Know When to Hold Him

All is fair except in Texas…

Spencer Hightower’s job is cleaning up other people’s messes. And she is damn good at it. Unfortunately, being a supremely organized workaholic, it isn’t always easy to meet guys—until Liam Connelly shows up, all gorgeous and really, really sexy. Sure, he makes Spencer’s pulse thump...but he’s also the biggest pain in her professional life.

Liam can’t believe his lousy luck when he learns that Spencer is his opposition in a high-profile scandal. She’s the best at what she does and the worst possible opponent. Of course, a little professional animosity can’t hurt a guy’s chances for a date, can it? Even as Spencer tries to keep her distance, their attraction grows stronger...and hotter. But once they cross all kinds of professional—and personal—boundaries, the situation snow-balls into a disaster that even the great Spencer Hightower can’t fix...

Know When to

Hold Him

a Love & War in Dallas novel

Lindsay Emory

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Lindsay Emory. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 109

Fort Collins, CO 80525

Visit our website at
www.entangledpublishing.com
.

Select Contemporary is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Edited by Kimberly Daniel

Cover design by Starla Huchton

ISBN 978-1-63375-209-2

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition February 2015

To E and to M.

I chase my dreams so that you will chase yours.

Chapter One

This was the last time Spencer dated European. Unless Prince Harry decided to visit Dallas. She’d make an exception then.

“Are you kidding me?” She demanded when she found this evening’s date bent over a desk, snorting a white, powdery substance. A Russian oligarch, with a national chain of trendy clothing stores, had seemed like the perfect date for the benefit. But a potential six-figure donation was so not worth this trouble.

Dimitri Korolov looked up in surprise, not bothering to hide what he was doing.

“This is my family’s fundraiser,” she hissed.

Dimitri looked unimpressed. “And it was boring.”

Spencer threw up her hands. “It’s for the children’s hospital! What kind of fun do you think you’re going to have?”

A not-based-in-reality light came on in Dimitri’s dark eyes. “Only the fun that I have with beautiful women.”

She couldn’t help herself. “Ugh!” If Dimitri hadn’t been her type the first dozen times he’d propositioned her, he sure as hell wasn’t now. A voice sounding from down the hall reminded her where they were. In the smoking room of the White Rock Belle Mansion, a quaint pre-war reminder of days when men would retire to smoke their cigars–or snort their cocaine-thirty feet away from the pillars of Dallas society, invited by the Hightower family to open their checkbooks to support the children’s hospital.

And here she was, Spencer Hightower, the honorary chair of the fundraiser, standing next to a pile of very expensive and very illegal narcotics. This was not the way the evening was supposed to end.

“Clean this up. Right now, Dimitri. Party’s over.”

But, instead, Dimitri moved toward her. A clammy, pale finger crept under the strap of her favorite black cocktail dress, and Spencer clamped down on the revulsion that rose in her throat. First things first.

“Now, Dimitri. I’m not kidding.”

“You can do it for me. That’s what I pay you for. To clean up after me, right?”

Spencer stepped back from his encroaching hands and instinctively reached for her cell phone. Except this cocktail dress didn’t have pockets. And she’d left her phone with her colleague.
Shit
.

“You’re a former client,” she corrected him. Her crisis management firm had handled the blowback after Dimitri’s company had gone public and the media had discovered his cheap clothes were manufactured in Southeast Asian sweatshops. “But this, I don’t handle.” She pointed a finger toward the paraphernalia on the table. “Not for you.”

Dimitri grabbed her hand, yanking her toward him. “Oh, don’t be such a party shitter.” The drugs thickened his Russian accent and the crazy light behind his eyes turned up a notch.

“It’s ‘party pooper’,” Spencer said through gritted teeth as his grip tightened around her hand.

“Let’s have some fun.”

“Let me go.” Spencer hated the shakiness of her voice as she tried to keep it together. She handled more difficult things all the time at her job, so an inappropriately handsy ex-client should be easy. Except there was a TV news crew and two hundred of her parents’ closest friends in the ballroom down the hall, and Dimitri was starting to hurt her.

She needed a quick, simple way to get out of this. If she could just angle her body and kick him in the balls…

He twisted her arm, and she went for the gonads.

…

Liam Connelly was on a mission to find his suit coat. It had been stupid to take it off, but Liam wasn’t the type of guy to stay comfortable in Italian wool and leather-soled shoes. He preferred tees and sneakers, and he was lucky that his clients didn’t mind that—some of the time. He’d taken off the coat when he and his law school buddy JT had enjoyed cigars with origins they’d decided not to investigate too closely.

Liam only had the one black suit. Already in Dallas four weeks, he’d worn that damn suit four times. He hadn’t known the Dallas office would be so formal.

He needed the coat.

Liam recognized the sounds before he got to the room. The same sounds he’d heard in the bedroom next to his before he was big enough to stand up to his stepdad and make them stop for good.

The smack and the female cry sent Liam into a single-minded fury. He threw open the door and found a dark-haired man standing over a blond woman cowering on the floor.

