Know When to Hold Him

by Lindsay Emory

  After seeing the rest of the house, she loved it even more than her first impression had suggested. It was solid and homey, probably because homes constructed in the 1930’s were good quality, with signature details and heavy wood. The previous owners had updated it with beautiful fixtures and large baths. She wasn’t sure that an interior designer could do anything to this house. Still, Spencer found herself making suggestions. Here, he could do two chairs, the better to read the paper in the morning. This room needed a beautiful antique bed, with this great white bedding she’d seen in a magazine.

  Spencer was still caught up in the possibilities when they came to the master bedroom. A high vaulted ceiling was the only clue that the room used to be an attic. She flipped on a light, and, anchored solely by a king sized mattress and springs in the middle of the floor, the room proved charming.

  “You could really have a fabulous bed in this room.” Spencer’s attention turned to the ceiling. “With this height. Something dramatic, with four posters. Really romantic.” She paused, realizing what she’d said. Her skin heated, as much from embarrassment as from the images that ran through her mind involving four poster beds and Liam.

  “Don’t stop,” Liam said, closing the gap between them. His hand went out, and he turned her chin toward him with a finger. “I wanted to know what you thought.”

  A hot flush crept up her neck. Which was totally not Spencer’s style. She had perfected the calm, cool, collected Grace Kelly stare years ago. But not with this man. Not calm. Not cool. Certainly not collected.

  The beautiful arched windows faded away. The dramatic ceiling beams disappeared. Furniture and paint were distant, abstract concepts. There was only this man. Liam.

  He stilled, watching. Waiting. Spencer placed her trembling hands on his sculpted chest, loving the way he was solid and good and safe.

  This fits.

  His hands wrapped around her waist, sure and strong.

  Fits.

  Liam pulled her hips gently against the hard length of his cock.

  His mouth covered hers. The softness of his lips. The scrape of his beard against her cheek. Felt like home. Spencer kissed him, letting him know exactly what she felt. Alive. Sexy. Ready. When he leaned to the side and slowly tasted her neck, nibbling and licking the sensitive flesh under her jaw, she returned the favor, using her teeth to tug on his earlobe gently. She’d been right. His ears were sexy when she had her teeth on them.

  Liam maneuvered so that his back was to the mattress. With a sure, steady grasp on her waist, he lifted her down on his lap and sat down on the bed. She straddled him. His erection between her legs was intoxicating, and she rubbed herself against his length, needing more of him.

  He must’ve liked it, too, because he thrust back as if to answer, “Yes.” His large hand was then inside her shirt-Spencer wasn’t sure whether her buttons had been dealt with and didn’t care—and he palmed her breast, first reverently, then with a firmer touch. The sensations made her nearly spin out of control as desire crested within her. Spencer could swear she heard a distant chime of bells.

  Liam flicked her nipple, sending a corresponding thrill straight to her core as if she were a violin and he the master musician. “Yes,” she moaned. Spencer wasn’t sure she could take much more of this song. Another chime rang out. Then another. This time, Liam’s pants were buzzing.

  “Shhhhhhit!” Liam dragged his swollen lips away from hers to fumble with his pocket. “Sorry, let me just get this damn thing.”

  Spencer had to move off him in order for him to reach his pocket. She stood, anxious, ready for Liam to toss the offending piece of technology and get back to doing what they were doing.

  “Shit.” She echoed his curse. Liam’s expression was half-murderous, half-resigned, and she nodded. Some calls had to be taken.

  Or not. Spencer paused. She couldn’t help herself from drinking him in while he stood. Something about his hard, athletic body in the casual tee and jeans and bare feet made her crazy. She wanted to see all of him, underneath. The desire to explore him, to trace his tattoos, to run her fingers along the plane of his belly, the jutting missile between his legs, the firm curve of his thigh. Everything about him set her on fire.

  And then Liam ended the call. Something in his body language made her take a step back. And then another. A strange emotion welled up inside of her—frustration mixed with anger. Frustration like a toddler who’d just been denied her favorite toy. Anger that someone dared to interrupt this…moment. This perfect moment was ruined by a stupid phone call.

