by Calista Fox
She was even breathless.
Okay, so was he.
There was a round of applause for the impromptu display of public affection. In the back of his mind, Rory knew he’d regret losing his head over this woman and spontaneously demonstrating precisely how easily she enticed him. At the moment, however … he just didn’t give a rat’s ass. He’d wanted to kiss her. And there wasn’t a damn thing under the sun that could have held him back.
So he grinned at her. In return, she looked … dazed. Swept away.
In that instant, he decided he wouldn’t regret showing her just how taken by her he was. And to hell with the audience that had gathered.
He told his butcher, “Duck breast. Best you’ve got.”
“Of course, Chef St. James. Only the best for you.”
Rory’s gaze slid to Bayli, still fluttering her lashes and looking as though she were trying to remember her name, recall where they were, why they were here.
While Josgue packaged up the breast, Bayli appeared to fight for a solid breath and her golden skin held a tinge of pink that made her even lovelier. Made Rory want to call upon every trick in the book to keep her brimming with excitement. To keep that shimmer of exhilaration in her tawny eyes and the vibrations visibly humming through her body.
Rory exchanged cash for the duck and said good-bye to his butcher. Bayli finally came around.
She linked her arm through Rory’s and said, “Flats are definitely in order if you plan to kiss me like that again. I might topple over.”
“I’m just warming up.”
“Oh, my.” She let out a long breath. “My knees are pretty much knocking together.”
“I was hoping to do better than that.”
“You did,” she assured him. “I was just being tactful amidst polite society.”
“So,” he said with a devious grin, “what my kiss did to your other body parts is considered unmentionable ‘amidst polite society’?”
“Suffice it to say, you don’t leave a dry thong in your wake, Chef St. James.”
He groaned. “Now I’m hard.” Thankfully, his leather jacket was zipped and long enough to cover most of the bulge between his legs.
Bayli said, “Serves you right. What the hell were you thinking kissing me like that in front of all these people?”
“I don’t fucking know,” he earnestly told her. “Not my style at all. I don’t know what the hell you’re doing to me, Bayli, but … I’m dying to kiss you like that again. With or without the audience.”
“Rory.” She stopped walking. “This could be bad publicity for the show.”
“First of all, honey, there’s no such thing as bad publicity. I yell at people in my kitchen all the time, and that’s never resulted in bad publicity. Second, it could actually intrigue viewers if there’s speculation about what goes on between us when the cameras aren’t rolling.”
She shook her head. “There’s nothing going on between us. Not presently. Not really. And that’s not what I’m getting at. I’m thinking in terms of all the female fans—even some of the guys—who will hate me if there’s evidence you’re into me. Beyond that, what about Christian? And beyond that…” She pulled in another deep breath. Let it out slowly. “What am I talking about? What am I trying to say?”
He chuckled.
“It’s not funny,” she insisted in a haughty tone as she swatted at his arm. “I am a very smart woman who has very collected and highly organized thoughts. Yet at the moment … I can’t latch on to a single sane one. What did you do to me with just a kiss?”
Rory’s lips whisked over hers and he murmured, “Beats the hell out of me. But you being all flustered like this is driving me wild. Let’s get going.”
“No! Wait!”
She didn’t budge when he tried to get her moving toward the car.
“Bayli.” He stared her down. “Not the best time for a battle of wills. I’ve got fresh duck that needs to be in an oven soon and we still have a lot of curious eyes on us.”
The woman he’d so rapidly become enthralled with gave him a sassy look. “You’re forgetting one thing, Mr. Perfect Chef.”
“I never forget anything when it comes to cooking.”
She pointed at his bag and said, “Where’s your French baguette?”
“My wha—”
“The baguette,” she repeated. “Every romantic comedy the world over that features any sort of meal being prepared always has a scene in it with a French baguette poking out of the paper bag. You don’t have a paper bag because you are clearly environmentally friendly with your reusable cloth tote, but still. Point being—”
“Point taken,” he gruffly interjected, “but I make my own bread.”
“Of course you do.” She sighed. “Because you really are perfect.”
“Hardly,” he grumbled. Then stalked over to a vendor who displayed an array of baked goods, slapped down two bucks on the table, and stuffed a baguette into his overcrowded bag. He turned back to Bayli. “All good here?”
She smiled prettily. “Rob Reiner would approve.”
“Fabulous.”
They returned to the car. As they merged with slow-moving traffic, Rory said, “I read on your application that you’ve only been in the city a couple of months. And you’re from River Cross, California.”
“If you’re wondering if I knew Christian back in the day, the answer is no.”
“Well, we’re both five years older than you. But also, he lived outside of town.”
“He told me.”
“Really?” Rory was taken by surprise. “That’s something he rarely shares.”
“It’s not mentioned in features about him, I know. He didn’t go to my schools. I never heard his name until he became famous and was linked to Bristol’s. It’s my favorite restaurant. Incredibly elegant, yet so comfortable. But you’re well aware of that.”
Rory said, “Our first restaurant. Christian’s vision, my menu.”
“And your money?”
