“I hate to ask you this, but if we have to, especially because of Mr. Duncan’s… ah… assertions regarding his… ah… sexual experience… we’re going to need more proof that Mr. Duncan is the father of your baby. Do you have anything that will help us make that case?”
For the first time in the meeting, Bibby smiled and pulled out a plain manila folder from her large brown leather brief case. “I think you’ll find these persuasive even if they’re not admissible in court.”
Spencer took the file and handed it to Rainey. “Thank you, Bibby.” She turned her chair towards Dalynn at the end of the table. “I’m sure Bibby explained that we will not be acting as your attorneys. If this goes into court, she will represent you, which is good because Bibby is very, very good at what she does. But you are also my client. I represent you, your interests, and your baby’s. And we are very, very good at what we do and have an excellent track record of getting our clients what they want.”
“Sorry,” Dalynn interrupted. “But I don’t understand why I need both of you. If Bibby’s my lawyer, why can’t she call Troy?”
“She could,” Spencer allowed. “But sometimes, highly sensitive cases need an extra person. A person who can handle press and publicity, and that’s more of a go-between. If Bibby calls Troy, they’ll immediately call a lawyer. There are rules about that. But if I call, we can be a little more informal. I can do things lawyers can’t. I can say things your lawyer can’t. And then Bibby will step in when we need to start legal action.”
“Will we have to do that?” Dalynn’s eyes widened as she glanced back and forth between Spencer and Bibby.
“No,” Spencer said.
“Maybe,” Bibby said.
The conflicting responses made Dalynn skeptical. “Bibby told me you never lose.”
Before Spencer could respond, Nora jumped in. “She doesn’t.”
“We don’t,” Rainey added.
“We don’t stop until we get you want you want,” Nora said.
Dalynn sighed. “You don’t know how good it is to hear that.” Tears welled in her big, brown eyes. “I’ve been so worried, you know? About the baby, and how I’m going to provide, and Troy…” She faltered, her voice wavering at the name of her ex. “He stopped answering my texts.”
Spencer reached out and took Dalynn’s hand across the table as she continued. “I just want Troy to admit he’s the daddy. And then I want enough money for me and the baby to live on. And a college fund. I’ve watched TV. I don’t think that’s asking too much. I know I’m asking for money, but it’s more than that, you know?”
Spencer patted Dalynn’s hand. They weren’t unreasonable requests. In fact, it was rather tame in her experience. Spencer understood Dalynn’s determination and love for her child and was reminded again why she fought so hard for her clients.
A second chance.
She’d been there, and had had to fight for hers. Now it was her mission to help her clients find the same.
Spencer, Nora, and Rainey escorted Dalynn and Bibby to the elevators and instructed an assistant to accompany Dalynn to the Crescent Hotel, where she could stay, close by and contained.
Once they were alone, Spencer, Nora, and Rainey shared the same, satisfied grin.
“Shit,” Nora said. “Troy Duncan.”
Rainey was gleeful. “We got ourselves a virgin birth, ladies.”
Back in the conference room, the three moved into crisis management mode. Nora opened her laptop. Spencer paced the front of the room, mind racing. Rainey flipped the manila folder of evidence open. “What have we got here…texts, pics, DAMN…”
Nora and Spencer combed through the open folder. “God, I love football players.” Nora fanned the back of her neck. Even Spencer had to raise her eyebrows in appreciation at a twenty-one year old college football player’s nude selfie.
“Born-again Christian, college football hero, Heisman finalist, first round draft pick…” Spencer ticked off the list of Troy Duncan’s attributes.
“Avowed virgin,” Rainey added.
“Well-endowed virgin.” Nora had to point out the obvious.
Spencer let a satisfied smile emerge. “There’s no way he wants this out. Looks like we’re getting a paternity test.” Spencer clapped her hands together and rubbed. “All right, let’s get someone over to Dallas State. We need info on Troy Duncan’s friends, roommates, teammates, hookups, classes, grades, what he ate and drank…”
Nora had whipped out her phone and was already calling the firm’s preferred private investigator. “All the bones. Where they’re buried. Got it.”
