About the Author
About Leah Ashton

An unashamed fan of all things happily-ever-after, LEAH ASHTON has been a lifelong reader of romance. Writing came a little bit later—although in hindsight she’s been dreaming up stories for as long as she can remember. Sadly, the most popular boy in school never did suddenly fall head over heels in love with her …

Now she lives in Perth, Western Australia, with her own real-life hero, two gorgeous dogs and the world’s smartest cat. By day she works in IT-land; by night she considers herself incredibly lucky to be writing the type of books she loves to read, and to have the opportunity to share her own characters’ happy-ever-afters with readers.

You can visit Leah at www.leah-ashton.com

Also by Leah Ashton

Secrets and Speed Dating*

*Published as part of the

Mills & Boon Loves … anthology

Did you know this is also available as an eBook? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

A Girl Less Ordinary
Leah Ashton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

PROLOGUE

Fremantle, Western Australia. Thirteen years ago

NOT EVEN AS she stood outside Jake Donner’s bedroom window, watching the flimsy and slightly askew aluminium blinds smack rhythmically against the glass in the gentle breeze, did Eleanor Cartwright—even for a moment—have second thoughts.

Which wasn’t to say she wasn’t nervous. Of course she was. Declarations of love, she imagined, were always at least slightly nerve-racking.

But tonight, nerves didn’t matter.

She had to do this.

You should tell him, honey. Love shouldn’t be kept secret.

She hadn’t paid much attention to her mum when she’d said that a couple of months ago. She thought maybe she’d even laughed?

I don’t love him, Mum, don’t be stupid. We’re just friends.

And her mum had done that annoying thing where she raised her eyebrows as if she were the all-knowing, and gently shook her head. It had made Eleanor feel about twelve, not sixteen.

Whatever, mum. He’s leaving anyway. There’s no point.

And maybe there still wasn’t.

But the pointlessness—or not—didn’t matter any more.

Since exactly twenty-nine days ago, a lot of stuff didn’t matter any more.

Eleanor took a deep breath. She could do this.

Letting Jake leave Fremantle—and her—without knowing how she felt was no longer an option.

A larger pre-dawn gust of air made Eleanor shiver, and it slipped through the opening in Jake’s window to make the blinds rattle loudly.

No sound came from his room. Which wasn’t all that surprising, given it was about three o’clock in the morning. Plus, Jake slept like a log.

She stepped closer, the dew that coated the long, unmown grass around his house damp against her legs. Jake’s bed was right below the window, so, on tiptoe, she slid it open. The window—and the house—were old, and it gave its usual shriek of protest.

‘Jake?’ she said, hoping the sound had woken him.

No such luck.

So she continued with her plan, gripping the edges of the window, and hoisting herself upwards. Then she would perch on the window sill, reach for Jake, and gently shake him awake.

This, however, was not what happened.

Instead, her momentum propelled her upwards—and inwards—not at all in the way she’d imagined. In the cacophony of the blinds, her own surprised yelp, and then Jake’s much louder shout, she found herself bounced from the bed and onto the floor, Jake’s body pressed against hers from chest, to hip, to toes. Her glasses had parted ways with her face, but even so Jake’s confusion was apparent even in the—slightly fuzzy—moonlight.

‘What the hell? Eleanor?’

She nodded, temporarily incapable of speech for two reasons: the impact of hitting the worn carpet, and the realisation that Jake was only wearing boxer shorts.

But then he was up, and away from her, the overhead light coming on a second later. She stared at the naked bulb, doing her best to breathe and think at the same time.

‘Eleanor,’ he said, ‘why are you here?’

He crossed to her, reaching out and pulling her to her feet. He met her gaze with confusion. ‘Why are you still in your uniform?’

She looked down, taking in her crumpled white shirt and knee-length tartan skirt. She’d barely registered what she was wearing. That day, the week—the past month—it had all been a blur.

‘I couldn’t sleep.’

‘So you decided to jump in my window?’

Eleanor just looked at him.

