Collision Course: The Bold and the Beautiful

by Shannon Curtis

  “She’s not—she’s no man’s ‘territory,’” Bill said, and almost laughed at the thought. He’d love to see Taylor’s reaction if anyone called her a man’s anything. She’d waste no time in correcting the misunderstanding.

  Mike hesitated. “Well, either way, she seems like quite the special lady.” He gestured to the marble and tile foyer. “And you made it. Congratulations.”

  Bill looked around, realizing he was walking across the lobby. He hadn’t even noticed. He’d caught the elevator, and hadn’t ended up in the fetal position. He cocked his head and looked at his friend. “You’re good.”

  Mike winked. “You better believe it. See you next week.”

  He watched as the tall man strode toward the front of the building. Bill was beginning to think of Mike as a friend. He didn’t have many friends. Sure, he had a lot of acquaintances, people he knew socially and through work, but when it came to actual friendship, Bill only doled out that title to very special people, like his VP, Justin Barber. Mike was the kind of guy who would help another, despite his own struggles. The man needed a break.

  “Hey, Mike.”

  Mike turned. “Yeah?”

  Bill wandered up to him. “I need something done for work. With all your security know-how, does that include investigations?”

  “Yeah, it’s one of my specialties.”

  “I need to find out who’s behind a company—can you do that?”

  Mike nodded. “I can even tell you what the guy had for breakfast, depending on the information you’re after.”

  Bill smiled as he pulled out his phone. “Great. Let me send you some information.” Mike pulled his own cell out, and within minutes they’d exchanged details.

  Mike’s eyebrows rose. “Spencer Publications, as in Dollar Bill Spencer?” He stared at Bill. “I thought you looked familiar. My ex always had one of your magazines lying around.” He chuckled. “She would freak if she found out I knew you.” He cocked his head to the side. “But I guess you don’t really want people to know how and why we’ve met.”

  Bill sighed. “Yeah. This is personal stuff, I don’t necessarily want to see it splashed across the papers.”

  Mike winked. “Your secret is safe with me. I’ll call you in the next few days with the intel.”

  “That soon?” He and Justin had been trying to uncover the information for a while.

  “Told you I’m good.”

  *

  Taylor pressed her hands to her stomach as she stood at the back of the showroom. There was so much press here.

  They were conducting a sneak peek of the Brooke’s Bedroom collection, a teaser to build up some buzz around the line, but to also test the waters for audience reaction.

  “Hey, Mom, you look fantastic,” Thomas murmured as he joined her.

  She flashed him a smile. “So do you. Is that from your men’s line?” Her son looked very dashing, in a graphite-colored shirt, onyx jacket and pants. The dark colors brought out the vibrant blue of his eyes. That was one thing she could say about her marriage with Ridge Forrester—they’d made beautiful children.

  “Yes, it is, as a matter of fact.”

  Taylor had seen some of Thomas’s designs for the Brooke’s Bedroom line and they were certainly breathtaking. Sexy, beautiful; she thought they were magnificent, although not quite to her own personal style.

  She noticed Caroline enter the room and make her way backstage. She’d spent several hours with the young woman while working on her collection. She smiled. Caroline was—refreshing. She was direct, but could be so sweet. She hadn’t really had the opportunity to get to know the young woman until they’d worked together on this project. She was confident, yet could be touchingly vulnerable, and Taylor was truly impressed with Caroline’s creativity and talent. She was proud of the work they had produced. Eric had told her at a brief board meeting that Forrester Creations wanted to produce garments that Taylor would want to wear. It had taken some encouragement from both Caroline and Thomas, but eventually she’d felt like a kid in a candy store. It had been a lot of fun coming up with a range of lingerie that she would feel comfortable—and desirable—wearing.

  She swallowed. She just hoped the press, and then the market, would like it. She turned to Thomas.

  “Oh my goodness. Is this how you feel before the launch of every line?”

  “Relax, Mom. You look like you’re about to throw up.”

  “I feel like I’m about to throw up.”

