Brooke stepped further into the room. “I don’t understand. I thought you hated each other.”
“Hate is such a strong word,” Bill said, but stopped when Taylor rested her hand on his arm. Her touch grabbed at his libido, and desire flared again. She could arouse him that easily.
“I don’t think we need to justify ourselves to Brooke,” she said to him, her tone cool. Amazing. She’d gone from a firecracker in his arms to Her Royal Primness. He glanced between the two. Want Arctic? Just add Brooke, apparently.
“I’m sure Bill doesn’t need you to speak for him, Taylor,” Brooke said. She glanced at him. “What’s going on?”
Bill folded his arms. He liked Brooke, but he didn’t like being called to task like a recalcitrant schoolboy. He shrugged. “We were kissing.”
Kissing. It seemed a tame description for what they’d been doing, and what he still wanted to do.
“It looked like a lot more than kissing,” Brooke said.
It could have been, if she hadn’t interrupted. Bill wasn’t happy. No—he was horny and frustrated as hell.
“Bill and I are friends.” Taylor’s voice was calm. He caught the slight hesitancy in her words, though. Yeah, it felt weird to him too. They were that, and more.
“Friends?” Brooke scoffed. “Don’t you think you’ve caused enough trouble?”
Taylor shook her head in disbelief. “You are incredible. You sleep with your sister’s husband, and accuse me of causing trouble?”
Bill winced. Taylor slowly leaned over to retrieve her purse from the chair opposite Bill’s desk.
“I never wanted to hurt my sister,” Brooke said hoarsely.
Bill watched as Taylor lifted her hand. “Save it, Brooke. I know you, remember? You say you follow your heart, but I think that’s just code for doing what you want, regardless of the fallout. All care, no accountability.” She straightened and met Brooke’s gaze directly. “But let’s get one thing straight. If you think you can judge me for kissing Bill, you’re a hypocrite.”
It wasn’t that he didn’t like Brooke, or thought she needed to be raked over the coals; she was out of line, but he wasn’t upset by it. Annoyed, but not upset. Listening to Taylor go on the attack, though, made him want to cheer for her. Or kiss her. He preferred the latter.
“You’re a psychiatrist,” Brooke said.
“It’s nice of you to finally acknowledge that. When I was counseling your sister, you called me a busybody, a troublemaker, but only because I was warning your sister of your inappropriate behavior. But now you’re prepared to recognize my qualification. Very interesting.” Taylor made an expression that caused her lips to pout, and Bill found himself staring at her mouth.
“Come on, Taylor, this is hardly professional.”
Nope. Bill’s thoughts about Taylor were the furthest thing from professional.
Taylor laughed, a sound that mixed incredulity and sarcasm. “Brooke—you prance around Forrester Creations in your underwear. Don’t lecture me on professionalism.” She turned to him. “I have to go.”
Bill frowned. She had a murderous glint in her eye, but she was leaving? He liked fireworks.
He put his hand on her arm. “Stay. Please.” Not for the fireworks. Well, not with Brooke. He wanted more of that heat aimed in his direction.
She shook her head. “No, I’ll go.” She indicated Brooke’s folder. “Apparently she has issues.”
Bill bit his lip to keep from smiling as he walked her to the door. There was the glimmer of that spark he knew she buried inside her.
“I’ll talk to you later,” he promised. She ducked her head, and he saw the bloom of a rosy pink tint in her cheeks. She nodded, then left.
He watched for a moment as she walked down the hall, hips swaying with a mesmerizing rhythm. She’d gone all demure on him.
She peeked over her shoulder, and he grinned when he saw the spark of curiosity in her eyes. Demure, schemure. She’d liked their kiss. He watched until she’d turned the corner, and he heard the ding of the elevator.
He heard the sound of a throat clearing, and turned.
*
Taylor pressed both palms to her cheeks as she rode the elevator down to the ground floor. Good grief. She didn’t know what to feel. Mortification? Excitement? Guilt? She’d kissed Bill—and this time it was because he wanted to kiss her, and not to ward off a flashback. She’d wanted to kiss him, too. And Brooke had caught them. A smile tugged at her lips. She’d felt like a naughty school girl. It wasn’t an experience she was used to yet she had to admit she liked it.
