Spencer moved both hands to her lap and steadied herself. “Have you told mother?”
“Your mother supports me, one hundred percent.”
It wasn’t an answer to her question. But still the effect was the same. Jeannie Hightower wasn’t a concern. How many times had Spencer heard someone say, Don’t worry about Jeannie. Her whole life. “You said…” Spencer corrected herself. “You promised that you would never make another run for the White House without the whole family agreeing…”
Hayes made a dismissive motion. “You were twelve. Savannah was still in diapers. Of course I wasn’t going to consult you about my career.”
She couldn’t let that one go. “Savannah was seven, not in diapers. But we’re adults now, all of us: Lee, Savannah, and me. A national campaign affects us, it nearly destroyed this family…”
“Exactly.” Hayes cut her off with a short, quick bark. “You’re adults now. You can handle the big bad world. You don’t need to be coddled and wrapped in cotton balls. You know what this is going to require, and we all are going to do our part. Even if it means our individual goals are put aside.”
Spencer clenched the white linen napkin in her lap, twisting it, wishing the damn thing would just tear.
“Anyway, even if you didn’t put the Troy Duncan situation to bed, it would be a nightmare if it ever came out that you were the one who brought such a promising career down. Really embarrassing. George found out about this in two minutes. Imagine what the opposition research could do.”
Spencer stopped strangling the defenseless, innocent napkin and placed it on the table next to her plate where a half-eaten chicken salad sandwich lay, green lettuce getting soggier by the minute. With the weight of the world landing on her shoulders, it should have been harder for Spencer to stand, but she did so with surprising grace, with an ease born of years of practice and self-control around her father.
“I have an appointment.” The lie came too easy. It was an excuse her father wouldn’t question.
“Good of you to come. Thank you for handling this with your usual discretion.”
Spencer managed a smile before she left the room. Of course she did. Things always appeared fine in the Hightower family. They never fought. And they always won.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Spencer stopped in the doorway of the exclusive salon in Highland Park Village and surveyed the space. Phil sat in a nearby chair, holding a People magazine. She caught his attention. He sent a pointed glare at someone in a stylist’s chair.
Spencer followed his nod and recognized Dalynn, her head full of white goop and foil. Then she saw what—or who—Phil had called her about on her way home from the Hightower residence. Spencer nodded and went to speak with a manager.
In a few moments, a young hairstylist in five-inch black stilettos decorated with silver spikes ushered the gentleman sitting next to Dalynn to the back room.
Spencer counted to ten then followed.
A man’s head leaned back in a sink, water rinsed through his hair. His eyes closed, and it appeared like he didn’t have a care in the world. The salon’s employees had cleared out and he and Spencer were alone. And, unfortunately for him, Spencer had just received orders from Hayes Hightower. That always made her a little twitchy.
Spencer approached the shampoo chair and with a quick twist of the faucet, blasted the water to ice cold. The man’s eyes shot open, and he gaped at Spencer standing over him, brandishing a curling iron. He looked back at her then at the curling iron. He relaxed his head a little, and recognition appeared on his face. Spencer allowed herself a small smile. Good. He knows who he’s dealing with.
“Give me your phone,” she ordered. After another wary glance at the curling iron, he reached into the chest pocket of his shirt and withdrew the device. Spencer wrenched it from his hand and, with a quick thumb, she scrolled and found it. Ruthlessly, she deleted the voice recording of Dalynn spilling her life story. She started to hand it back but something even better occurred to her. Another sharp tap on the screen and she discovered exactly what she expected. Recent calls from George Clayton.
Spencer held the phone to her ear and heard the recognizable deep voice answer. “Don’t. Mess. With. Me.” She threatened with her words and eyes, and the man in the chair shrunk back into the flow of freezing water from the faucet. “Don’t mess with my clients. Or it’s war,” she vowed, before ending the call and handing the phone back to the man.