  “What’s up?” Spencer asked, surprised that her voice seemed so shaky.

  Liam cocked his head, trying to figure something out. “I think you just proposed.”

  A lump went up Spencer’s throat. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t believe… “WHAT?” She squeaked.

  “To Troy Duncan.”

  Spencer’s eyes widened. “I don’t…”

  “Well, not you. But it sounds like your idea.”

  Realization started to rain down on her but still she said, because it was perfectly true, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “That was another reporter. Asking me if Troy agrees with his pastor that parents of children conceived out of wedlock should marry.”

  “That’s an interesting question. I’m sure Troy has some strong opinions on that.”

  “And you have nothing to do with this.”

  She considered a whole host of snarky responses but decided to be straight with him. “You know how the game is played.”

  “Game? This is a man’s life!”

  “And a child’s life! It’s a freaking DNA test. A cotton swab in the mouth. What’s so hard about it?”

  “And he has to get married if he doesn’t want to consent to a personal invasion of privacy-”

  “Oh come on!”

  “-every time a groupie decides she wants to get a payday?”

  Spencer put her hands on her hips and stared at Liam, open-mouthed. “I don’t represent groupies,” she assured him in a frosty tone.

  “Spencer…”

  “What?” She lifted her chin in defiance. “I’m doing my job.”

  Liam’s mouth twisted. “It’s your job to try to ruin a man’s reputation?”

  “I’m not ruining anything. And you should be thanking me for it.”

  Liam laughed hollowly. “Thanking you? For what, exactly? The extortion or the blackmail? For manipulating the press and forcing Troy into something he doesn’t want to do?”

  Spencer shook her head. “You don’t get it. You don’t get that the fact that Dalynn hiring me is the best thing that could have happened to your client. Because I get it. I know what it’s like to be in the middle of the hurricane. I know what it’s like to have a life, a reputation ruined based on spurious accusations and flat-out lies. I know that a scandal can ruin someone’s life. So I help people. I may manipulate, I may threaten and pull strings and call in favors, but I do it so that the situation ends. It stops. It’s resolved. And when I’m involved, people go home and they live their lives in peace. Maybe they have to pay some money. Maybe they have an extra kid they didn’t plan for. But it’s done.”

  “What happened to you?” Liam asked in a voice so soft, Spencer barely heard him over the pounding in her ears.

  “Nothing,” she spat out. “I’ve led a privileged, wonderful life. Look at me. I’m Spencer Hightower. Nothing has happened to me. Just a country decided whether my philandering, lying, bigoted, cold, warmongering father got to be president or not. As traumas go, I got off easy.”

  “It doesn’t sound easy.” The empathy behind Liam’s eyes was almost her undoing. Spencer had everything under control, under wraps. She didn’t like talking about the Election. She knew it made her sound like a whiny, First World brat. But wounds were wounds, and Liam’s warm words were capable of opening all her scars.

  Spencer waved a hand. “It wasn’t true. That’s the thing that killed us.
None of it was true. And we thought truth would be a defense. But you know what? No one cares what the truth is. No one cares that my Daddy is just reserved. They call him cold. No one cares that he couldn’t care less about someone’s skin color. He votes against one bill, and he’s a racist. No one cares that it was an ice storm, they go for the jugular when he drives his car into a tree and nearly kills his own daughter. No one’s going to care that Troy loves Jesus. They’re going to see one big pregnant belly, and Troy is going to be a liar who can’t keep it in his pants.”

  “You can’t ruin his life based on your guess of what happened nine months ago,” Liam muttered. “The things you put out there in the press have consequences.”

  She took a step toward Liam. “I’m not ruining anything. I won’t do that to another family. But I’m going to win this. I’m going to find out if Troy is the father of Dalynn’s baby. If so, I’m going to help ensure she has enough to support her baby in a lifestyle consistent with the standards of the National Football League. And I’m not stopping just because you’re mad at me. Or because you want me in that bed.”

