Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Spencer
R elaxing on my bed at the Auberge Saint-Antoine in beautiful Quebec City, I’m channel surfingandlooking for English news when my phone buzzes with a message from Lindaconfirming that Shelby Bailey has arrived and is checking into her room.
I guess it’s time to meet my partner for the next few days.
I head down to the lobby, my footsteps echoing softly on the polished marble floor once I get there. Thespace is a blend of old-world charm and modern luxury. Antiquefurnishings, plush velvet seating, and the soft glow of chandeliers create an atmosphere of refined elegance. Icatch my reflection in a gilded mirror and pause in my steps.Giventhat the flight from New York to Jean Lesage International Airportisless than ninetyminutes,and thedrive to the hotelislessthan thirty, I leftstraight fromtheofficeand didn’tchange out of my business suit.Atleast I switched toa pair ofdark jeans and ditched the tie the moment I arrived. Iroll up the cuffs of my dress shirt and undo thetopcoupleof buttons. Myhair is slightly ruffled from laying back against the headboard, so I smooth it down, a futile attempt to project an image of controlled relaxation I don’t quite feel. Plus, I still need to get a haircut.
I walkoverto the reception desk and wait patiently until the young man who checked me in is available.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Hollis. How may I help you?”
“I believe my work associate has checked in. Canyou please connect me to her room?”
“Mais, oui. Whatis her name, please?”
“Shelby Bailey.”
Hestepsover to the free phone at the unattended station and looksupher room number.Oncehe’s dialed, he hands over the phone.
I nod. “Merci.”
The phone rings twice before it’s picked up.
“Hello?”
The voice that greets me is warm and slightly breathless and at once conjures images of a sexy, beautiful woman rushing around her room, maybe in a bathrobe, wrapped in a towelwhilesteam from her recent shower drifts out from the bathroom. Eventhough curiosity tempted me to look her up, I decided against it, wanting to cometothis agreement with no preconceived notions. Butmy mind is creating all kinds of delicious suggestive ideas.
Her voice has a slight rasp, and I suspect a sense of humor lurks beneath the surface.It’sa subtle, unexpected contrast to the polished perfection I’m usually surrounded by. Idon’t know how I knowany of thatfrom one measly word. Butthat one word has every nerve ending in my body standing at attention. Myblood heats, and while I’m no stranger to dating beautiful women, something that hasn’t stirred for some time comes roaring to life.
A small smile plays at the corners of my mouth. “Ms. Bailey? Thisis Spencer Hollis. Ibelieve you’re expecting my call. ”I turn my back to the front desk, my gaze sweeping the lobby, taking in the ebb and flow of guests, families checking in, couples heading out for the evening, businessmen and women huddled in conversation beforeheadingto the bar or back to their rooms.
None of it registers.
My entire focus is zeroed in on that voice at the other end of the line.
I can hear the rustle of fabric, maybe the soft sigh of a closing door. Iimaginehersettling intohersuite, the phone’s receiver tucked betweenherear and shoulder, the late afternoon light catching the strands ofherhair.Ihave no ideawhat color her hairis or what she has on, and my mind’s eye is working overtimeto painta vivid image in my head.
Linda’s warning comes to mind.
This is wrong. Ishouldn’t be thinking this way about Shelby. Idon’t know the woman. Shemight be married. Wehaven’t even met face to face. Thisis purely work, and Ihave toremember why she’s here with me this weekend instead of with a boyfriend or a fiancé. Yes, the anticipation of finally seeing her is potent, and it sends a thrill through me that I can’t resist.
“I am. Ijust didn’t expect it the moment I walked into my room.”Her voice is still breathy, a little flustered,and it makes me smile again.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to rush you. Ican call back if you’d like.”I don’t like it, not really. Forsome strange reason, I want to keep talking to her. Ilike the sound of her voice.
“No, no that’s fine. Whatcan I do for you, Mr. Hollis?”
“I thought we could meet for a drink, dinner maybe, get to know each other in a more casually setting before tomorrow’s business meetings.”And interview. She’shere to interview me. Ineed to remember that.
