The Billionaires: The Bosses (Lover's Triangle 2)

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