  “You want to be there, too,” Liam reminded her, his voice low and dark. “Just as much as I want you there.”

  Spencer raised her hands in surrender. “Okay, fine. I’m not stopping just because I want to be in your bed. I’ve backed off. I’ve played nice.”

  Liam’s brows rose. “This has been playing nice?”

  “Oh, honey. You haven’t seen anything yet.” She straightened her posture, her hands smoothing her blouse. “Thanks for dinner, Liam. Your house is beautiful. I hope you have many happy years here.”

  Liam crossed the space between them and took her by the upper arms. Not too hard, but enough to get her attention.

  “Don’t do that. Don’t dismiss me.”

  Spencer searched his face. Anger blazed there. Maybe she’d gone too far.

  “Let me go,” she insisted.

  His hands dropped from her arms. Spencer took a step back, putting space between them—space she needed. Staying too close to him muddled everything. Every time she believed she could handle it, she was proved wrong, like tonight. Coming over had been a huge mistake, one she hoped she’d remember. “This is who I am. This is who we are. I’m not giving up on my job, on my client, just because you and I have a…” Liam raised his eyebrows. “…a thing,” Spencer finished. “I knew we shouldn’t see each other until…”

  “After wedding bells?” Liam asked with an edge to his voice.

  Spencer cocked her head. “You said it, not me.”

  Liam jammed his hands in his pockets, letting out a long breath. “My second dates are usually killer.” He lifted his eyes, and Spencer’s heart twisted at their beauty.

  “This wasn’t a date.” Spencer’s reminder was silky yet firm.

  “God, no.” Liam frowned at her. “It was an offensive blitz.”

  Finally, he understood.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Spencer flipped on the TV as she poured her first cup of coffee for the day. Good Morning America was sunny and fun and gave her the news in a don’t-worry-be-happy way. The anchor made a joke and then, with a concerned brow, read, “In today’s fast-paced, pop-culture world, many parents in twenty-first century America are concerned about the lack of role models for their children. That’s what the Reverend Wallace Langston and football star Troy Duncan are hoping to address with their new initiative, announced this morning in Dallas.”

  Spencer’s cup froze in mid-air as footage of Troy and Pastor Langston on the steps of the church rolled. There was the good mega church pastor, familiar to millions of American households, commending Troy on committing himself to three days of prayer and charitable works until the NFL Draft, and inviting other professional athletes in Dallas to join him, to bring “honor” back to professional sports.

  The camera panned back. Liam stood off to the side, clapping his hands. An arrow hit Spencer in the belly, sharp and poignant. Liam Connelly was a fantastically good-looking man.

  And he’d just called her bluff.

  Spencer dialed the private investigator’s number.

  “Rodney,” she answered when he picked up. “You’re still at the university, right?” The commentators on Good Morning America began their analysis of Troy Duncan’s prayer-filled initiative. The words at the bottom of the screen read, “America’s Boy Next Door.” Spencer shook her head in disbelief. “Here’s what I need you to find.”

  …

  “I don’t get it,” said Nora as she, Rainey, and Spencer turned on the TV in the conference room. “I’m the PR specialist, and I don’t get it.”

  “It’s not PR, it’s strategy,” Rainey explained. “This is a chess game, and our friend Spencer here is a freakin’ master.”

  “But we have media coverage,” Nora stressed, “And the Scandals Magazine guy is there.”

  “Excellent,” Spencer said, flipping the remote between the local stations. “Everyone is covering it. Watch.”

  The Dallas local stations bled the public service of Troy Duncan and Pastor Langston all over the news. Combining two of Texas’ favorite past times-religion and football—into one feel-good, made for five o’clock top of the hour news. There were the two men of the hour, in work clothes, painting a senior citizen’s clapboard house in Fair Park.

  Volunteers had come out in droves, the reporters explained, showing Troy and Reverend Langston shaking hands and directing willing volunteers to the paintbrushes and the yard tools.

