by Calista Fox
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.
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.
TWO
Christian Davila was completely engrossed in Dr. Gene Eckhart’s latest research findings on cardiac ablations and advanced technologies that could significantly alter structural heart problems when a flash of red caught his attention.
That flash of red being an insanely short hem of a tight skirt that ended at the tops of tanned and toned thighs.
Glossy, golden skin made Christian’s mind instantly shift gears from the scientific discoveries that he’d always found fascinating while catching up with his Columbia University roommate.
With his attention now divided, Christian watched the woman in red out of the corner of his eye as she worked the after-dinner crowd on the expansive terrace of a private estate outside of Manhattan. She offered cigars from a fancy humidor and was followed closely by a twentysomething sandy-haired male in a tux who carried a portable stand he snapped open when the leggy brunette needed to set the box down. Her assistant would then hand her the selections made by the guests of this extravagant event so that she could ceremoniously unveil and prep the cigars.
Christian’s interest was instantly piqued. She did more than work the crowd. She engaged fully with each person she spoke to, and left numerous tongues dragging on the ground as she moved on to the next group.
His gaze remained partially on the Bond Girl–esque cigar hostess as she progressed across the terrace, on her way to his intimate conglomeration.
Eckhart injected a bit of humor into his dissertation, amusing the three other men in their cluster. Christian chuckled along, though he really hadn’t heard the punch line. There was something wholly enthralling about the woman. And it wasn’t just her striking appearance—the bare, mile-long legs, or the itty-bitty off-the-shoulder dress she wore that hugged every luscious curve. The sleeves covered her wrists, one of which was adorned with a glittery bracelet.
Nor was it the shiny, sleek, nearly black hair that was pulled over one shoulder, the ends subtly curling against her tantalizing chest.
He’d say that perhaps it was her vibrant pearl-white smile that held him spellbound. Her tawny irises were also radiant with an inner exuberance that called to Christian. Seriously, the woman burned brighter than a bonfire.
Though that wasn’t it, either.
Another zinger from Eckhart had the guys laughing again, and Christian was late joining in.
His old college buddy snickered. “Really, Davila. What has you so out of touch with my impeccable comedic timing and the snappy delivery of my witty repar—aha.…”
Apparently, Eckhart also caught the flash of red as the woman approached them in what could only be described as the sexiest goddamn walk on the planet. One that caused heart rates to accelerate, adrenaline to pump, and cocks to stiffen.
He could attest from personal experience.
She slowly made her way toward Christian and his friends, crisscrossing one gorgeous leg in front of the other in a seductive stride that showed off her considerable assets and the five-inch black leather stilettos she wore.
Forgetting all about Eckhart and the others, Christian now centered his full attention on this stunning creature.
In a provocative voice that resonated deep within him, she greeted everyone with a courteous, “Good evening, gentlemen.” Then her gaze met and held Christian’s. “Mr. Davila, it’s a pleasure to serve you.” She lifted the lid of the humidor with manicured fingers. No ring on that important one of her left hand. Though it could be stashed away at home. A woman who looked the way she did, and in her mid-to-late twenties, couldn’t possibly have avoided being snatched up by now.
Yet he found himself hoping she was single.
“May I offer you an Arturo Fuente Opus X ‘A’?” she asked him. “Or perhaps a Fuente Don Arturo AnniverXario?”
Her enunciation was above reproach. Damn sensual, even. His brow crooked. “Those are very serious cigars.” He noted a wider selection available and wondered if she was pushing the extremely high-end b
rands to all the guests. Or just to the ones she recognized.
“Indeed,” she said of his comment. “They rank in the top five of the most expensive cigars in the world. Not exactly easy to procure, either. But a man of your stature already knows that.” There was a sexy, flirtatious lilt to her tone. She continued, expertly pontificating on the merits of her recommendations, as well as discussing their size, shape, and shade. Instantly impressing Christian with her vast knowledge—regardless of where it might have come from: a boyfriend, a book, or a broker of fine cigars.
Then she added, “I also have one HMR Gurkha Black Dragon tucked away.” She smiled conspiratorially, letting that little tidbit sink in. Tempt him. Though it wasn’t so much the prestigious stogie that enticed him. She was more than capable of doing that all on her own.
With a hint of excitement in her eyes, she told him, “I haven’t suggested it to anyone else. I thought you might prefer a celebratory offering in honor of your latest restaurant opening. To rave reviews, no less. Congratulations.”
This intrigued him even more. Not only did she know who he was, but she also knew he was a connoisseur of expensive cigars.
Christian said, “There’s a three-year wait-list for a box of HMR Black Dragons, and that one stick is worth about eleven hundred dollars.”
“They’re all complimentary, of course. And…” She leaned in close to quietly impart a little pearl of wisdom, saying, “Rumor has it, Matthew McConaughey donated this cigar as part of his charitable contribution for the gala.”
Christian kept his tone equally low, private. “I’m more appreciative that you held it back for me, though I’ll be sure to thank Matthew personally.”
“Very good.” She smiled again, beguilingly. Bewitchingly. Christian wasn’t sure of the more accurate description. All he knew was that her engaging expression and glowing eyes jarred him, like a physical blow to the midsection.
And told him quite blatantly that he’d just stumbled upon more than an elusive cigar this evening. He was damn certain he’d just put his finger on the pulse of an elusive success. He felt it to the depths of his soul—and straight to his groin.