“Troy Duncan is going through the NFL Draft in a few weeks. We need a career prospectus.”
“I hate football,” Rainey said, looking as though Spencer had suggested a diet of raw crickets and used motor oil.
“Who do we know?” Spencer snapped her fingers. “Jess English. Columnist for one of the big boys. I’ll call her, get the 411 on what Troy Duncan’s looking at in the Draft. And he’s got people,” Spencer continued, picking up the file that Bibby had left. “After we get the scoop, call them and get a face to face. We’ll lay out the situation and ask nicely. Sometimes that works,” she mused.
Rainey chuckled in anticipation as she got Bibby’s file out and copied the number of the OPM Sports Agency.
…
In the privacy of her office, Spencer tried getting herself together. She didn’t gaze listlessly out a window and wonder where a handsome prince was this morning. She didn’t get distracted by the memory of a mystery man with blue eyes that calmed her soul.
She was Spencer Hightower, of Hightower & Associates, the best crisis management firm west of the Mississippi. Strategically using public relations and private arm-twisting to help the powerful and the famous navigate scandals, turmoil, and disasters, both personal and professional. She devoted herself to making bad things go away, erasing the past and changing public perceptions. She didn’t wallow. Or moon. Or doubt. She didn’t have time for complications or second-guessing.
Yet here she was, five minutes after a meeting with a new client, replaying “the Dimitri incident” in her head.
Over and over.
She hadn’t done anything wrong the night before. And cleaning up “the Dimitri incident” was something she’d done hundreds of times. Contain, control, contact. The three “Cs” of crisis management had all been taken care of. Before she’d gone to bed last night, she had handled the last contact. A quick call to Dimitri’s phone with a polite but firm, “Don’t call me, I’ll call you.” She had no doubt he’d received the message. It was handled. Done.
So why was she still thinking about it?
It was the loose ends, she told herself. The girl. The coke. The billionaire with a hair trigger. And the biggest loose end? The mystery man who handled a tricky situation almost as well as she had.
At lunchtime, Rainey came in to Spencer’s office and settled herself into a chair, tucking her feet under her before taking out her lunch.
Nora followed, bringing in salads for her and Spencer. She cast a dubious look at Rainey’s container of nuts and dried fruit. “So how did your date with Marcus go last night?” Nora asked Rainey.
“It wasn’t a date. Dates are a leftover remnant of 1950’s misogyny.”
Nora sighed. “You go out with this guy. You eat dinner, whatever it is that vegans eat, you see movies, you have sex. That’s a date. You date.”
“That’s two adults socializing,” Rainey argued. “It went fine.” She popped an almond in her mouth. “What about you?” She turned her attention to Spencer. “How’d the date with the Bolshevik prince go?”
“She didn’t go home with him,” Nora answered. “I drove her home.” Both Rainey and Nora waited patiently for Spencer to chime in.
Spencer took her time thinking through her answer. “Dimitri and I won’t be seeing each other again.”
Nora made a sad face. Rainey was thoughtful as she carefully selected another almond
.
“He wasn’t your type,” Rainey concluded.
“Of course he was.” Nora dismissed Rainey’s words. “Spencer doesn’t even let them pick her up if she hasn’t run them through Google and a credit check.”
“I don’t do that,” Spencer protested. She just Googled them. Credit checks didn’t tell her anything pertinent.
“It’s a figure of speech,” Nora asserted.
“No, it’s not,” Rainey drawled.
“Well, on paper it looked perfect.” Nora nodded in support to Spencer. “Which is what you have to do. You have to list out all the things you want in a husband. Then the universe will hear you and send Mr. Right your way. I saw it on the Oprah Network.”
“There’s no Mr. Right.” Rainey crossed her arms and shook her head. “How many times do I have to tell you…”
“Blah blah… evolution, sociology blah blah…” Nora made a little clapping gesture with her fingers.