As if on cue, a stylist hustled to him and wrapped a towel around his shoulders, in order to soak up the chilled water streaming from his head. “Cold water closes the hair cuticles. Makes the hair shiny,” she called after him.
The man huffed, semi-amused and semi-frigid, she presumed. When he stomped past her, she studied the curling iron’s loose black cord pooled on the ground. It hadn’t even been plugged in. Men were such babies around electric beauty tools.
As instructed, Phil, the firm runner, escorted Dalynn to the offices of Hightower & Associates after her hair was done. Spencer was waiting for her in the conference room. Once Dalynn’s new auburn highlights had been complimented and an ice cold Coke poured, Spencer got down to business.
“I thought we went over this, after the last tabloid reporter, Dalynn. Talking to strangers is a bad idea. You don’t know who they are or who they’re going to sell that story to. That man recorded your entire conversation.”
Dalynn’s face was a mixture of confusion and defiance. “He was just a guy sitting next to me! How was I supposed to know he was a reporter?”
Spencer didn’t correct Dalynn’s misunderstanding. Explaining why George Clayton had sent a minion to get information about her would take hours and terrify her in the process.
“Because I told you. Do not talk. To anyone. This is your story, Dalynn. I don’t want anyone taking it from you. I don’t want anyone telling it for you.”
“When do I get to tell it, then?” Dalynn asked, her voice rising, her hands smoothing over her belly. “I’ve been waiting, stuck in that hotel room, waiting for Troy to get his head out of his butt and accept some responsibility! I’m tired of it. I’m tired of sitting around while Troy has all the say and no one listens to me.”
Spencer empathized with the girl. She couldn’t imagine being pregnant, alone, and forced to keep silent. The last would be hard enough. “This is hard. I know, Dalynn.” A knot twisted in Spencer’s stomach. “I know,” she repeated. “It’s infuriating, to be told to shut up and smile. To be told that if you open your mouth, you’re only going to make it worse.”
Tears sprang to Spencer’s eyes. No one understood Dalynn’s frustration better than she did. “I wish I could tell you how to do this differently. I do. But that is not how the game is played. And it is a game. There are playbooks, referees, and clocks.” Spencer grabbed Dalynn’s hand. “And the clock is running out. Okay?”
Dalynn nodded and sniffed.
Spencer handed her the box of tissues from the table. “I told you there was an ultimatum.”
“The Draft.”
“Yes, the NFL Draft. Three days from now, you’re either going to have a paternity test in your hand or a news camera in your face. I promise you.”
Dalynn blew her nose. “I don’t know about the news cameras,” she whimpered.
Spencer understood. “That’s why I’ve been trying to avoid them. And not because I don’t want you to tell your story, or because I don’t think you can do it. I know you can. It’s because…” Spencer paused for a beat. “Reporters suck.”
That made Dalynn laugh, as Spencer had intended. “I can’t believe that reporter followed me into a salon!” Dalynn shook her head. “I should have known he didn’t want highlights.”
Spencer just patted Dalynn’s hand, never mentioning who the man in the salon really worked for. It was nothing she needed to worry about. Spencer would take care of it.
…
“Phil’s taking you to the airport?” Rainey asked, sitting in Spence
r’s office, her feet tucked under her.
“Mm-hmm.” Spencer selected the print button on her computer and, a second later, the familiar whirr of the printer started.
“And this is a last ditch attempt to get a paternity test? And not because Kenny Rogers is going to be there?”
Spencer paused at the printer as she struggled to keep her voice nonchalant. “Kenny Rogers is Troy Duncan’s agent. Of course he’s going to be there.”
“You think you can change their minds?”
“I think I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.” Spencer hoped she sounded reasonable.
“Up your sleeve or up your skirt?”
Spencer’s stare would have frozen the mythological fried egg on the sidewalk in July. Rainey was unapologetic.
“Just checking,” she said.
“We haven’t.” Spencer trailed off. “You know…”
Rainey raised her brows. “At all?”