Jake sighed, and he scratched at his belly absently. That belly had changed a lot since their many trips to the beach last summer. Now it was firmer, leaner—she could see the angular jut of his hipbones just above where his boxers hung low on his body.

Following her gaze, he hooked a finger in the waistband and tugged them a little higher. But he didn’t look embarrassed.

He never did.

In contrast, Eleanor usually felt like a walking bundle of self-consciousness.

His dark hair was a mess, but he still looked really, really great.

Eleanor knew she didn’t look great. But at least she’d washed away the evening’s worth of dried tears on her cheeks. Besides, her mum had always told her that it didn’t matter what she looked like. It was what was inside that counted.

‘I wanted to talk to you,’ she said softly.

Jake’s gaze darted away. ‘About your mum?’

‘No,’ she said. And did he look—relieved?

In the almost month since her mum had forgotten to look before stepping out onto a busy Fremantle street, Eleanor had barely seen Jake.

That had been her choice—hadn’t it? For the first few days she’d left the house for nothing but the funeral—the oblivion of sleep the only relief from the indescribable pain of loss.

And then, finally, when she’d returned to school, it’d been alone. Jake’s final year exams were already over and so, for the first time in four years, she’d walked to and from school without him.

She hadn’t wanted company. Not even Jake.

But now she did. Now she needed him.

And yet he was shifting his weight from foot to foot—like an Olympic runner settling into his starting blocks, mere milliseconds from sprinting away.

No. That couldn’t be right. Jake had always been there for her.

She needed to sit, so she did, perching on the edge of his bed. Amongst the bunched-up fabric she found her glasses, and she put them on with hands that shook just slightly.

He eyed her warily.

This wasn’t at all how she’d expected this would go.

‘I wanted to talk to you before you left.’

‘I don’t fly out until Monday, Eleanor. That’s two perfectly good days you had to come knock on my door at a time I wasn’t—you know—sleeping.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘I didn’t think you’d mind.’

But obviously, he did.

Just three weeks ago he’d held her hand at the cemetery, his pockets stuffed full of tissues for her—and now he couldn’t even look at her?

Jake crossed his arms. Not exactly the body language of someone open to a declaration of love.

Not that it was going to stop her. She’d come this far. Jake acting strange didn’t make a difference.

She understood strange, anyway. She could barely remember what it felt to feel normal—to feel like herself. All she had was little pinpricks of the normal and familiar amongst a near blackout of grief.

And this thing with Jake—well, she wasn’t stupid. She’d seen the way he looked at her sometimes. She wasn’t imagining it. Something had changed. She was sure of it.

Maybe she just needed a different plan of attack.

She shot across the room before her nerves got hold of her. Jake’s eyes widened as she came closer, but he didn’t move.

A ruler length away from him, she stopped, and had to tilt her head upwards to meet his eyes.

She considered reaching out to touch him. The popular girls at school made it look so easy—they’d absently hook an arm over their boyfriend-of-the-moment’s shoulder at lunchtime, or wrap themselves around him at the bus stop.

But she wasn’t one of those girls. And she didn’t know what to do.

Frustration made her talk quickly. ‘I love you.’

It ended up being more a mumble, but that Jake heard every word was obvious in the way his body jerked away from her.

Not the reaction she was after. The churning in her stomach stopped dead.

‘No, you don’t,’ he said. As if that were a fact.

‘Yes,’ she said, more clearly this time. ‘I do.’

He shook his head. ‘You’re just confused because …’

‘Of my mum? No. I knew before. It was her idea I tell you.’

Now he walked away, just a few paces. He turned his back to her, resting his hands on a desk covered in keyboards and hard drives and floppy disks—and a lot of stuff Eleanor couldn’t possibly name.

At the back of her mind, she had the feeling she should be crying. But instead, she felt oddly still. Calm.

She needed to walk away, straight across to the fence that separated their houses, then through the three-paling-wide gap they’d used to cross back and forth for years. Back to her room. Tomorrow morning she could come back here, pretend she hadn’t meant it, and things could go back to normal.