“Humans aren’t made for monogamy, let alone a single person who’s going to satisfy every relationship criteria…” Rainey continued.
Nora kept moving her fingers like a little duck beak quacking. “So how come you haven’t found Mr. Right?” Rainey asked, challenging Nora. “Or Spencer? No one makes lists like you two.”
Spencer held her hands up to support her innocence. “I don’t write lists.”
“You do,” Rainey accused. “You even wrote a list with the pros and cons of breaking up with Thomas.”
“That’s different,” Spencer defended. “That was a spreadsheet with a detached and detailed assessment of potential outcomes. Not potential characteristics, like Ms. Universe over here.” Okay, maybe that sounded a little crazy when she put it like that. But a girl had to be organized.
“Spreadsheet. Right.” Rainey gave Nora a pointed stare. “So why haven’t you found Mr. Right again?”
Nora squeezed her lips together, in a coy pout. “Maybe I have. Maybe I’m just waiting for him to realize that we’re perfect together.”
“Uh huh.” Rainey said, clearly having had her fill of the conversation.
“Why did you say Dimitri wasn’t my type?” Spencer asked her not-dating, non-list making friend.
Rainey paused in her chewing. “I don’t know,” she answered after finishing her piece of dried fruit. “Like Nora said, he was perfect for you on paper.”
“You have a type,” Nora interrupted.
“The type with tire marks on their backs,” Rainey added. Spencer looked quizzically at Rainey while Nora giggled.
“’Cause you run them over,” Nora offered.
“Beat them down,” Rainey said.
This was getting ridiculous. Spencer started to protest, “I don’t think—”
“—It’s not a bad thing,” Rainey cut her off. “Never apologize for being a strong, independent female who doesn’t want to put up with romantic bullshit.”
“Girl power,” Nora said, making a small fist and punching the air. “Just the guys you date can’t handle you making all the decisions, and working 24/7, and you being you.”
“Is that what happened with Dimitri last night?” Rainey asked in an even, clinical tone. “Did he get run over?”
“Something like that.” Spencer picked up her silver pen on her desk, reliving exactly how Dimitri had been run over—by a big blond guy’s fist.
“But you vetted him so thoroughly,” Nora said.
“Maybe that’s it.” Rainey nodded. “Stop vetting them. Go with your gut, not the playbook.”
Spencer raised an eyebrow. “And just see…anyone?” The suggestion was absurd.
“She’s not a slut, Rainey.”
Rainey sighed at Nora’s assumption. “Anyone who you like. You have strong intuition. Your subconscious will guide you. Take a chance. See what happens.”
The thought of letting down her guard, not taking precautions and just trusting that little voice inside her head sounded nice, but it also sounded dangerous. When she wasn’t in control, bad things happened.
She got hurt.
Spencer was toying with her chicken breast and spinach salad when fingers were snapped in front of her face.
“Spencer,” Nora repeated the name as she snapped her fingers for a second time.
“That’s rude,” Rainey said.
“She’s not paying attention again.”
Spencer’s head jerked up. “Yes I am.”
“No you’re not,” Nora said. “I was just talking about he-who-must-not-be-named and you didn’t even flinch.”
“I don’t flinch.” Spencer stabbed a piece of chicken like it had done something to tick her off. “And what did he want?”
“Doctor Evil wanted an update on the benefit.” Nora used a voice of impending doom to give that message.
Spencer grimaced. “I’ll call him when we’re done with the to-do’s.”
Nora nodded and checked off the last thing on her list. “Okay, that’s all the to-do’s for today.”
“And the week,” Rainey added.
Spencer looked up in confusion. “What?”
“That got her attention,” Nora chuckled under her breath.
“You’re done. You’re taking some time off.” Rainey straightened a stack of papers and print-outs on Spencer’s desk.
“I don’t do time off,” Spencer said, lifting her chin. “I’m just tired today. The benefit was…”
“Last night,” Rainey interrupted. She bundled several spreadsheets under her arm. “We’re actually at a very manageable client load right now. Nora and I can handle everything for a few days, while you take a break.”
