchen. But I don’t think for a second it would have anything to do with slacking off on the job, not putting your heart and soul into it, not doing everything in your power to deliver nothing short of excellence.”

  “But it does happen. I have difficulty digesting that.”

  “Rory.” Her brow furrowed. “Overachievers are not only under a lot of pressure by society standards, but they put a huge amount of stress on themselves. It’s admirable and disheartening at the same time. You don’t want to let anyone down. But reasonably speaking, even the best batting average can tank. Because behind that bat is a human being.”

  Impulsively she kissed him on the cheek. Then slipped inside the car.

  It took Rory a few suspended seconds to recover. Then he handed over her books, closed her door, and rounded the front of the vehicle.

  All the while, Bayli’s pulse raced. She’d kissed him, and maybe it had been a bit on the chaste side but still. She’d demonstrated affection. With angsty chef guy.

  The corners of her mouth quivered.

  Yes, he was sharp-tongued and surly and all that. But she could see so much more. Could see so far beyond his abrasiveness.

  He had a lot on the line every single day, a lot to lose, not just monetarily but reputation-wise. There was a heavy weight on this man’s broad shoulders, and Bayli sensed it wasn’t just about his own success or failure but that he likely put a shitload o
f pressure on himself because Christian Davila’s name, reputation, and capital were riding on each endeavor as well.

  As the car sprang to life and Rory pulled away from the curb, Bayli studied his prominent profile.

  She’d been wrong about him at that first meeting. She’d been fuming when she’d left the restaurant and she’d wanted nothing more than to march inside and tell him exactly what she thought of his quick dismissal of her. Something had held her back, though. Bayli now suspected that something was the spark of kindred spirit. She was nowhere near as brilliant as Rory. But Bayli had pride and she did her best no matter what the circumstances. And didn’t believe in status quo or giving up.

  So she found it particularly amazing that she was somehow being aligned with two men who shared her beliefs and did everything to encourage her to continue down her chosen path.

  “Where are we off to, exactly?” she asked.

  “Farmers’ market.”

  Her eyes popped. “In Manhattan?”

  “On Sundays, yes. So we’re in luck. There’s one on Columbus Avenue not far from my apartment.”

  “Let me guess.” Her tone turned sardonic. “You overlook Central Park.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  Bayli whistled under her breath. Maybe someday she’d have a real-live, honest-to-God one-bedroom with sensational views, instead of a tiny alcove and a dreary brick wall a stone’s throw away from her one and only window.

  As they drove, Rory told her a little about the 79th Street Greenmarket and mentioned there were two others he frequented. Bayli made a mental note of the locations, because veggies were always at the top of her grocery list.

  She asked, “What are you making for dinner?”

  “That’d be what are we making for dinner? And the answer is … depends on what we find.”

  She stared at Rory a few moments, then gently broke her bad news to him. “Sorry to disappoint, Chef, but you definitely don’t want me in your kitchen. I burn boiling water.”