But Jake was about to leave. Things were never going to be normal again.

‘I think,’ she said, her heart pounding, ‘that you might love me, too.’

This made him spin around, and suddenly he was right in front of her. Crowding her.

‘You need to go, Eleanor. Your dad will be worried.’

No, he wouldn’t. Her dad wouldn’t notice if she stripped naked and ran laps down at Port Beach.

Jake was so close.

She liked the width of his shoulders, and his chest, too. Some of the pretty girls had noticed, but Jake hadn’t been interested. And she’d been glad—really glad—when he’d shut them down. Actually, he’d laid his geek act on pretty thick—thick enough that, if anything, his weirdo label had been even more firmly reapplied, which was of course exactly what he’d wanted.

The guy standing right in front of her now, in his bedroom, with his shirt off, was definitely not a weirdo in her book.

He was her best friend. The guy who made her laugh, and helped her with maths—which she hated—and that she helped with his English—which he hated. They were a team.

She loved him. And she needed to know if he loved her.

‘Eleanor—please, you need to—’

But before he got the words out, she kissed him.

Or at least, she tried to. But by the time she stood on tiptoes, closed her eyes and leant forward—her lips only collided with his cheek.

His cheek.

And it was this—this—that finally kick-started what should’ve been her immediate reaction. People who loved you did not respond with ‘no, you don’t’.

They definitely didn’t turn away from your kisses.

For a moment, the icy horror of humiliation froze her. Froze her with her lips still whisper close to his skin.

‘No. I can’t do this. I—’

What was he saying? Eleanor could barely hear him, overcome by her own voice in her head.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

How could she have really believed that Jake could love her? Why? Why on earth would he?

She wasn’t pretty. She wasn’t super smart like him.

She didn’t wear the right clothes like the popular girls. She didn’t know how to flirt, or to kiss a guy. Obviously.

She had to go. She should never have come.

Without a word she stepped around him, climbed onto his bed and halfway out of the window before she registered he hadn’t said a word.

Wow. She’d actually thought he’d tell her to stop. To stay.

She looked over her shoulder as her legs dangled outside, her skirt all rucked up around her waist—but she didn’t care. As if Jake would even notice.

Jake was watching her. His gaze was full of … what?

Regret?

No. Now she was just being delusional. She knew what it was.

Pity. Definitely.

And she had no interest in staying around for that.

So she jumped to the ground, and walked—even though she badly wanted to run—back to her house. Without a backward glance.

Later, as she stared at her ceiling, incapable of any more tears, she managed to unearth one single positive out of the whole horrible mess.

This was another one of her mum’s ideas—the absolute belief that something good could be found in absolutely anything. She was pretty sure even her mum would’ve been stumped as far as finding a positive in having her ripped away from Eleanor far too soon—but this thing with Jake? Yes—there was a positive.

She’d never have to see him again.

CHAPTER ONE

Sydney, New South Wales Today

IT WAS AN ambush. Plain and simple.

Jake Donner knew it. Every one of the board members who currently watched him with matching unreadable expressions knew it, too.

How long had this been planned? Hours? Days? Weeks?

‘No.’

Jake figured that was pretty much all that needed to be said.

‘There’s no other option, Jake.’ This came from Cynthia George, a silver-haired, retired chief executive of one of Australia’s major banks who now spent her spare time on a handful of corporate boards across Sydney. As she studied him with what could only be described as a steely expression, Jake was reminded why he was so keen to appoint her to this board.

Intimidating just began to cover it. Pretty damn scary was closer.

But still, he shrugged. ‘Find another one.’

Jake forced his body to fall back into the soft leather of his high-backed chair, attempting a fair facsimile of casual nonchalance. But his muscles were tense, and he found himself fighting the instinct to leap up and pace around the edge of the Armada Software boardroom.