“I don’t need a break.” Spencer sat straighter in her chair.
They were tough women who cared, and she loved them for it.
“I’m a doctor, and I say you need a break.” Rainey crossed her arms, clearly having made up her mind.
“You have a PhD,” Spencer pointed out mulishly.
Rainey stuck to her guns. “Doctor’s orders.”
“I don’t do breaks,” Spencer muttered.
Nora pushed Spencer’s cell phone across the desk. “Why don’t you call Doctor Evil back. You might decide differently after you deal with him.”
…
Spencer steeled herself for the conversation.
“Clayton.”
“George,” she responded when her father’s chief of staff answered the phone.
“Hello, Spencer.”
As always, she had the feeling her words were being checked off a very long, very formal checklist. Printed on vellum. In red, white, and blue embossed calligraphy. “I’m calling for an update on the Hightower Hospital Benefit.”
George’s formality rubbed her raw, even though she’d known him for sixteen years, since he first volunteered for her father’s Presidential campaign and subsequently served as the Senator’s right hand man. And in the years since, Spencer had learned almost everything she knew from him.
“All went as expected,” Spencer answered, knowing her brevity would frustrate him.
“Excellent. So the function raised how much?”
Spencer named the number.
“That’s fifteen percent lower than last year.”
Either George was an undiscovered math genius or…
“If you had the numbers already, why did you call me?” Spencer asked, trying to keep the bite of annoyance out of her voice.
“It’s my job,” was George’s clipped reply.
“Next year, you can be the honorary chair.” Spencer knew she sounded petulant. But, honestly, she didn’t need a babysitter.
“If you need help, you only need to ask.” George spoke the right words, but Spencer understood the deeper meaning. That she couldn’t do the job. She couldn’t represent the family.
“Bless your heart, George.” Spencer switched on her ultimate weapon, southern charm. “I don’t know what we Hightowers would do without you to take care of us.”
George could never resist wh
en she sounded sweet, so he moved on. “Any other incidents of note I should be aware of? Conversations? Issues?”
Spencer decided to throw him a bone. “Mrs. Betty Phillips had to be moved. She was a table too close to the current Mrs. Phillips. Other than that, everything went smoothly.” Her hand subconsciously went to her cheekbone, where a dark shadow lay under her makeup.
“Great.” George’s voice was flat in contrast to the word. “Okay, let me know if anything else comes up.”
“Of course, sugar.” Spencer laid it on thick. “See you soon. Say hi to Daddy for me.”
“Yes, ma’am. Goodbye, Spencer.” George’s tone let her know he wasn’t warming to her charm anytime soon.
Spencer took a steadying breath after hanging up and leaned her head back into her chair, the frustration of the past twenty-four hours welling up inside her. Talking to George was almost as bad as a conversation with the Senator himself. It had been years since she’d needed explicit approval for her decisions, but the implicit insinuation was always there to put the family name first, to overcome all obstacles, to win everything.
She knew what George would say–what her father would say–if they knew about the loose ends from the night before. It made her neck tense just to think about it. Her phone buzzed with a reminder, and Spencer reached for it, without thinking, like someone would reach for a cigarette, or a Valium. Maybe Nora and Rainey had been right; maybe she did need a break. Just a weekend, to get her head straight. What was the worst that could happen?
Chapter Three
For nearly one hundred years, the Buchanan Ranch had stretched over a wide swath of rolling prairies south of Fort Worth. Hundreds of acres of rangeland surrounded the homestead, originally a three-room clapboard house, now a sprawling, luxurious home clad in limestone and featuring the most modern of conveniences.
Except cell service.
Spencer swore again at the useless piece of plastic in her hand. She’d phoned her childhood friend JT Buchanan when she left Dallas to let him know she’d attend his birthday weekend. She hugged Anita, the house manager, when she arrived and was led straight to the room she’d stayed in so many times before.
Know When to Hold Him Page 2