  He chuckled and slid his arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry. The Mystique collection is stunning.” He hugged her to his side. “I’m so proud of you.”

  She looked up at him in surprise. “You are?”

  “Of course. Now everyone gets to experience something I’ve grown up with—how smart and talented you are. You’re going to blow them away.” She was humbled by the faith her son had in her.

  “He’s right, you know.”

  Taylor turned at the sound of the deep voice behind her. Bill. He smiled. “I’ve seen some of the collection backstage. Outstanding.”

  “I’ve been trying to tell her that,” Thomas said to him. “She’s nervous.”

  Bill reached out and took hold of her hand. “Don’t be.”

  “I need to speak to Liam for a moment, then get backstage and check out the models,” Thomas told them.

  “I just bet you do,” Taylor said, smiling.

  Thomas rolled his eyes. “I mean, make sure the items fit properly,” he said to her. “No funny business.”

  “Uh-huh. Go on.”

  It wasn’t until her son had left that she realized she was gripping Bill’s hand tightly. “Oh, sorry.”

  Bill grinned. “I like a firm grip.”

  Her cheeks bloomed with heat. “I thought you didn’t do hand holding,” she commented, lifting their clasped hands.

  “For you, I’ll make an exception.”

  “Bill! We didn’t expect to see you here,” Jarrett Maxwell, one of the Spencer Publications reporters, said as he approached, notebook in hand.

  Bill arched an eyebrow. “This is a fashion event. Why wouldn’t I be here?”

  “Well, all the recent reports of your struggle with the bottle …” Jarrett trailed off. He held a digital recorder out in front of him.

  “You don’t need to interview me, Jarrett. I pay your salary, remember?”

  Jarrett swallowed and lowered his arm. “Sorry, force of habit—but you’re big news.”

  Taylor sucked in a breath. “What?” When she hadn’t been working on the designs with Caroline, she’d been busy with her patients, and she made a point of not reading the gossip magazines.

  “Don’t believe everything you read,” Bill told Jarrett.

  “Oh, so the reports are greatly exaggerated?”

  “No, the reports are not exaggerated, they are false. I do not have a drinking problem, and the source that started that rumor will be dealt with.” Bill glared at him, and even Taylor shifted uncomfortably at the ruthless glint in his eye.

  Jarrett got the message and transferred his attention to her, beaming. “And Taylor—did I hear incorrectly, or do you actually have some designs to show us tonight?”

  Oh, heavens, her first interview. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”

  “Wow, intelligent and creative,” Jarrett remarked. “What brought this on?”

  Taylor smiled. “Well, I don’t think the two need to be mutually exclusive,” she commented. “Forrester Creations is renowned for delivering stunning garments, and we wanted to make sure every woman had the opportunity to feel beautiful. We decided to design intimates that catered to every woman, on every level. Wearing beautiful clothing that makes you feel good about yourself is a great confidence boost. We know every woman is beautiful in her own right and we want to make sure she knows it, too.”

  Jarrett nodded. “Well said,” he commented. “Where did the names for the different collections come from?”

  “Well, Mystique seeme
d to be perfectly suitable for the range I worked on,” Taylor answered. “It’s a collection for the woman who likes to keep a little mystery about herself—artful concealment, so to speak.”

  “And the other lines, Vamp and Siren?”

  Taylor chewed her lip. She thought Vamp was the perfect title for Brooke’s collection; it rhymed with tramp. But saying so wouldn’t present the Forrester Creations brand in a positive light. “Vamp is Brooke’s line, and it’s for the more—daring woman,” she said. Sometimes saying as little as possible was the best course. At least she wasn’t lying. “And Siren—well, that’s Thomas’s line. He wanted something that teased a man’s control. He’s come up with some amazing ideas.”

  Jarrett nodded as he switched off the recorder. “I’m looking forward to reviewing the latest Forrester Creations offerings.” He gave a little wave and moved back toward his seat.

  She felt Bill’s gaze upon her, heating her skin, and glanced up. He was giving her an appraising look. “You’re a natural at this,” he remarked.