“Well, a little,” Spencer conceded. “I tried, but…”
Rainey looked alarmed. “Tried? Oh, God, what happened? He couldn’t?”
“No!” Spencer held up both hands, palms out. “Believe me, he could. But he said no.”
“He said no?” Rainey was incredulous.
Spencer sank back into her desk chair and covered her eyes with her hands. “Last night. Oh, Rainey, it was…” Confusing. Embarrassing. Complicated. “Horrible.”
“Did he say why?” Rainey allowed her psychologist tone to sneak in. Spencer was fine with it. She felt crazy when she thought about Liam. Might as well get a professional’s opinion. So she told Rainey the whole humiliating story. The date that wasn’t with the old fogeys and the imposing father and the virgin client. And the coming back and the kissing and, then, the big, fat ‘No.’
“Who does that?” Spencer asked, after the whole pathetic story had been laid out, her voice approaching hysteria levels. “What man says he wants to wait? What does it mean?”
Rainey pulled her knees to her chest, giving them a little hug. “I think the clinical term for it might be respect. Maybe even love.”
Spencer froze at the “L” word, even as her heart gave an extra thump. “No.” She dismissed Rainey’s suggestion. “Nope. We just met. He’s a player, a ladies’ man. “
“Who said no. To you.”
Spencer shook her head again. Rainey wasn’t getting it. “He said he wants to have sex when there are no complications between us. Has he met me? I’m one big complication.”
“I’m just saying, men like him turn women like you down never. He’s single, straight, and hot, and he still wants to spend time with you even after this whole Troy Duncan situation. He met your father, for goodness’ sakes.”
Spencer flinched. “Maybe that’s why he said no. He met my father. And George.” And he decided the lot of us were too bat shit crazy to deal with.
“He’s been dealing with you over this whole Dalynn situation and hasn’t backed down. You think he’s scared of your father? Of George?”
Spencer’s expression turned bleak. “Because I’m just like them.” She knew it was the truth. She didn’t need Rainey to confirm it. No one knew their character flaws better than Spencer. She excelled at everything. Even self-immolation.
Rainey smiled at her friend. “No. You’re way better.” Spencer sniffed. It was good to have a friend when her confidence had been annihilated. Rainey leaned forward. “So tell me what the plan is for the Draft.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Thanks for coming in.” Liam greeted Troy with a firm handshake. It was hearty and cool, and Troy reciprocated. “I know you have a busy schedule with the Pastor and all.”
Troy shrugged. “Whatever it takes, man. You gotta do whatever it takes.”
“You did great last night.” Liam offered Troy a bottle of his favorite soda. OPM kept a very well-stocked break room, filled with goodies from players’ sponsors. “The speech was on CNN this morning.”
Troy nodded, leaning back in a black leather and chrome chair. “Yeah, that was unreal. All those old dudes, giving me a standing O for just talking.” He flashed Liam a quick grin. “I could get used to it.”
Liam settled into the matching chair across from Troy and crossed his long legs, resting an ankle on his opposite knee. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I think we should lay off the politics for a while.” Troy furrowed his brows in confusion. “We don’t want your political affiliations to be a barrier. Troy Duncan needs to be accessible to all of America. All of the world. Regardless of who a person votes for. We need to bring up your brand as a universal one, first. Companies won’t want to mess with someone who’s divisive. Later, after you’re a superstar, you can campaign for whoever you want. You’ll transcend politics.”
Troy nodded, sipping his lime green soda. “Yeah, I can see that. But I still think it would be good, you know? That Senator Hightower last night. He was talking about me coming on a campaign with him. Said I could bring in the crowds. That I could fill stadiums for him, like I did at State.”
Liam swore internally. All someone had to do to get Troy Duncan on board with a cause was to tell him he’d bring in the crowds. The guy’s ego was blowing up already, and he wasn’t even earning an NFL salary or endorsements.
“The thing is, what if you join a campaign like that? That’s cool, for a while. But here’s the deal about politics. Someone has to lose. And let me tell you, man, we do not want to have your name, your brand, associated with losing.” Liam winked. “And that includes on the field.”
