Page 2 of How to Win the Wild Billionaire

According to Brin, Digby had interviewed various interior designers, the best in the business locally and internationally, but he had yet to find anyone who understood his vision.

Bay didn’t think that she, an amateur—she’d received her diploma but never worked as an interior designer—would be the answer to Digby Tempest-Vane’s prayers.

But she desperately needed a job and this was her only opportunity to earn money doing something she loved. Her savings were rapidly dwindling and while she’d inherited Layla and Ali’s house on their death, they hadn’t left much in the way of hard cash.

She was fast running out of funds and if she couldn’t find work as an interior designer, she’d have to look for work as an engineer. She’d be miserable but she’d be miserable while earning a lucrative salary.

Ugh.She’d rather stab herself repeatedly in the eye with a rusty fork.

Working for Digby Tempest-Vane would give her wheezing bank account a hit of oxygen. It would also, she presumed, open doors to future interior-design business. But, her voice of reason reminded her, if Morris and Campagno, two famous designers, one based in New York and one in London, couldn’t nail the brief, Bay didn’t hold out much hope that she could.

But she had to try.

“Trust in yourself, Bay darling, and trust your talent. And if you don’t believe in yourself, how can you expect that Tempest-Vane creature to?” Mama B asked, her head tipping to the side.

Bay looked down at their still interlinked hands, one light, one dark, and felt grateful she had this wise woman in her life. Bay was the product of a privileged, superconservative family who lived their lives behind the huge walls of their Rondebosch mansion, carefully choosing the people they interacted with. Rich people, privileged people, white people. Their daughter and granddaughter living in the mostly Muslim, vibrant neighborhood of the Bo Kaap suburb was not acceptable.

Luckily Bay had a lifetime of practice in bucking, fighting against or flat-out ignoring her parents’ dictates, opinions and demands. Mama B, sweet, tough and proud, had become, in just half a year, her family, and hers was the only opinion she listened to.

After carrying a now sleeping Olivia into Mama B’s house, Bay thanked Mama B again, kissed her cheek and hopped back into her car.

Fifteen minutes later, Bay swung her small car into the oak-lined driveway to The Vane, the ancient branches forming a canopy over the road. Table Mountain, dramatic and ever changing, loomed over the rambling pale green-and-white hotel. The hotel had been, for more than a century, an oasis of calm and elegance in the heart of the city. It was where captains of industry did deals in meeting rooms and bars, where royalty and celebrities chose to lay their heads.

Bay parked her car and looked around. She’d never visited the iconic institution before and she allowed her eyes to drift from the impressive buildings to Table Mountain and back again.Wow.The grounds, from the little she could see, were also magnificent, with carefully manicured bright green lawns separating beds of brightly colored flowers and interesting shrubs. If memory served, there was an award-winning rose garden behind the hotel, and she’d read that lovely, whimsical fountains and wrought iron gazebos dotted the extensive grounds.

As with all six-star resorts, there were numerous heated pools, tennis courts, a state-of-the-art gym with private trainers, spas, boutiques and a hair salon.

Luxurious, romantic, iconic...

Again... What was she doing here?

Money, honey.

Bay flipped down her visor to check her appearance. She’d twisted her long, wavy hair into a loose knot at the back of her neck and it looked reasonably okay. She’d slapped some foundation on her face but it, as per normal, hadn’t managed to cover the heavy spray of freckles on her nose and high cheekbones. Her whiskey-colored eyes—her best feature in her opinion—reflected her anxiety and general exhaustion.

Bay looked down at her pale pink T-shirt and tailored black pants, which were a little baggy around the butt and thighs. Since returning to Cape Town, she’d lost weight and, as she was naturally slender, they were pounds she couldn’t afford to lose.

Right. She was here, best get on with it.

Bay tucked her T-shirt back into her pants and pushed her fist into her sternum. Life had taught her to be a realist and she really didn’t think she had an ice cube’s chance in hell of being employed by Digby Tempest-Vane as his interior designer.

But, if she didn’t try, she’d always have regrets and second-guess herself.

She was allowed to fail. And she probably would. But failure was only acceptable when she’d given it her best shot.

Digby Tempest-Vane was experiencing a bad-dream hangover. Having had the same recurring nightmare since he was fourteen, he was familiar with its aftereffects of feeling antsy, unsettled and irritated. Sometimes he wouldn’t have the dream for months but, whenever he was dealing with change—like now—it was a nightly visitor.

The image of Radd’s coffin, plain black like Jack’s, being lowered into a deep, black hole jumped onto the big screen of his mind, and he slammed his eyes shut, hoping to force it away. Because he needed to check on his brother, he wouldn’t be able to function if he didn’t, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and punched in Radd’s number.

This is Radd Tempest-Vane. I’m not available at the moment. Leave a message.

Digby disconnected the call, frustrated and irritated at his inability to reach his brother. They were business partners and best friends but for the past few weeks, their relationship ran a very distant second to Radd’s romance with Brin.

He was happy for Radd, hewas, but he couldn’t help feeling relegated to the sidelines of his life, pushed aside and well, yeah, forgotten.

Digby, standing at the window of his sprawling office with its amazing view of Table Mountain, placed the palm of his hand on the glass and told himself to stop behaving like a teenage girl. Radd was in love, he was happy and that was all that mattered.

And yeah, if Digby didn’t have the same access to him as before, if he was feeling a little lonely and a lot left out—he’d regressed to sounding like a ten-year-old—then that was his problem, not Radd’s.

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