  She chuckled. “Oh, I think it has more to do with practice. Living with the Forrester name gives you a lot of media exposure. You would know—the Spencer name is synonymous with story.”

  Bill smiled ruefully in acknowledgment.

  The lights dimmed, and Taylor’s heart rate whipped up a notch.

  “Relax, Taylor.”

  She nodded, trying to swallow. Her mouth was so dry. Oh no, she was squeezing Bill’s hand again. “Sorry,” she muttered. He squeezed her gently back, and they both turned to the catwalk as Eric Forrester took to the stage.

  She listened absently as her former boyfriend welcomed the press and introduced the night’s event. She was more focused on the strong, warm hand engulfing hers. Spending time in the Forrester Creations offices had been surprisingly easy. She and Eric spent little time together and she’d rarely seen Brooke, as the woman was busy working, for once.

  It hadn’t been as awkward as she’d thought it would be. Rick had discussed the collection with her, as had Thorne. They’d both listened to her carefully, and taken on board her suggestions. It was amazing. They had treated her like a valued member of the team. She suspected Bill may have had something to do with the shift in attitude. She smiled. Bill Spencer acting as a mediator for business relationships—that wasn’t something she’d ever expected to see.

  “So without further ado, I give you—the Mystique collection,” Eric intoned, lifting his arm to the main stage.

  The lights dimmed even further. The music started, a specially composed smooth rock piece featuring some sexy saxophone and guitar. The lights along the catwalk lit up one by one and in time to the music, and strobe lighting started to flicker as the models strutted onto the stage.

  Bill’s grip on her hand tightened, and Taylor nodded absently in time to the music, watching the models parade in her designs. The lingerie was flattering, suggestive and supremely feminine. No matter how the collection was received, she was proud of her efforts. She flicked her gaze occasionally to the press gallery, trying to gauge their reaction. Some of them were nodding their heads enthusiastically to the beat. Some, the more experienced ones, were taking notes, their expressions stoic. Camera flashes went off. She thought she felt Bill give her a little shake of encouragement.

  Bill’s hand tightened even further as the models paused at the end of the runway, turning this way and that to show off the lingerie. She winced. His grip was beginning to hurt. She tried to wriggle her fingers.

  “Ow, ow, ow, Bill,” she whispered to him, and looked up.

  He stared at the stage, but his eyes had glazed over. She realized now the little shakes of encouragement were actually Bill trembling.

  Oh no.

  Chapter Ten

  “Bill, look at me.” She tugged on his arm. “Bill, it’s okay.” Oh, dear. The music was so loud, she wasn’t sure he heard her.

  His eyes were fixed, unseeing, on the stage.

  She lifted her hand to his face. “Bill, please, it’s okay.”

  The music rose to a crescendo, and the lights flickered, pulsed. He jerked away from her, flinging his arms up to cover his face. He collapsed against the wall behind him, and more lights flickered. Taylor squinted. Camera flashes.

  She knelt down to his side. “Bill, please, it’s okay,” she cried, trying to make herself heard above the noise.

  He dodged his head as though trying to avoid punches.

  She placed her palms on either side of his jaw and held his face still. She leaned in close. “Bill, it’s Taylor. You’re okay,” she shouted.

  His eyelids flickered, and she watched in amazement as his focus seemed to snap back to her.

  “Taylor?” he rasped, his face pale.

  She nodded. “Yes, it’s me.”

  He grimaced as he took in his surroundings, the anxious faces behind her. “Oh God. Not again.” He rose to his feet, and Taylor clasped his hand.

  “What’s wrong?” Jarrett asked, and Taylor groaned as a photographer lined up his lens and took a couple of shots.

  “Nothing,” she said briefly over her shoulder. More reporters were noticing the situation, and turning their attention to the back of the room.

  “I have to get out of here,” Bill said roughly, and staggered for the door.

  “Bill Spencer, have you been drinking?” another reporter, a pretty young woman, asked, hurrying forward to shove her digital recorder toward him.