He gave her a sideways glance. “Not all of it. Christian had an insurance check after his mom passed and he’d been saving up, investing the funds to gain a little more capital. He went to Columbia mostly on academic scholarships and three jobs he worked in between classes and studying. Made the rest of us look like slackers.”
“He said he didn’t come from money.”
“Yeah, but the rest of us did.” Rory let out a puff of air. “Funny how we all felt so privileged. Then Christian Davila appeared on campus, making a mockery of our GPAs, hitting the books harder than we did.… Hell, even in his worn jeans and sweatshirts he looked smarter than all of us combined. The man has a steel trap of a mind and anyone who might have doubted he’d succeed big-time in the world was just one more person for Christian to prove wrong.”
Bayli fell silent. Rory knew exactly what she was thinking. For as diligent as Rory had been in building his reputation and the reputation of Davila’s in every city in which they opened a restaurant and creating a more impressive menu than the last, he’d had a safety net all along. Christian never had.
That was one of the things that had always impressed Rory when it came to his friend. Christian had been balls to the wall from the start, truly leaving footprints worth following. He wasn’t the type to let obstacles stand in his way. Not that Christian had skated through school or his first business ventures. Rory knew that firsthand. But his friend was a force with which to be reckoned. Always had been. Always would be. And Rory not only respected him for that, but he also admired Christian for the free yet determined spirit that he was.
Rory told Bayli, “Christian should have been born a Kennedy or a Bush, or something. He could change the world if he had the right last name and financial backing. He has the uncanny ability to see things in black and white—yet, Jesus Christ, he never misses the gray matter in between. I don’t know anyone whose brain churns twenty-four-seven like this guy’s. Well. Maybe yours does.”
Bayli gave a sma
ll, pained chortle. “Sort of goes—or I should say went—with the territory. I spent many, many hours in hospital waiting rooms, and even more time studying medical terminology so that I had some semblance of an idea as to what the surgeons were trying to explain to me in their words, versus layman’s terms, when my mother was ill. My first glassed-over-eyes experience when I was twelve—after my grandmother died and she wasn’t there to field all the questions and information from the cardiothoracic staff—convinced me that I needed to truly understand what was happening with my mother’s heart condition.”
Rory didn’t say anything until he pulled into his reserved spot in the underground parking garage of his complex. He went to the passenger’s side to collect Bayli, taking her books and carrying their grocery bag.
But before he led her to the elevators, he asked, “What was happening with your mother’s heart?”
Bayli blinked a couple of times—to keep tears from her eyes?
That just plain killed him.
But he tried to remain focused on the conversation at hand.
She said, “Mom was born with heart disease. It worsened over time. Having me was … hard on her. She shouldn’t have done it. Shouldn’t have gotten pregnant.”
Rory’s own heart wrenched. A world without the beautiful Bayli Styles …
Inconceivable.
Since Wednesday at his restaurant, Rory hadn’t been able to imagine a brighter New York without this woman’s smile to light it. Julia Roberts had nothing on her.
With unmistakable remorse in her tone, Bayli said, “I can’t begin to fathom why it was so important to my mother to have a child if it meant she was cutting her own life short. But according to Grams, it meant everything to Mom. So she went for it—with her high school boyfriend. And it was all good for her, health-wise, in the beginning. A couple of years later … not so much.” She used her hip to close the car door and sniffled. “I don’t really want to say anything more about that, okay?”
Rory kissed her forehead. “Okay.”
When they were in his apartment, Bayli perked up again, as he’d suspected she would. The foyer was a rounded sitting room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and equally tall windows featuring city and park views. Chairs and sofas with accent tables were scattered about.
“Look at all of this.…” Bayli circled the room with an expression of awe on her face, her fingertips lovingly grazing over spines of classic literature, some first-edition works, numerous biographies and memoirs. She met Rory at the entrance where she’d started and said, “Please tell me you actually read these books.”
“That’s sort of the point of owning them.”
“Not just to impress bookworms such as myself?”
He set her own bundle on an end table. “I don’t know women who’d go all soft on me just because I had a personal library.”
“I’m not going all soft on you,” she insisted.
“You’re not?” His arms slipped around her waist. “Because you seem much less annoyed with me than the first time we met.”
“Well, the second time we met you gave up on teaching me the merits of oca—which I’d never even heard of until today—and settled for carrots instead. So I figure we’re even.”
His head lowered to hers. “We’re nowhere close to even.”
NINE
Bayli’s breath caught. She gazed into warm, seductive brown eyes that made her body blaze and her inner thighs flare with heat and desire.
It was bizarre that she reacted just as vehemently to Rory as she did to Christian. Both men enticed her; both men made her blood sing. Both left her with the unyielding need to be stripped bare and ravaged. Until she was limp and boneless and deliriously happy. No dismal thoughts consuming her mind. No doubts and misgivings holding her back.
She wanted to be left in a blissful, mind-numbing state. Christian had started her down that path the previous evening, giving her what she’d needed, what they’d both wanted.
Now she burned for Rory to do the same. To pick up where Christian had left off.
