Page 16 of Holden

At least, that’s what I tell myself as I take a deep breath and depress the buzzer, alerting him that I’m in the lobby downstairs.

Chapter 9

I expect Holden to meet me at the door of his office, but a receptionist in a too-short skirt and six-inch stilettos comes out of a luxurious boardroom just as I’m going in. I’m immediately self-conscious of my casual attire—a simple dress that hugs my hips, and shows off the maximum amount of cleavage for my personal comfort level. I know better than to compare myself to anyone, and it’s not like I’m here to fuck Holden. Still, my stomach clenches with irrational jealousy.

I lift my chin and remember my resolve to stand my ground.

Holden stands with his back to me, hands in his pockets, staring out over the city sprawled below. My attention is drawn to his ass, and I can’t help but think about the way it looks when his clothes are off.

Scrumptious.

“Have a seat, Miss Faber,” he says, without turning.

Perfect. I’m not ready to look at his face anyway.

I sit in front of a water glass and set my notebook, audio recorder, and a pen carefully on the wooden table. Some kind of elaborate communication system acts as a centerpiece, and next to it, a pitcher of ice and water drips condensation onto the oak. Across the room, portraits of the three men who started Daylight Holdings stare back at me. Mason has fuck me eyes. Lucas is a bona fide playboy—or at least was, until he met his now-pregnant girlfriend, Eden Bradley. And Holden… My throat swells. Holden is a mix of them both, a vision of stoic seriousness peppered with rebellious, sexy as hell angst.

I’ve done my research. While Holden isn’t the most vocal of the trio—that distinction belongs to Lucas—his opinions on everything from gourmet cheese to presidential faux pas are well documented. He likes well-endowed blondes, expensive wine, and no-strings-attached fun. Oh, and he has a temper.

The kind that gets him in trouble.

Despite this, I imagine thousands of women hang on his every word.

Not me.

When this first interview is done, I plan on getting out a few words of my own. I have a feeling Holden isn’t going to like what I have to say.

He turns, and without greeting, takes his seat at the head of the long table. We’re at least five feet apart, but it’s suddenly as if the walls are closing in around me, the very air sucked from my mouth. I take a sip of water and swallow, wincing as the liquid glugs its way down my throat.

What is it about this man that dissolves my confidence like eroding sandstone?

“Have you turned on the recorder?” he asks. I shake my head, and his eyebrow lifts. In truth, I wasn’t planning to use it. The more I think about the interview itself, the worse the idea seems—how can I even trust what Holden is going to say?

But that’s the thing about doing so much research. For all his flaws—and God knows, the media likes to play them up—Holden is a man of his word.

I suppose that’s why he—eventually—scheduled this interview, as promised.

Prove yourself to me

Mission accomplished.

Okay, maybe I’ll ask just one question. See how it goes…

I lick my lips. “Would you like me to get started, then?”

He checks his watch and nods.

I figure there’s no need for pre-amble, so I just dive right in. “Did Roger Moorehouse, at any point in your time together, have any direct conversation with you?”

My voice stutters a little, betraying my nerves. Saying my father’s name doesn’t hurt so much, but the look on Holden’s face stings. His jaw twitches. “If I say no, then you’ve wasted an hour.”

I exhale slowly. “True. But have I wasted an hour, or did you and Mr. Moorehouse have a conversation?”

His lips curl into a sneer. “You assume I would have anything to say to that monster.”

Holden’s response makes me flinch. I try not to show it, but my courage is fast deflating like a popped balloon. Maybe this was a mistake after all. Maybe I should have just—

What? Run?