The Billionaire Bad Boys Club by Emma Holly Page A

that when she applied to work for Hayworth—counted on it, in fact. What she hadn’t prepared for was this exceedingly mellow place.
    The atmosphere was upscale men’s club with a soupcon of modern edge. Dark plank floors threw their gloss to dark leather, which blended beautifully with aged wood. Antique tin tiled the ceiling, where tiny industrial lights hung down between exposed pipes. For color, stacks of fat coffee table books were in the process of being shelved in recesses at horseshoe booths. To her left, an elegant archway opened onto a softly glittering bar space. She couldn’t see a single bad table, and the traffic paths for wait staff appeared to be well thought out. The end result was comfortable and stylish. Men would salivate at these surroundings, but women would as well.
    A bad boy who took his date here seemed likely to get lucky.
    The covetous urge that seized Rebecca was impossible to throw off. This leather-scented little kingdom ought to be hers to rule. She wanted her savory clam chowder served at the round tables, her fresh lobster with butter sauce. Wilde’s most regrettable trait was its sad lack of ambience. Even unfinished, The Bad Boys Lounge had enough for three eateries.
    Damn , she thought. I could spin magic here .
    Since wishing wouldn’t bring this about, she continued along the just-wide-enough back hall to the kitchen’s logical location. The wainscoting in the passageway was black oak, the carpet protected from deliverymen by taped-down brown paper.
    She saw no one until she reached the pass-through window. This was where wait staff would hand in their tickets and pick up plates. The shelf was sturdy, the height good for servers to dip their knees and cheat a heavy tray onto their shoulders. At first, Rebecca thought the kitchen was empty. The lights were off, and it was shadowy inside.
    Then she noticed the tall man rubbing his bottom lip in front of the brand new grill.
    A hot prickle slid across her breasts. She didn’t simply recognize Trey Hayworth’s profile; she recognized his whole shape. Considering she’d just met him, she found this disquieting.
    “Mr. Hayworth,” she called softly before her nervousness could worsen.
    He spun around at her voice like a gun had gone off.
    “Fuck,” he said, which didn’t strike her as promising.
    “Sorry,” she said, stiffening a little but aware she was trespassing. “The entrance was open. I was hoping for a chance to talk to you one more time.”
    He stared at her for a moment, then shook himself.
    “That’s okay,” he said with a surprising lack of anger, considering. “You just startled me.” He walked toward the pass-through. Then—belatedly remembering he could—he veered aside to open the kitchen door for her. “Please come in and have a look.”
    His politeness knocked her off balance more than his curse.
    “Thank you,” she said. “I know I shouldn’t have showed up like this.”
    He’d invited her to have a look, but didn’t seem inclined to give her one. He stood in front of her, too tall to see around, hands shoved in his pants pockets. When you were a big-deal boss, she guessed you could dress as you pleased. Today he wore a pale green polo shirt that stretched over broad shoulders. His jeans appeared to be faded in all the right places. Rather than check them out and confirm, she kept her eyes on his face. His dark brows screwed together as he gazed down at her. He seemed so boyish any second Rebecca expected him to start rocking on his heels.
    “What—” He cleared his throat. “What did you want to say to me?”
    His strange reception had made her forget her prepared speech. She retrieved it with an effort. “I thought it might help your decision to know why I left my last position.”
    “Not a mystery,” he said. “Latest owner brought in a new executive chef and demoted you. You were perfectly right to quit. I’m sure you can cook rings around that yahoo.”
    “I don’t know about