She especially liked putting that stunned expression on Brooke’s face.
She sobered as the elevator reached the ground floor. Brooke had a point, though. She was a psychiatrist and Bill needed counseling. Not only that, she’d treated his ex-wife. Any connection between them would hardly be considered reasonable, in that light. It may not be illegal, but it certainly was unethical.
She sighed as she walked across the foyer of the Spencer Publications building. Bill was magnetic, attractive, charismatic, with an underlying wickedness that brought to mind the bad boys on motorbikes her father had always warned her to avoid.
She couldn’t form any kind of relationship with the man in good conscience. It wasn’t right—and she always tried to do the right thing.
There would be no more kissing Bill Spencer.
*
Brooke was leaning against his desk, arms folded. “I can’t believe you kissed her.”
He closed the door and crossed to his desk. “Why not? She’s an attractive woman. Smart. Single. Lots of men would kiss her.”
Brooke shook her head. “What do you see in her?”
Bill sank into his chair. “She’s … kind.” That sounded boring, even to him, and Taylor wasn’t boring. “She’s compassionate. She helped me when I needed help.”
Brooke cocked her head to the side. “With what?”
Bill hesitated. Speaking of PTSD was still hard for him. He felt he could discuss it with Taylor; she’d already shown a depth of understanding that left him humbled. He remembered Mike’s comments about people’s prejudices when they learned of his PTSD. He didn’t want to go through that. It was hard enough, enduring those moments when he felt like a failure, when he lost control. He didn’t want everyone to know about it.
“Just a little problem. Now.” He smiled. “You mentioned something about an issue?”
Brooke stared at him for a moment, but he met her gaze squarely, keeping his smile in place. He wasn’t going to satisfy her curiosity. She must have realized, as she dropped the folder onto his desk and changed the subject.
“You need to see this. Rick received it less than an hour ago.”
Bill picked up the folder and stiffened when he glanced through the contents. “Fashion Buzz,” he muttered darkly, the competitor who was aggressively entering the market. They weren’t content to go after only the New York segment, they were now trying to slither into the West Coast portion.
He eyed the proposal. It was close to the Spencer Publications submissions. Actually, it was very close. Right down to the social media campaign. From the teasers, to the strategic positioning and timing of advertisements, down to the placement of those advertisements, along with the digital marketing campaigns, the initiatives were remarkably similarly to those offered by Spencer Publications.
Only Fashion Buzz’s advertising rates were significantly cheaper.
“Are you going to use them?” he asked Brooke. He was a shareholder. Forrester Creations couldn’t go to the competition.
“Rick’s considering it. You saw this morning that our sales didn’t quite hit the forecast.”
“I’ll match the rates.”
“That’s not why I’m here, Bill. This company—it’s not just Forrester Creations they’ve approached. I thought you should know.”
He nodded. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” The proposal was too close to his own to be coincidence. Fashion Buzz had
seen their offering. Someone, somewhere, had given them the Spencer Publications packet. He needed to address this—starting with the New York team.
“There’s something else,” Brooke said, wincing. She pulled out her phone, and opened a web browser. “This is on all the chat channels.” She darted him a look. “I’m surprised you haven’t seen it already.”
She held out the phone and he looked at the screen.
He read the headline aloud. “Dollar Bill enters rehab.” He shook his head. “Seriously? Where do they get this rubbish?” There was a photo of him coming out of Dr. Snow’s clinic, and all sorts of oblique references to alcoholism throughout the article, with observations that he’d dropped out of the limelight, that he was “in hiding.”
That rankled him. He’d never hidden from anything in his life. Now virtually every social media platform was screaming that he was a coward. Normally he wouldn’t care, but at this point in time, with everything he was facing, it hit too close to home. His sons would see that. Will—well, Will was still a baby. But Liam and Wyatt—his family was his entire universe. That’s what mattered to him: what they would think, what they would feel, when they read all this?