There’s a pause, a beat of silence that stretches out, filled with the faint hum of the hotel’s air conditioning and other guests milling in the lobby.
“I... ah... um... sure?”
“Is that a yes, or you’re not sure.”I chuckle at her confused hesitance.
“I’m sure. Yes. That’sa great idea. Justlet me quickly change, and I can meet you downstairs.”
A wave of relief, surprising in its intensity, washes over me. “I’ll grab us a table in the bar.”I resist the urge to add something flirty, somethingthat might break the professional barrier we’re supposed to maintain.
“Okay. Giveme ten minutes.”
The line clicks dead, and I stare at the phone, entranced once again by a single word— okay —and the sizzle of awareness it sent through me.
Ten minutes. Itfeels like an eternity.
The lounge, as always, exudes understated elegance. Softlighting, plush armchairs in muted tones, the gentle clink of glasses.Ichoosea spot near a large archway and expansive window to have a clear view of the entrance.
This is work, I remind myself onceagainwhile ordering a whiskey.Imightas wellhave it painted on a placardandpostedin my line of sight.Thisis about changing beliefs, proving I’m more than a headline. Morethan a man with a large bank account. Morethan my father’s son.
The glass feels heavy in my hand, the amber liquid swirling as I take a slow sip, the familiar burn a welcome distraction while I wait. Thankfully, the ice has barely begun to melt when I spother.
I’ve never seen her before, yet I know at once it’s her.Shepauses just outside the archway to thelounge entrance, her gaze scanning the room.Ican tell she’s trying to exude confidence, and most would probably believe it. ButI also see a smidgeon of doubt in her expression.
My breath hitches yet again. Mypulse pounds so heavy in my chestthat Ifeel as if anyone within six feet can hear it.She’snothing like the carefullycurated,glamorouswomen I usually date. Everythingabout her seems… real.
She’sshorter than the models I’ve been photographedwithand has generous curves that fill out a simple, knee-length, summery yellow dress in a way that makes mythroat,and mygrointighten.It’snotform-fittingbut flowy, swinging gently around her knees when she moves.Herdark blonde hair isn’t quite shoulder length and contains subtle waves. She has it pinned back, but a few strands have escaped, framing a face that is… perfect. Andthose glasses. Theblack frames should make her look serious. Still, instead, they draw attention to eyes that sparkle with intelligence and mischief.
Yes, I can see all that from where I sitbecauseeverybody elsedisappearedthemomentshe appeared.Shebecame my focal point.
I force myself to look away and take another sip of whiskey, the ice clinking against the glass a sharp counterpoint to the sudden heat pooling in my gut because this is ridiculous.Idon’t get flustered by beautiful women. ButI’m also not simply tossing around clichés when I can admit there’s something about this young woman. Icould tell from her voice on the phone. She’sthrowing me off balance.Andit’s… refreshing.
And incredibly distracting.
I make sure my breathing stays steady while I wait. Agentleman would stand and raise his arm, catch her attention,and wave her over. Iguess I’m not the gentleman I claim to be because I want to watch her for a moment longer before she catches me watching her.
Andthen,when she turns in my direction and spots me, I want her to know I’m noticing. Iwant her to be intrigued as much as I am.
Like I knew her, she somehowappearsto know me. Shesmiles and starts strolling toward me, gliding almost rather than walking. Atleast,that’s what it seems like. Shemoves with a grace that belies the sensible shoes she’s wearing.
I watch the subtle sway of her hips, unable to drag my eyes away fromthe waythe soft fabric of her dress drapes over her curves.
She’sstunning.
Notyour typical runway model beautiful. Thank God.
Whichmeans she’s more dangerous.
I take a slow sip, the cool liquid sliding over my lips.
Suddenly, a hand enters my field of vision. “Mr. Hollis?”All traces of the breathlessness I’d heard on the phone earlier are gone from her tone. Herentire persona is focused, professional, andreadyto get to work.
When our palms meet, electricity shoots up my arm. It’snot the polite, fleeting touch of a business handshake. It’s charged. Mynerve endings spark to life. Everythingaround me ceases to exist. Andyet, I don’t pull away. Instead, I instinctively wrap my fingers around her hand and squeeze gently.Herskin issoftand warm, and the brief contact sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the air conditioning.“Please, call me Spencer.”