Against his lips, she asked, “Can the duck wait an hour or so?”
A sexy growl escaped him. Exciting her even more.
“Some question to ask a chef. If you were any other woman, I’d say no.”
Bayli wound her arms around his neck. Pressed her body to his. Reveled in his flexed muscles and delicious scent. Her lips skimmed along his jaw as she whispered, “Show me I’m not just ‘any other woman.’…”
“Bayli.” The tote dropped to the floor and his arms snaked around her waist. Clasping her tight. But then he let out another growl, this one a bit on the frustrated side. He said, “Fuck.” Released her. Grabbed the bag and stalked into the apartment.
She sighed. Tried to get her bearings. Eventually followed him in. The man was so close to blowing his top—she sensed it, felt it. But he was Mr. Perfect who was also Mr. Responsible, it seemed.
Rory shoved the bag into the fridge and then raked his hands through his messy hair. He turned back to Bayli, who watched him with curiosity and anticipation.
He read her well. Read her innate need for him. He sauntered toward her in a predatory way and lifted her up, forcing her to wrap her legs around his waist as her skirt hitched a couple inches.
Another sensual sound fell from his lips. “I imagined these long legs circling my hips the moment I got a glimpse of them.”
“I really didn’t think you’d noticed anything beyond salads scattered on the floor.”
“You are impossible to overlook.”
He carried her toward the living area, which stretched between the entryway/library and the vast open kitchen and dining combo. Tall windows showcased the park, but Bayli couldn’t be bothered with admiring that particular view when she was staring at such a gorgeous man. And instantly fantasizing about all the things he might do to her now that he had her alone in his apartment.
He set her on her feet before the sofa and reached for a remote to flip on the gas fireplace and a little mood music.
“Mm, romantic,” she murmured as her lips grazed his neck.
His head dropped and he kissed her with the same reckless abandon as when they’d been at the market. His arms wound around her and he crushed her to him, her breasts pressing below his hard pecs, her belly cradling his erection.
Her fingers curled into his rock-hard biceps and she let him control the searing kiss, his tongue doing crazy-wicked things to hers that made her pulse soar and her insides sizzle.
One of his hands shifted and slid down to her ass. He cupped a cheek and squeezed roughly, causing her to rub against the powerful thigh wedged between her parted legs. And sending bolts of excitement through her.
That wasn’t enough for her and he seemed to know it—or perhaps it wasn’t enough for him, either. He jerked the side of her skirt up farther and then went back to kneading her ass, now it being her bare skin under his fingers. Her clit continued to grind against his leg. Her soaked thong no doubt dampened the denim he wore.
His fingers slipped behind the strand of her thong, nestled in her cleft. He stroked the sensitive skin, his touch scorching hot and forbidden as he rimmed the small hole with the pad of his thumb while caressing her opening with a finger.
Her body tensed involuntarily at the not-so-subtle probing.
She broke the kiss. “Rory—”
“Shh.” His mouth sealed hers again.
His long finger eased into her pussy from behind, and it felt incredibly good. A second one followed. He explored her wet depths and she opened to him. He pumped slowly but steadily within her and the tension began to mount, pulling taut.
He deepened their kiss. And Bayli knew she was about to lose it completely.
His thumb pressed in and she jumped in his tight embrace. He dragged his mouth from hers and she gasped for a breath.
“You’re close…,” Rory said.
“So close.” Her hands tightened around his arms.
“D
on’t fight it,” he whispered against her temple. “Don’t fight me.”
She knew what he meant. That foreign, slightly burning sensation of her backside had her on high alert for what he might have planned for her. But as his fingers stroked and his warm lips skimmed over her cheek and across her lips, she couldn’t deny the need swelling within her.
“I want to feel you fall apart for me,” he said. “Then I want to taste your pussy.”
A low whimper tumbled from her gaping mouth. A shudder ran through her.
He pumped harder and her head buzzed with lustful thoughts while her body flamed from his nearness, his ministrations, his words.
“Rory.”
He kissed her again, so feverishly, so desperately, that everything building within her instantly collided and erupted. She tore her mouth from his and cried out as the orgasm blazed through her, setting every inch of her on fire.
“Oh, God,” she moaned on a broken breath. “Oh, my God.” Her body quaked. Her inner walls held fast to his fingers, squeezing tight as she savored every second of the climax, prolonging it as much as possible.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “You make me so damn hot.”
She was still recovering from the sizzle through her veins as he withdrew his fingers, unzipped her skirt, and shoved it down her legs. He had her out of her blouse just as quickly. Then he eased her down onto the sofa, where she sprawled out, her shoulders and head propped against a mound of pillows in the corner.
Rory’s hungry gaze roved over her, leaving her with an insistent need to feel his hands and mouth on her.
He didn’t waste any time, or give her more than a moment of wishful thinking. He knelt alongside the sofa and peeled her thong down her legs.
“Sexy as this is, it has to go.” He tossed the scant material onto her pile of clothing. Then he reached around her to unclasp her bra and he whisked it off as well. “Jesus, you really are sensational.”