by J. Kenner
The issue was whether she could do it, and the answer was yes. It had to be yes. Because she'd done it before. This was Spencer, after all. How many times had she given herself to him? Abandoned herself to his whims, his desire. Surrendered totally to his touch and his pleasure?
Too many times to count, and never once had he gone too far or pushed too hard.
But that was before.
Before she walked away.
Before Brian.
Before the thought of relinquishing control made her want to curl up into a small ball and hide.
She hadn't stayed cloistered these last five years, but she hadn't had a real relationship either. She didn't trust enough to open herself to that kind of intimacy. And as for pure sex--well, if a guy crossed the line, she ended it. She was the one in control. Always. Any shift in that dynamic, and she walked.
That was what control was all about, right?
Andrea, her therapist, had told her that there was nothing wrong with clinging tight to control early on if it eased the nightmares and the anxiety. And it had. After about a year, she'd felt mostly like herself again. The nightmares had faded, and she didn't end up in the bathroom having a panic attack every time she went to dinner or drinks with a guy.
But surrendering to a man in bed? Andrea might have urged her to begin opening herself up little by little, but that was an intimacy that she still wasn't prepared to give.
For a moment, she considered calling Andrea and getting her scoop on this whole mess. But the therapist had left Austin almost two years ago to take a position in Baltimore. She'd offered Brooke a referral, but Brooke had declined, assuring the older woman that she was feeling centered and whole again.
She'd meant it at the time. Now, though...
Now, she guessed that she'd have to rely on the Andrea that lived in her head.
The sharp ring of her doorbell saved her from getting lost in either her memories or her fears. "Coming!" she called as she hurried that way, wondering who the hell it could be at one o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon.
She pulled open the door, leaving the screen door latched, then froze. Her father.
"Daddy."
"Brooke." He didn't ask to come in, simply stood there as if it was his right. As if there was no question that she would let him in.
She unlatched the door and opened it for him.
She didn't see a lot of her parents, not in the last five years, anyway. But she also hadn't cut them off. As far as she knew, her mother had played no part in her dad's bid to end her wedding. And as for her father--well, he may have presented her with an impossible decision, but she'd been the one who made her choice. And while he hadn't been happy when she quit medical school, he had ultimately agreed that it was her life.
She'd accepted his grudging acquiescence, but they weren't close. And she knew they never would be again.
"The place looks good," he said as he strode past her into the living room. She cringed at the surprise in his voice but told herself to let it go.
"This is what I do, Daddy." So much for letting it go. "Did you think I was buying the place because it was cheap? Call me crazy, but I like floors and ceilings." The small house in the popular Austin neighborhood had been abandoned for years following an estate dispute. It had fallen into serious disrepair, but the bones were solid. And when Amanda had shown it to her, Brooke had fallen in love.
At the time, her remodeling company was still taking off, so she'd had plenty of free time to put into the place. She'd remodeled the detached office first, then used it for meetings with potential clients, giving them a taste of what she and her crew were capable of. And every client who met her at the house had signed on the dotted line.
No doubt about it--she and the little house were good for each other.
Where she saw success and opportunity, though, her father saw lost dreams. "It's rather small," he said, looking around, and she knew that he was seeing the eight-bedroom Westlake mansion where he lived with her mother. A mansion bought with dollars earned from the law and a medical practice.
"It's plenty big for me, Daddy. Why are you here?" That came out rougher than she'd intended, but honestly, the man showed up unannounced on her doorstep and immediately began criticizing her house?
He fixed a sharp eye on her. The kind she'd seen him use from the bench to quell obnoxious attorneys or uncooperative witnesses.
"I don't mean to be rude," she hurried to say, even as she wanted to kick her own ass. "It's only that I have a meeting downtown in a few hours. I need to shower and change and--"
"Which is why I'm here."
Since he couldn't possibly mean the shower, she assumed he meant the meeting. She didn't question how he knew about it. Somehow, someway, her father knew about everything that went on within the Austin area.
She waited. There was no point in asking him what he meant. He'd come to her, and she knew damn well he wouldn't leave until saying his piece.
"I don't want you doing that show."
"Color me shocked."
"Don't be impertinent, young lady. You dodged a bullet when you left that hoodlum."
"Left him?"
"That is not a world you need to get drawn back into. He's knee deep in fraud allegations and tax evasion charges. I don't know the details yet, but I wouldn't be at all surprised if it ties into money laundering and a RICO conspiracy. Undoubtedly something the Crimson Eights are behind. Trust me, baby girl. Blood will tell. And that boy's blood is not something you want your name associated with. And you know damn well that if you do this show, the two of you will be splashed all over social media. Your past, Brooke. And your present. You do not want or need to be in with that boy like that."
Her throat tightened, not with concern about herself, but with fear for Spencer. She knew damn well he'd made some mistakes in his past, but he wasn't the kind of man who'd cheat on his taxes or launder money. And he sure as hell wouldn't get back in with a gang he'd spent the better part of his life avoiding.
Then again, you'd never have expected him to condition the show on sex. People change.
Maybe they did, but she didn't want to believe it.