  “There!” Spencer pointed at a corner of the screen. Four pageant-worthy co-eds from Troy’s university in tight tees and cut-offs invaded the yard. The news cameras picked up their bouncy curves and straight white teeth and artfully highlighted hair.

  “Are they Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders?” Nora asked, with a reverential tone.

  “Rodney did a good job,” Rainey matched Nora’s tone.

  A calculated curve spread over Spencer’s lips as Troy stopped painting and strolled over to chat with the beautiful volunteers.

  The news reporter finished up with pertinent facts about the remainder of the Troy/Wallace public service initiative, and the program switched back to the studio and the gloominess of the regular news.

  “That’s it?” Nora asked.

  “Spencer moved the knight. Or pawn. Whatever, she set it up.”

  “A hug?” Nora asked.

  “A question,” Spencer mused. “And then a follow up. And then a feature in Scandals Magazine.”

  “We’re dealing with Scandals Magazine? That is not our style,” Rainey pointed out.

  Spencer shrugged. “This is war. We’re going to do what we have to win. And for the baby.”

  …

  By the next morning, as sure as the sun rose, a story appeared on Scandals Magazine’s website, featuring a picture of Troy Duncan in an enthusiastic beauty queen sandwich.

  Liam’s Google alerted him to this story about Troy, along with about a thousand other stories about the public relations success story of the year. Capitalizing on Troy’s wholesome image, the football player had dominated the news coverage for a whole news cycle leading up to the NFL draft. And it wasn’t just the sports pages. It was the local stations, the blogs, the US Weekly and People magazine websites. Troy Duncan was poised to be more than a football star. He was going to be the Michael Freaking Jordan of football. Bigger than a sport, his name would be synonymous with good works, and decency, and the American way. Corporations would line up with nice big blank checks for him, and it was all thanks to Spencer.

  The irony of it made him chuckle. If she hadn’t brought Troy’s pastor into the press, none of this would’ve happened. There was no reason not to do the joint charity event immediately, each of them taking advantage of the timing for the maximum publicity. To borrow a phrase from the esteemed Spencer Hightower—it was a win-win.

  With the barrage of news coverage, calls from the press, and calls from other agents and scouts, Liam di
dn’t notice the number of stories about Troy and girls rising throughout the day. And he certainly didn’t keep up with Twitter hashtags about Troy. If he had, he would have noticed when the tide started to turn on social media-right about the time someone tweeted a picture of a very pregnant Dalynn at a baby store with the comment, “#TroyDuncansexgirlfriend??”

  The picture went viral, and by the time Liam realized what was going on, there was a story posted on the Scandals Magazine website featuring side-by-side photos of Troy with the Dallas Cowboy cheerleader recruits, tight clothes and short shorts and big smiles, and one of a very lonely and very pregnant Dalynn.

  This had Spencer Hightower written all over it.

  Scandals Magazine my ass.

  Public opinion could be swayed so easily. Once they got used to pictures of Troy with sexy ladies, it wouldn’t be too far of a jump to conclude that his claim of virginity was a giant pile of horseshit. And once he lost the public, he lost the soup commercials and the peanut butter campaign.

  “Jared!!!” He yelled out the door of his office. “Hold my calls.”

  “But you have the New York Jets scout and a guy from Wheaties on hold.”

  He can’t lose the cereal box.

  “Take their numbers,” he growled, and slammed the door.

  Liam sat at his computer and stared at the website. It was almost as if he could distinctly hear the “tick tick tick” of a bomb, somewhere in the distance. Ready to blow. Any…second…now…

  His cell phone sat on his desk, mocking him. She wasn’t going to call. Dammit, she’d make him call her. A begrudging respect rose in him. He’d do the same in her shoes.

  Liam dialed Spencer’s number with one click. “Spencer Hightower,” came the cool voice on the other end of the line.

  “That was some bullshit,” was the growl in response.

  “Hello Liam,” Spencer greeted him with a perkiness she must have borrowed from those cheerleaders she’d rounded up. “Long time no chat.”