Brooke shrugged. “It’s everywhere.” She slid the phone back into her bag. “I have to ask, Bill. Is it true?”
He frowned. “Of course it’s not true. I’m not an alcoholic.”
“I know, but you do like the occasional drink.”
“So do a lot of other people.”
“Yes, but not everyone has driven drunk,” she reminded him.
He needed no reminder of his accident. He’d consumed whiskey one afternoon in an effort to prove a point to Katie and had driven home. On the way, he’d hit Brooke’s car. That accident, the reckless, irresponsible behavior, had contributed to a no-holds barred argument with his wife, and had set in motion decisions he’d later come to regret—and the ultimate collapse of his marriage.
He folded his arms and stared at Brooke. “When I hit you—that accident was a wake-up call. I’ve never done anything like that since.”
“I know, but now you’re talking about problems, and Taylor’s helping you—I can imagine the assumptions people are making.”
“By people, do you mean you?”
“No.” She straightened from the desk. “Of course not. I know you, Bill.” She laid a hand on his arm. “We’ve shared so much. I just want you to know that if you need to talk, I’m here.”
Bill inclined his head. “Thanks, Brooke.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the folder. “Thanks for bringing that by. It looks like I’ve got some work to do.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to it.” She trailed her hand down his arm. “Call me if you need anything.” Her gaze was intent, warm.
“Thanks.”
He watched her absently as she left his office, his thoughts already shifting to business. Someone was waging a systematic attack against him. First they were going after his clients. That, he could live with; it was part of doing business. He would have to get together with his New York team to come up with a strategy to regain the clients he’d lost. What concerned him, though, was that it seemed there was a rat in the company. Someone had leaked confidential Spencer Publications information to a competitor. Was it someone from the New York office or someone here in LA? Was it a client? Or had they been hacked?
Then there was the personal side of it. He guessed he had kind of hidden from the world while in the grip of his PTSD. He hadn’t done any public appearances and he’d let Liam do all the press conferences. He hadn’t traveled, had basically confined himself to his home and his office. He exhaled. Confined. That was a good way to describe it. He’d thought of those places as safe havens, a bolt hole when he needed one. He realized now he’d created his own prison.
When was the last time he’d visited Liam at home? And here he was, hiding in his office. Looking at the headlines, and that folder, had shown him just how much he’d let things slide. He had to protect his family from this, and had to protect their interests in Spencer Publications. He needed to get his head back in the game.
Bill crossed to his laptop. Damage control was required. He’d get his PR department on to it straightaway. A muscle in his jaw flexed. Then he’d start seriously looking into this Fashion Buzz.
He had work to do.
*
Bill found himself walking down the hall with Mike after the latest group therapy session. “How did that job interview go?” They’d talked about so much in the intervening weeks, Bill realized he hadn’t enquired about the interview Mike had mentioned at their first meeting.
Mike grimaced. “Not so well. It was all going fine until I mentioned the PTSD.”
Bill frowned. “Why did you tell them? If it doesn’t help you, don’t mention it.”
Mike chuckled. “So says a man who’s never experienced a flashback or panic attack in front of a boss or client. It’s my experience that being honest up front helps.”
“Just not in this case, huh?” They were sentiments that Bill could appreciate, but it was like giving the opposition a weapon against you—and he’d never condone that. He couldn’t begin to imagine what Fashion Buzz would do if they caught wind of his struggle with PTSD. He could handle the alcoholism rumors—they were false, but what would happen if his competitor actually got hold of concrete information about something that mattered to him? It was always harder to put a positive spin on the truth.
“Has that happened to you? In front of a boss or client, I mean?” It had been embarrassing enough for it to happen in front of Taylor, even though she hadn’t seemed spooked by it, or branded him as deficient. No, she’d just tricked him into therapy. Fortunately, Bill was his own boss, and didn’t have to worry about losing his job. He shuddered to think what it would be like to experience an attack in front of one of his advertisers.
