it? One month of shoehorning himself into whatever shiny package Marketing chose to squish him into? One month of posing and saying all the right things in aid of dragging Armada out of this financial hole?
One month for thousands of saved jobs and millions of dollars?
It didn’t sound like much of a sacrifice when put like that. He might be far from the sole owner any more, but deep down inside he still considered Armada his. His responsibility. His employees.
Really, the decision was a no brainer.
Reluctantly, Jake grunted something that Cynthia correctly interpreted as acquiescence.
Well, he wasn’t about to jump up and down in excitement, was he?
Something totally random occurred to him: Lord. He’d better not have to wear a suit.
Ella Cartwright waited patiently outside the boardroom’s double doors, seated neatly on a low leather couch. Her black patent heels did not click nervously on the floorboards. Her fingers did not twist and tie themselves in knots on her lap. And she certainly didn’t ask the CEO’s personal assistant, who’d escorted her all the way to the twenty-sixth floor, any of the myriad questions about Jake Donner that sat on the tip of her tongue.
Not doing all those things was possible, of course, because those things she could control.
The butterflies currently tap-dancing in her tummy? Well, not so much.
But that was okay.
No one needed to know about them.
Finally, the doors were pushed open, and a parade of exquisitely suited executives slowly made their way out. Ella was on her feet well before she caught a flash of Cynthia George’s distinctive red blazer amongst the mass of wintry black, grey and navy.
Ella allowed herself a fleeting moment of pride as she recognised the jacket she’d personally selected for Cynthia’s revamped wardrobe. With her sharp haircut, flawlessly applied make-up and flattering outfit, Cynthia was a walking advertisement for Picture Perfect, Ella’s five-year-old image consultancy firm.
But, while Cynthia’s ‘look’ had needed a review, her communication—and negotiation—skills definitely hadn’t. This had been demonstrated most effectively to Ella when she’d attempted to say no when she’d received Cynthia’s most unexpected request.
Take on Jake Donner as a client?
Not in a million years.
Except—how to say no to your number one client with no reasonable excuse? Or rather, without a reason she had any intention of disclosing?
It turned out it wasn’t possible. Even worse, Cynthia had made it clear that she considered this job a personal favour. And when half your clientele was a direct result of Cynthia’s word of mouth, a favour was definitely not too much to ask.
And besides, if she was objective—even though the concept of objectivity was laughable where Jake was concerned—with Jake Donner she’d have a success story that would far eclipse Cynthia’s. Her business was doing well, but with Jake on her client list the impact on her bottom line could be stratospheric.
The fact that Jake was the star of her number one most humiliating experience—and from a girl with quite a list, that was saying something—was completely irrelevant.
So here she was. Not—outwardly—nervous at all, just moments away from seeing Jake Donner for the first time in thirteen years.
To say she felt ill would be a monumental understatement.
‘Ella!’ Cynthia called, meeting Ella’s gaze with typical directness. ‘Come in. I’ve asked Jake to stay back a few minutes.’
Behind Ella, a ding announced the arrival of the elevator, and within seconds the two women were alone in the hallway as the rest of the board were whisked away.
‘How did the meeting go?’ Ella asked.
But Cynthia only responded with matching raised eyebrows.
Seriously, what did Ella expect? Jake was Sydney’s most famous recluse. He was about to be splashed across Australian and international media. He was not going to be in a good mood.
And when he saw her, it was only going to get worse. She had no doubt Jake wanted his past to stay as buried as hers.
With a deep breath, Ella straightened her shoulders, and mentally yanked herself into line as Cynthia reopened the heavy boardroom doors.
She could do this. She was Ella Cartwright.
Confident. Polished. Successful.
Jake Donner was just another client.
Another deep breath.
You’re not that girl any more.
Confident. Polished. Successful.
He probably barely remembered her.
Just another client.
Ella repeated the phrase over and over as she entered the room, scarcely acknowledging the expansive table that dominated the room or the drizzling rain that blurred the city vista. She was too busy focusing on the rear view of a dark head of slightly-too-long hair—all that was visible of Jake with his chair swivelled away from the doorway.
He didn’t move as they approached.
‘Well played, Cynthia,’ he said, his tone quiet but not soft.
Ella blinked, taking a moment to absorb a voice both familiar and yet completely foreign. He’d been seventeen last time she’d seen him, his voice already deep and mature. But now it was … different. In a way that she couldn’t quite explain. Richer, somehow.
For no reason she could fathom, she shivered.
‘Not played, Jacob,’ Cynthia said. ‘That would imply I was the winner and you the loser. Unless, of course, you’ve cast Armada in the winner’s role?’
Jake laughed, but still didn’t turn. ‘There’s no guarantee this is going to work, Cynthia. I think everyone is hugely overestimating my appeal to the average Australian.’
Ella swallowed a surprised laugh. Surely Jake couldn’t truly believe that? Despite her best efforts—her very best—avoiding Jake Donner entirely when she’d moved to Sydney almost a decade earlier had proved impossible. This might have been the first time they’d been in the same room, but Jake had permeated her world at all sorts of inopportune moments.
He was hard to miss, what with his success being the freakish type that attracted the mainstream media—with his name splashed across everything from articles of terribly serious business analysis to the trashiest of gossip magazines. And he was always linked to impressive phrases: Internet Visionary for one. Or Web Evangelist. Even The Bill Gates of His Generation.
She remembered thinking Jake would’ve got a kick out of that last one.
Belatedly, Ella registered that Cynthia was speaking. Introducing her.
As the chair began to turn Ella swallowed, then shut her eyes briefly, so by the time Jake Donner’s ice-blue eyes locked with hers, she was ready.
Sort of.
‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘I’m Ella Cartwright, owner of Picture Perfect. I’ll be your personal rebranding and image consultant for the duration of the campaign.’
Good. She sounded every bit as professional—and together—as normal.
She could do this.
Ella stepped towards Jake, her hand extended, just as she would if he were any other brand-new client.
Which he was.
A moment passed. Nothing happened.
Had she made a tactical error, pretending she didn’t know