Fuck.
"How do you know all of this? Those are federal claims, and you're a state court judge."
"Do you think I don't keep my ear to the ground? Especially where the man my daughter once ran around with is concerned?"
Ran around with.
Not loved. Not almost married.
It was as if her actions had never counted at all.
And maybe they hadn't. Maybe for years she'd been at the receiving end of bullshit.
Well, that ended today.
Spencer wanted to put some asinine condition on doing the show with her, then that was peachy-keen-okay by her. Because she had the power to walk away. But she was sticking because she wanted to. Not because he was forcing her, but because she'd weighed her options and balanced the scale.
This time she was making the choice. Spencer wasn't ripping control out of her hands the way Brian had. The way her father had over and over and over.
No, this time, Brooke was giving it to him. Handing him control so that she could get what she wanted. A calculated, reasoned, cold-blooded trade.
Which meant she wasn't surrendering it at all. She was the one manipulating the situation.
She was the white-hot goddess tugging on the strings that controlled the world.
And no one--not her father, not some dickless asshole with a stash of GHB, and not even Spencer--could take that from her. No matter how hard he fucking tried.
With a smile, she tilted her head up to meet her father's eyes. "Thanks for popping by, Daddy. But now I think you need to go."
Chapter Eight
At a quarter to eleven, Spencer sat in the empty bar of The Driskill Hotel drinking a Scotch. He didn't usually drink before lunch, but he considered today a special occasion. The network meeting was in fifteen minutes, and Spencer still hadn't decided if
he wanted Brooke to agree to his terms or to slap his face and run the other direction.
Honestly, it was a toss-up. And the Scotch wasn't helping.
For years, he'd been telling himself that he never wanted to see her again. Trying so damn hard to erase her from his thoughts.
And yet she'd lingered. He'd never managed to shut her out, and he'd spent the last five years comparing every other woman he dated to her.
With the exception that none of the women had left him at the altar, they'd all come up short by comparison.
Then again, he hadn't asked any of them to marry him either. Once bitten, twice shy, after all.
Not that any of the Hollywood women who'd latched onto him would want him permanently. In their beds or on their arms, he was an interesting bauble to flaunt at the various network events and parties that had been command performances over the years. But he wasn't so naive as to think that any of those women would want something permanent with a guy like him. A guy who, at the end of the day, was a construction worker from a shithole neighborhood with a juvie record, gang connections, and a brother who'd narrowly escaped death row.
Yeah, he was one hell of a fucking awesome catch.
Once upon a time, he'd actually believed Brooke's bullshit. That she wanted him. That she believed in him. That she saw all the work he'd put into making something of himself.
He'd thought she was his muse, and he'd known she'd be his wife. But on both counts, it had turned out to all be bullshit.
So, no. He wasn't a fucking awesome catch.
He was a fucking naive asshole.
Brooke had been playing a game with him. A bitter duel, but he'd been too blind to see when she pulled the trigger. And her bullet penetrated straight through his heart.
Yeah, she'd fucked him over, and good.
But now it was his turn.
He closed his eyes, remembering the heat of her when he'd cornered her at The Fix. He'd barely touched her and yet he'd felt her. The electricity of her. That vibrancy that he'd always associated with Brooke, like something restrained that longed to be set free.
Once upon a time, she'd let herself go in his bed. Had given in to that wildness that lived, untamed, inside her. And as much as she'd hurt him, he couldn't deny that it rankled to think that over the years she'd given herself like that to some other man. That another guy had felt the pulse of energy from the woman he'd once claimed as his.
Fuck.
That was exactly the kind of thinking he didn't need. Because, dammit, he didn't need her. Didn't want her. Not anymore. Not after she'd so callously walked away.
What he wanted was revenge. And the perfect plan had been laid in his lap.
He should be counting his blessings. After all, not many men had the chance to claim their life back, not to mention their balls.
It had been such a sweet moment. Her, trapped in his arms in that dark corner of the bar. Him, holding all fifty-two of the goddamn cards.
Terms he'd told her. He'd do the show, but only on his terms.
She'd managed to keep her expression blank; he'd give her credit for that. But he'd seen her swallow, and he'd reveled in that tiny show of fear. Then she'd asked that one, inevitable question: What exactly do you want?
He'd told her--you--and for just an instant he saw a light in her eyes. A light that looked remarkably like hope.
But then he'd showed his cards--I want you at my mercy--and he saw the light fade.
And for that one moment, he'd felt like the world's biggest heel.
That was okay, though, he thought as he stood and headed to the meeting.
He'd get over it.
"I have to say that I'm very pleased you decided to accept our proposal and do the show." Molly, tall and Hollywood thin, flashed a smile that seemed a little too earnest. "I was always such a fan, and I hated the thought of you wasting all the goodwill you'd built up with your audience."
"Yeah," Spencer deadpanned. "I imagine that kept you up at night."
The truth was, Spencer did feel a twinge or two of guilt for walking away from the show. The fans--most of them at least--were legitimately interested in remodeling old houses. He'd received emails from all over the country asking his advice on varnish, paint colors, materials, and appliance selection. It was only when he was visiting LA that the whole thing seemed like a farce. There, the fans weren't fans at all. They were celebrity chasers. Women who wanted a piece of him, not a piece of advice.