Mike nodded. “Yeah. It’s getting better, there are less of them, and I know the warning signs now, so I can kind of control it. Still, I think a lot of employers think I’ll go postal on them.”
“What did you do when you left the service?” He’d tried to figure it out, but Mike was like a chameleon. The first time Bill had met him, he’d worn a business suit. Today, he wore a khaki T-shirt and jeans. From what he’d seen, Mike was an intelligent guy, articulate and relaxed. The kind of guy who seemed able to discuss financial reports in a boardroom, or sip beer and watch a game.
Mike paused in front of the elevators and pressed the button. “I tried to start my own security business.” He laughed dryly. “Yeah, I’m not so good at selling, apparently.”
“Well, not if you always tell the truth,” Bill commented, and Mike laughed again. Bill looked up at the elevator’s indicator. “Uh, I’ll take the stairs.”
Mike arched an eyebrow. “Why?”
“It’s good exercise.”
Mike folded his arms and waited.
Bill finally shrugged. “It feels like a tin can. I don’t like being trapped in a tin can.”
Mike’s eyes narrowed. “Like a plane?”
Bill met his gaze squarely. The man was astute. “Yeah. Like a plane.”
Mike nodded. “Uh-huh. Have you heard of exposure therapy?”
Bill rolled his eyes. “I’m taking baby steps with this counseling. Let’s not push it.”
The elevator doors opened, and Mike put one foot in. “The concept is to slowly and gradually expose yourself to things that cause you anxiety—under controlled circumstances.”
Bill nodded. “Good to know. See you.” He started to walk away.
“I drive a Chevy Suburban,” Mike called after him.
He turned. “So?” He wasn’t about to get into a pissing contest over who drove the best car. He already knew—he did. Well, when he drove, that is. Which he hadn’t done, not since the crash.
“I couldn’t get into a car or a truck after what happened. I used to sweat and stammer—now I drive a Suburban. Exposure therapy.”
&nbs
p; Bill stared at him for a moment. Mike shifted further into the elevator, his gaze on Bill in challenge.
“I dare you,” Mike said, and grinned.
Chapter Nine
Bill narrowed his eyes. “You dare me? What are we—in grade school?”
Mike maneuvered further into the cavity. “I dare you,” he mouthed.
Bill folded his arms.
Mike shrugged. “Are you going to control it, or are you going to let it control you?”
A muscle spasmed in his jaw. The man didn’t play fair. Of all people, Mike knew what it would cost him to step inside that elevator—and he knew just which buttons to push.
Maybe it was because Mike did understand that drove Bill to take that first step. He edged into the elevator. I can’t believe I’m doing this as a dare. Thoughts of Liam, Wyatt and Will buoyed him along. He had to face this.
“See, easy,” Mike said, and pressed the button to close the door. “Hey, what happened to that doctor who came with you the first time?”
Bill frowned as he stared at the indicators above the doors. He was trapped in an elevator. No, not trapped—he had to think of it more positively, like just being stuck inside with no way out. He forced himself to focus on Mike’s words.
“Taylor? She’s a … friend.” Even now, the word fell uncomfortably from his lips. He’d been thinking of their kiss, of her lips beneath his, her body pressed against him. It was difficult to keep her in the friend category when all he could think about was getting her naked and beneath him.
“Some friend. She’s hot.”
“She’s not available,” Bill stated emphatically. Mike was a handsome guy and for some reason, the thought of Mike approaching Taylor made his fists clench.
“Oh, married, huh?”
Bill frowned. “No, she’s just … unavailable.”
Mike tried not to smile. “Is she unavailable to you, too?”
Bill folded his arms and leaned against the wall of the elevator. “She’s unavailable to you.”
Mike chuckled as the elevator dinged, signaling its arrival at the ground floor. “Take it easy, Bill. Even a blind man could see you’ve got a thing for her. I don’t poach in another man’s territory.” He stepped out of the elevator, and Bill followed him.
Collision Course: The Bold and the Beautiful Page 8