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.