Troy chuckled. Liam leaned back, smug. If anyone hated to lose more than a politician, it was an athlete. He knew from experience. It didn’t matter that it happened—sometimes a lot. Losing sucked, every single time.
Clapping his hands together, Liam directed Troy’s attention back to the subject of the meeting. The NFL Draft. Forty minutes later, Troy’s eyes had glazed over, but Liam knew that he had his client on board. They were in a great position. The best, thanks to the public relations successes of the past few days. But that all could come down in a second.
“We need to talk about Dalynn Kay,” Liam said.
Troy groaned. “I thought you took care of that.”
“They haven’t gotten the answer they want.”
“You said we don’t give in to every baby mama that comes off the street.”
Liam wished he hadn’t used exactly those words. “You said you dated her. They have proof of your relationship.”
“So?”
“And Dalynn’s pregnant…”
“So?” Troy interrupted again. “It’s not mine.”
“So, let’s prove it. They’re not going away. Let’s just take care of it. If it is yours…”
“It ain’t.”
To hell with it. “Dalynn’s reps have given us an ultimatum. If we don’t agree to a paternity test by the Draft, they’re going to hold a press conference and name you as the father.”
Troy spread his arms wide—an arrogant come-and-get-it gesture. “Let them. Dude, did you see that crowd last night? Have you seen the people lining up to see me and Pastor Langston? No one will believe her. They love me. I’m Troy Fucking Duncan. I’m a good Christian man, and that baby is not mine.”
Liam nodded and bit his tongue. What would Spencer’s next move be? For a moment, he debated pushing harder, trying out a new argument, making Spencer’s case. Then he sat back.
His job was to represent Troy’s best interests, and, even with Spencer’s ultimatum, Troy had a point. In the PR game, he was winning. What would a press conference do to a squeaky clean reputation? Especially if that sparkly reputation had thrown for an average of four hundred yards a game his senior year? In the NFL, he wasn’t sure that Troy Duncan wasn’t bulletproof at this stage. Or as close as it came.
No. Spencer Hightower’s ultimatums be damned. From where he stood, they were still on their way to conquering the world.
Liam stood and clasped Troy’s hand aga
in. “Okay, I’ll let you know if anything changes. Until then, I’ll see you at the airport.”
Troy’s face was all confidence, all showboat. “NYC, baby! Let’s go. I’m ready.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The flight to New York was about four hours long counting the time in a personal jet and from limo to limo. Spencer stretched out, luxuriating in the extra legroom that the private airplane allowed each of its five passengers. Flying like this was a rare indulgence, one that Spencer would never pay for herself. It was usually in her clients’ planes that she enjoyed the first class service that a Gulfstream provided. And today was no exception.
Spencer glanced over at Franklin Mahoney, eighty-year-old Texas oilman, billionaire Hightower political supporter, and, most importantly, the new owner of the San Antonio Renegades, the latest NFL expansion team.
Two years ago, she had assisted Franklin with a little situation in San Antonio during the construction of the state of the art football stadium. Renegade Stadium had universal support in the city. Everyone was excited about professional football getting a permanent home in San Antonio. Everyone except the two hundred displaced residents who had to move in order to make way for the new stadium.
It had been a tricky one, Spencer mused, taking a sip of mineral water. Issues of hometown pride versus neighborhood history had torn the city apart. There had been cultural concerns, language barriers, and a clash of class and cash. Solutions had been messy and expensive. Still, it was resolved, and the San Antonio Renegades were ready to participate in their first NFL Draft. Being the new team, they got first pick of the recruits and everyone in the football world was watching every move Franklin Mahoney made.
Spencer was ready to go. From her research and her calls to her sports industry insiders, she had learned a great deal about the politics behind the NFL Draft. She may not have started this case with a great deal of knowledge of football, but politics? She knew how to win at that game.
Know When to Hold Him Page 17