The guy was high. Maybe it was because he shrieked something ridiculous and paranoid about being followed by security. Maybe it was because he came at the six foot three, snarling former professional football player like he had a chance. Liam easily ducked the flailing arms going for his throat, grabbed the moron’s collar, hauled back, and gave him a taste of his own medicine, except bigger and meaner.

The single punch sent the man flying back. His shoes slipped and ruffled the Persian rug under his feet. He stumbled and crashed into the corner of a bookshelf, an ornate, heavy piece. With a thud and a sharp, telltale crack from the back of his head, the attacker’s eyes rolled back and he slid to the floor in a boneless, fluid motion.

Liam turned and saw the woman standing behind him like an avenging angel. Her long blond hair had slipped from its pins, her black lace dress had a torn strap, letting a peek of black lingerie show, and she had the beginning of a shiner underneath her right eye. But she was gripping a crystal candlestick like a cleaver, ready to slice and dice through any enemy that came through the lines for a second shot at her.

“Are you okay?” Liam asked. He kept his voice level and calm. Didn’t need to upset the ferocious lady with the candlestick.

“Fine,” she replied, in a slight, shaky voice.

“Is that your boyfriend?” Liam pointed at the out-cold piece of shit on the floor.

“No. Just a really bad date.” She sneered slightly. “Is he…”

“Out. Just out. You need to put ice on that.” Liam glanced around the room. He recalled there being an ice bucket around here somewhere earlier. The woman stepped closer to the man seemingly to take a closer look, still with the candlestick clutched tightly in her two hands. Moving made her look down at the loose piece of fabric on her breast, no longer held up by the black strip of lace of her dress.

“ARGHHH!” She let out an angry cry, pulled back a stilettoed foot, and kicked her passed out date in the stomach.

“Hey!” Liam pulled her back by the arms. “You don’t kick a man when he’s down.”

“You
don’t.
This
is Chanel!” She gestured to her ripped dress.

Liam whipped the woman around. God, she was beautiful. Dangerously beautiful, and that had nothing to do with a vicious kick and the determination to fight with household decor. Dark blue eyes caught his attention first, blazing as they were with a righteous fire. The rest of her face was perfect: high cheek bones, ivory skin, and rose-pink lips, only marred by the mark that her “bad date” had given her. “What’s your name?” Liam used his calm voice again.

“Spencer,” she answered quietly.

Still holding her by the arm in a loose grip, he spoke in a matter of fact way. “Okay, Spencer, I’m going to find some ice for your face now, and you’re not going to kick your date anymore.”

Spencer bit her lip, which distracted Liam until she started giggling, which Liam found bizarre. “You think this is funny?” Liam asked, dumbfounded.

The giggling was cut off and replaced with a solemn expression. “No one’s ever told me not to k…k…kick my date.” She blinked hard, her lips pressed together, trying to smother the returning giggles. Liam couldn’t help the smile that threatened to erupt on his own face. The conversation had been the first of its kind for him, too.

“Ice.” He reminded himself out loud and let Spencer go. Liam spied the ice bucket on a bar cart by the large bay window overlooking White Rock Lake, and there was his suit jacket, next to the leather chair he’d sat in earlier. As he picked up the ice bucket, his attention was distracted by a color that did not match the tasteful decor of the mansion. A lime green shoe, that looked like it belonged wrapped around a stripper pole, lay behind the couch that flanked the bay window. In two steps, Liam saw what lay behind the sofa. He cursed. Spencer was next to him in a moment and echoed his curse. On the floor lay a woman in a dress that matched her shoe, cheap and bright and way too high to fit in with the rest of the proper socialites he’d been surrounded with this evening.

“Is she…” Spencer didn’t finish the question.

“She’s out. Really out.” Liam glanced back at the cocaine splayed across the table and then back at Spencer. “And you need to find better dates.” He picked up his coat and took Spencer by the elbow. “Come on, do you need a ride?”

She jerked out of his hand. “I can’t just leave him!”

Liam analyzed Spencer’s face. It wasn’t, he realized, the mindless devotion of a stereotypical abused partner. There was something detached, more business-like there. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he admired her strength. She was a survivor. And God help any bastard who put her in survival mode.

“He’ll wake up in a few hours feeling like shit. Don’t worry about him.”

“But…” She gestured to the drugs on the desk.

“You want to get rid of the illegal stuff?”

Before she could answer, loud voices and the sounds of multiple steps sounded from down the hallway. Spencer turned to Liam, terror in her eyes. “Reporters.”

Liam bolted to the door, putting a shoulder and his considerable muscle against it, while searching for the lock.

Dammit, where is it?

He braced himself for any forced entry. Spencer reached for the linen napkin around the ice bucket and approached the desk, getting rid of the drugs with a cold efficiency that made Liam pause.
Who is this woman?

Spencer joined Liam at the door, listening as the group moved. When their sounds had passed, they let out a relieved sigh. Liam took his suit coat and put it around Spencer’s shoulders, hiding the fact that half of her dress was threatening to fall down.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He could only nod in response. He would have done so much more for this woman, if she had only asked. He made himself twist the doorknob, ignoring the big part of him that wondered what would happen next if he stayed with Spencer, sharing secrets behind closed doors.

