Page 6 of One Weekend in Quebec City

“So, he wants to revamp his image?”she asks when I finish. “Honey, that’s going to be a challenge. Theman’s practically a walking scandal.”

“Tell me about it,”I scoff. “But this is my shot, Marika. Ihave to take it. Now, back to the clothes. Whatdo I pack?”

Marika launches into a rapid-fire monologue. “Okay, first of all, you need something sophisticated but approachable. Thinkclassic silhouettes, neutral colors, but with a modern twist. Youwant to project an image of ‘I’m someone you want to take seriously, but I can also have fun.’ Sinceyou’ll be in old Quebec, and probably doing a lot of walking, make sure you take shoes that are attractive but functional and will go with any outfit you have. Eventhough it’s July, there could be a cool breeze coming off the water, so take a sweater. Andtake on really nice dress.”

“Why?”

“Because you never know when you’ll need one. Andbrush up on your French so you can impress him.”

We spend the next hour debating outfits, accessories, and what kind of shoesscream,“I’m a journalist, not a model.”My head is spinning when I hang up, but my suitcaseisat least half-packed.Ifeel a little more prepared.

And a lot more terrified.

ChapterThree

Spencer

Relaxing 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.

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