Molly, who really wasn't an idiot, shot him the kind of look that suggested she'd read his thoughts exactly. To her credit, though, she didn't pursue the point. Instead, she passed him a folder with his contract, already vetted by Gregory. And now waiting for his signature and Brooke's as soon as she showed up.
Except Brooke was late.
Frowning, he glanced at his watch. Fifteen past eleven. Then he pulled his phone out of his pocket.
The same.
Interesting.
The suite included a small conference room, where Molly, Andy, and Spencer were seated. Now Molly stood up, then crossed to the window, looking down as if to track Brooke's progress.
"You may be out of luck," Spencer said. "I can't imagine having me as part of the mix was appealing to her."
"I think having a show was appealing to her," Andy said, pushing John Lennon glasses up his nose.
Spencer shrugged, then glanced at his watch again. Another ten minutes, and he'd call it done, then consider himself lucky.
Except right then he didn't feel lucky. On the contrary, he felt hollow. Disappointed.
Frustrated, he pushed back from the table, then crossed to the window to stand beside Molly.
"She's probably stuck in traffic."
"You better hope so," Spencer said. "Because I'm sure as hell not doing this show alone. And it's looking more and more to me like I dodged a bullet."
He said the words with bravado even as he fought down a small knot of worry. Why the hell wasn't she here? Was it really traffic? Surely she hadn't been in an accident?
He did a mental eye roll. Christ, it was Austin. The city with traffic that rivaled Los Angeles, primarily because of all the damn Californians who kept moving to the city. Five minutes was nothing. She was probably stuck in construction on Mopac, one of the city's north-south freeways.
Which begged the question of why she'd be on that freeway at all, since she could get from her Travis Heights house to downtown on surface streets without getting anywhere near a freeway.
He had, of course, looked up where she lived. Just in case the information proved useful.
No, he wasn't worried that she was injured. He was afraid that he was about to lose a prime opportunity. She'd dropped a perfect scenario for revenge in his lap, and it would be one hell of a damn shame if he didn't get to enjoy yanking her chain.
That's all it was.
At least that's what he told himself. Because God knew he didn't want to do this show--hell, any show. And this wasn't about the chance to touch her again, no matter how much his body might tighten in response to the thought of having her in front of him, her eyes bright as she looked at him with longing, her lips parted with pleasure. And that low, sensual buzz that ran through him at the knowledge that she wanted him. Him.
He swallowed, his skin a little too warm and his jeans a little too tight.
Except she didn't want him. Never had. Not really.
And that's why this wasn't about romantic bullshit. This was about retribution. Revenge. It was about making her feel so damn good she wanted to scream, and then clearing the fuck out.
He needed to remember that. He needed to keep that at the forefront of his mind.
"Fuck," he said, turning away from the window. "Where the hell is she?"
"I'm here," Brooke said, stepping over the threshold and into the room, her business suit perfectly pressed and her chin held high. "Let's get to work."
Chapter Nine
Brooke barely looked at Spencer as Molly and
Andy took them through the terms of the contract one more time, then had them both sign on the dotted line.
"This is going to be wonderful," Molly said. "Brooke, you'll let the folks at The Fix know that everything's in place?"
Brooke nodded. "I'm having lunch with Jenna Montgomery. I'll tell her. And I'll ask Tyree about having a small film crew there tonight for the first calendar contest."
"Just handhelds," Andy reminded her. "Totally unobtrusive. For that matter, tell him that when the remodel starts, we'll still be unobtrusive. This crew's worked several reality shows. They know how to blend."
Brooke nodded. The network wanted the Man of the Month calendar contest to be going on in the background of the show. That made sense, but considering the late start in getting the show off the ground, there was no way to include the contest for Mr. January during the renovations. So the crew was going to shoot footage now, and the editors would work it into the show. They didn't need much for the January contest, but at the very least they wanted shots of the contestants on the stage and the winning guy strutting his stuff.
And while they might not need Brooke for that, she fully intended to be there. Spencer, she assumed, would pass. He was a reluctant participant as it was. She figured she'd see him tomorrow at breakfast--their first official meeting.
And then, presumably, he'd want her to make good on his demand. Or condition. Or promise.
Or whatever the hell you wanted to call it.
Not that he'd said anything about that yet, but that wasn't surprising. He could hardly stop the meeting, point to Brooke, and tell her to be naked in his bedroom that night at midnight. Andy and Molly might not understand.
Dear God, she really needed to get out of her head.
The truth was, he might be planning on catching her after this meeting for that very thing. Which was why she pointedly glanced at her watch, then stood up with an announcement that she was late for lunch, and that since they all wanted to stay on the good side of everyone at The Fix, she really should run.
Then she bolted.
The coward's way out, perhaps, but she'd take it.
She met Jenna in the bar, then grinned like an idiot at Jenna's gleeful response to the news that everything was signed and ready to go. "And all I had to do was sell my soul."