But the smart part of his brain said it was time to scram and leave the cocaine and the out-cold asshole and the passed-out prostitute to their own unique devices. He opened the door, turning to the left while Spencer turned to the right. He paused and turned, trying to decide if he should follow his suit coat, when he noticed a petite redhead hurrying to her side. The woman handed Spencer a phone and was talking fast, gesticulating with both hands, not noticing that Spencer’s shoulders were covered with a man’s jacket. Spencer looked up briefly and found Liam’s gaze down the darkened hall. With an enigmatic expression, she was gone. And so was his suit coat.

Chapter Two

The doors of the elevator opened directly into the foyer of the Hightower & Associates at ten ‘til nine. Spencer Hightower stepped out and was greeted by her associates, Rainey White and Nora Dexter.

“What happened?”

“You’re late.” Rainey and Nora spoke simultaneously, with both urgency and concern on their faces.

“I slept late,” Spencer said, heading into the offices, barely noticing the cut flowers delivered weekly from her favorite Dallas Arts District florist. She balanced a drink carrier in one hand and gave a paper cup to Rainey.

“Organic chai latte.”

Another cup went to Nora. “Extra hot raspberry mocha.”

Rainey’s hand stopped Nora from taking a sip. “She’s trying to distract us,” Rainey warned her.

Nora frowned at her coffee. “Damn it,” she muttered.

“Foiled again!” Spencer laughed, side-stepping her friends.

“You slept late?” Rainey repeated as she and Nora followed Spencer down the hall.

“Alone?” Nora asked. The other two women paused and stared at the petite redhead. “What? It makes a difference.”

“Alone,” Spencer replied, the single word cut short as she checked a news alert on her phone.

“We’ve got–”

“Bibby Hepworth in ten, I know,” Spencer called back, her heels clacking down the hall to her office, working her own large paper coffee cup out of the cardboard carrier.

Only so many of Hightower & Associates’ clients could come from Spencer’s personal address book; most generally came through referrals. This new client was referred from one of the most prominent family law attorneys in Dallas. Bibby Hepworth handled all the high profile divorces. Dallas Cowboys, country music superstars, and Telenovela queens—they all went to Bibby. So when she called Spencer with a referral, there was no doubt it would be worth her time.

The first thing Spencer noticed about Dalynn Kay was that Dalynn was
extremely
pregnant. As in, Spencer wondered if they should start boiling water in the Keurig and collecting clean towels from the break room.

Beyond the pregnancy, Dalynn was pretty enough to catch any man’s attention. She was young, petite with a head full of blond highlights.

“Spencer.” Bibby was always officious yet pleasant. “Lovely party last night. I was hoping to see your parents.”

Spencer waved a hand in a distracted fashion. “You know, work stuff.”

“Spencer’s father is a United States Senator,” Bibby told Dalynn in a perfectly unnecessary explanation. Dalynn looked suitably impressed, but Spencer pushed down the routine annoyance. One of these days, maybe when Hayes Hightower retired, people would stop caring what her father did for a living and just focus on Spencer’s accomplishments in her own right.

Dalynn settled into the conference table’s seat of honor and Spencer, Rainey, and Nora took the seats nearest the new client. Spencer pulled a yellow legal pad and pen from the middle of the table to her and started the meeting.

“Thank you for meeting with us today, Dalynn. Because you gave Bibby permission, she has shared some of the case information with us. You’re trying to get your child’s paternity established. Is that correct?”

Dalynn nodded, clearly nervous. Spencer smiled to reassure her. “Do you want a drink? Some water? Herbal tea?”

“Coke, if you have it.”

Nora rose to get Dalynn’s drink. Spencer continued, “And who is the father, Dalynn?”

Dalynn licked her lips. “His name’s Troy Duncan. We met at Dallas State.”

“Troy Duncan?” Nora asked, pouring a can of soda over a glass of ice. “He’s the football player? The Heisman Trophy winner?”

Dalynn beamed. “Yes ma’am. But he didn’t get the trophy. That bastard quarterback from UCLA bribed some voters.”

A little wrinkle appeared between Nora’s eyebrows. “But doesn’t he… isn’t he…” She paused uncomfortably as the rest of the women waited for her to finish. “Doesn’t he say that he’s a virgin?” The v-word was almost a whisper.

It didn’t faze Dalynn. “He says that. But, obviously, he’s not.” She patted her pregnant belly. “He said it’s just to get more attention. More endorsements. Can you believe that?”

“Jerk,” Nora accused, ignoring the expression Spencer was giving her before handing Dalynn the soda.

“Right?” Dalynn took a sip of her Coke. “Like anyone believes a man that fine hasn’t gotten any.”

“It would be completely unnatural for a healthy twenty-one year old man to have an unpopped cherry,” Rainey said, underlining something on her pad of paper for emphasis.

Spencer tried to keep a straight face. She jotted notes on her pad and handed it to Rainey before leaning forward and giving Dalynn her full, undivided attention. “Are you still a student?”

“No, ma’am. I’m taking a break because of the baby.”

Spencer gently questioned Dalynn about the pregnancy, the now-ex-boyfriend, her living arrangements, and her finances before leading into thorny topics.

“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.