  Taylor whirled on the woman. “No, he hasn’t,” she hissed, using her body as a temporary block to prevent them going after Bill. She held up a hand. “Just—just give him some space.”

  She glanced up. The music was still going, and the lights were still flickering, but the action on stage had stopped. She sent Eric a pleading glance, and he took the mic, a stunned Brooke Logan standing next to him.

  “Thank you so much, ladies,” Eric said to the models onstage. “Next up, we have Siren, by Thomas Forrester. I’m so proud of my grandson, and so impressed with his designs, as I’m sure you all will be.”

  Some of the reporters took the bait, and turned their attention back to the catwalk. Jarrett, though, gazed at Taylor with narrowed eyes.

  Taylor sighed as she glanced at the closed door. Bill had tried to keep his PTSD a secret, but it looked like the secret was about to be revealed.

  *

  Taylor pulled into her driveway, the lights of her vehicle sweeping over the front steps of her home. A man sat on her steps, waiting for her.

  Bill.

  Thank God, she’d been worried about him. She’d tried calling him, but he hadn’t answered his phone. She’d driven to his house, but nobody was home. Now, he was sitting at her front door. She paused in front of him, and he looked up.

  “You look like hell.”

  His lips lifted. “It’s good to see you, too.”

  “I’ve been so worried about you. Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

  He grimaced. “I turned it off. Reporters kept calling.”

  “Ah.” She unlocked the door. “Want to come in?”

  He nodded and rose to his feet. She stood on the top step and he stood three steps below, yet still managed to dwarf her.

  “I think I need to talk.”

  Her eyes widened. “To me?” She wasn’t expecting that. She’d hoped he’d ask her, but had assumed he’d eventually discuss things with Dr. Snow or Liam.

  He stared at her, his expression brooding. “As a friend,” he stated. He sucked in a breath. “I’m not used to needing to talk to … friends.”

  She nodded. He was a self-assured, self-reliant man. It must feel so alien to him, this loss of control, this need for support. “Sure. Friends.”

  She entered, turning on the lights in the foyer before leading the way into her living room. She saw him flinch when she turned the light on, and she switched it off again.

  “Let’s use the lamps.” She crossed to the end tables and switched on the lamps, spilling a warm, gol
den glow across the room. Bill walked over to the hearth and had the fire going within minutes.

  “Would you like something to drink? Tea?”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Scotch?”

  She grimaced. “Sorry, I don’t have liquor in the house. I may have some wine …?”

  He sighed and shook his head. “It’s probably just as well. I need to keep a clear head.”

  She took a seat in the large armchair near the fireplace. It was a single seat, and she chose it on purpose. She wasn’t about to tempt fate by sitting on that settee again with Bill.

  She waited for him to take a seat. “What was the trigger tonight?” she asked softly.

  Bill stared at her for a moment, then shrugged. “I think it was when the lights came on along the catwalk. It reminded me so much of the aisle lights in the plane.”

  She nodded. Of course, something so simple.

  He dragged a hand over his face. “And now the whole world thinks I’m a drunk. Or crazy.”

  She leaned forward in her chair. “We both know you’re neither. Does what others think matter that much to you?”

  Bill thought about it for a moment. “Not really.” He smiled. “I really don’t care too much what other people think. It’s what I think of me, what my family thinks of me, that matters.”

  “And what do you think of you?”

  He cast his gaze to the ceiling. “Oh, well, that’s a tough one, at the moment. I feel like my whole life has been split in two. Before the accident, and after the accident.”

  “What seems to be troubling you the most?”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight. Every time I close my eyes, I see Jack.”

  “Jack? Who is Jack?”

  “Jack Marshall. He was my pilot.” The words were quiet, and she had to lean closer to catch them.

  “The pilot who died in the plane crash?” She kept her tone even.

  Bill nodded. “Yeah. I keep—I keep seeing him, and I can’t get him out of my mind.”

  She rested her arm on the side of her chair. “What happened, Bill?” She’d read the news reports, but she’d be the first to know never to believe everything you read. “Do you want to tell me about it?” she asked softly.