“Spencer. It’sa pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine.”
She pulls her fingers from my grip, and I shake my head sharplyin an attemptto come back to my senses and clear away the fog of intimacy before gesturing to the chair opposite mine. Iwait for her toget settledbefore I retake my seat and signal the server.
“What can I get you to drink, Ms. Bailey?”
“A glass of the house white is fine, thank you. And it’s Shelby.”
When the server comes over, I give him her order and request a refill of mine. Thenwe’re alone in a crowded hotel lounge, staring at each other like we’re the only twoin the place. Theclinking of glasses, hushed chatter, and soft jazz spilling from hidden speakers fill my ears, but it feels like white noise compared to the woman sitting opposite me.
“Linda tells me you’re the right person to do this interview.”I lean back slightly, fighting to regain some semblance of composure. Workinghard not to react physically to anything she says. Toher sweet scent. Tothe brush of her bare leg against mine.
This is so wrong, yet I can’t turn it off.
She smiles, and I’m pretty sure my world tilts. Damn, she has a smile that could melt glaciers.
“I like to think so,”she says, her voice a little husky, sending another unexpected quiver down my spine. “I do want to thank you for the opportunity to interview you. I’mlooking forward to getting to know the real Spencer Hollis.”
I can’t help the wry twist of my lips and the jab in the gut. “The real’Spencer Hollis? Unfortunately, you might be disappointed, Ms. Bailey. Hespendsmuchmore time reviewing spreadsheets than he does... whatever you’ve read about.”I pause, letting the challenge hang in the air. Imight be attracted to this young woman, but this interview isimportant. Ineed to keep that in mind.IfI want to right the wrongs of myfatherand keep the business afloat so Mom, Hayden,andPiper have something to rely on, I need Shelby’s article to paint the correct pictureofthe business world, the world at large,really.Ineed the board of directors to take me seriously.
“Shelby, please,”she corrects, unfazed, and takes a sip of her wine when it arrives, her eyes meeting mine over the rim of the glass. Shecocks her head to the right and scrunches up her nose the tiniest,cutestbit. “And I’m a journalist, Spencer. I’mtrained to be skeptical. Butthis is your show. I’llabsolutely tell the story of the man behind the headlines. Butnow, I’m also intrigued by the man behind the spreadsheets.”
That hint of mischief I’d glimpsed earlier is back, dancing in her eyes. Mybody responds without my permission, a tightening in my chest, a quickening of my pulse.
This is a terrible idea.
“Well, Shelby,”I say, leaning forward slightly, my voice dropping to a more intimate register because I just can’t seem to help myself tonight, “I promise to give you full access. Nospin, no carefully curated image. Justme. Areyou ready for that?”
Her blush deepens, a delightful contrast to thecalmconfidence she projects. Sheshifts, ever-so-slightly crossing her legs under the table, the soft fabric of her dress whispering against her skin, a sound I shouldn’t be able to hear over the ambient noise but somehow do.
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,”she replies, her voice steady, but there’s a tremor, a barely perceptible catch, which betrays her composure.
My earlier assessment nailed it. There’sdoubt hiding beneath that cloak of confidence. Doesshedoubtherskill? Orme?
I raise my glass in a toast. “Then let’s see what we discover, shall we?”I keep my gaze locked on hers, refusing to let her look away. Iknow I shouldn’t be tempting fate, but for some foolish reason, I want her to be as off-balance as I am.
She takes another sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving mine. “I have a feeling,”she says, her voice soft yet laced with a hint of challenge, “this is going to be more interesting than either of us anticipated.”
“Interesting,”I repeat, the word a loaded promise. Itake a long swallow of my whiskey, the burn a welcome distraction from the heat that’s now firmly settled in my groin. “I like that. Youseem genuine. Notjust out for a scoop.”
Shelby smilesandI can’t look away.“I’m not. Iwant to tell the truth, whatever that may be.”
My stomach drops, my balls tighten, and my heart does a funny fluttering in my chest.
Damn, this is going to be a long weekend.