This was not representative of his usual board meeting experience. Usually, the time was spent paying careful attention during the topics that interested him, zoning out during those that didn’t, and occasionally congratulating himself on his decision a few years back to extract himself from this excruciatingly boring world of the business he’d founded. Now he had a twenty-eight per cent share of the company, an up-and-coming CEO—also currently studying him across the streaky marri surface of the boardroom table—and a board made up of Sydney’s corporate elite—nearly all financially invested in Armada. All this added up to the perfect excuse to pay as minimal attention as possible to the day-to-day operations of the company and instead let the experts worry about it while he did what he was actually good at: coding software.

Up until about a minute ago, this arrangement had been operating flawlessly.

Across the table, the chief financial officer pushed a paper-clipped sheaf of papers in his direction, the pages fanning out slightly as they slowed to a stop.

‘Here’s an option, Jake. We reduce our FTE by twenty per cent.’

Full-time employees. In an organisation of over two thousand in this skyscraper alone, that was a heck of a lot of people.

‘Cutting staff is a last resort.’

The CFO nodded. ‘Agreed.’ He gestured at the LCD screen at the head of the table and the final presentation slide it still displayed. ‘Hence the board’s proposal.’

Jake didn’t even bother to look at the figures and multicoloured graphs before him. He was familiar with them all. He might slouch about in his chair and say very little at these meetings, but he read every single board document in detail.

Sales were down. Costs were up. Australia might have weathered the Global Financial Crisis better than most of the world, but Armada had not emerged unscathed.

The facts were inarguable.

But the proposed solution?

Definitely worth arguing about.

‘I’m confident that the release of Armada’s first smart phone will significantly increase revenue,’ Jake said, and he was. Just not as confident as he’d been last night when he’d absorbed the surprising financial report. He’d expected the board to have a typically brilliant solution to what he’d been sure was a temporary problem. But their unease was unsettling. Their solution impossible.

Jake Donner—as the new face of Armada? Nope. Wasn’t going to happen.

‘There’s no need for something so drastic,’ he said.

Cynthia smiled without humour. ‘A few TV and radio appearances, a conference keynote address and a couple of interviews is hardly drastic, Jake. Armada needs a public face, and you’re it.’

He shook his head. ‘For a decade the quality of our products has spoken for itself. I seriously doubt wheeling out some computer geek is going to help anything.’

She snorted, an incongruous sound in the perfectly silent room. ‘Computer geek? Try infamous multimillionaire recluse. Number two in Headline magazine’s list of Australia’s most intriguing people. Number one in Lipstick’s most eligible bachelors. The increased publicity for the new phone will be immeasurable should you be the face of the product.’

Jake sank even further into his chair, stretching his long jean-clad legs out beneath the table. He didn’t ask to be featured in those stupid glossy magazines. Didn’t ask to forever be annoying his long-suffering local constabulary in order to despatch the more than occasional misguided journalist or photographer who trespassed onto his Blue Mountains acreage home.

It was all nonsense. Absolute rubbish. There was no story to be found. No scoop.

Was it really that unusual to despise Sydney’s concrete jungle? To equate wearing a suit, unending meetings and patently false schmoozing to something only a few degrees south of selling his soul?

Apparently so.

Who cared that he’d rather work remotely from the comfy couch in his lounge room? Who cared that he’d rather stick pins in his eyes than attend some society function chock-full of Sydney’s self-satisfied, Botoxed elite? Who cared that he truly believed his private life was private and that a flat no-interview policy made his life significantly easier?

Well, according to the ten sets of eyes focused on him right this second, and the substantial business acumen behind them—a lot of people cared. A hell of a lot of people.

Jake gave up pretending to be all casual and dispassionate. He flattened his sneakers to the parquet floor and shoved his chair backwards, leaping to his feet in a sharp movement. The chair continued its journey until it thumped gently against the wall, but by then Jake had already completed half a lap of the room’s wall of windows.

‘In a saturated marketplace, Jake, just having a great product isn’t enough.’ This came from the Vice President, Marketing & Communications, an elegant, spindly woman with jet-black hair. ‘Unfortunately, early indications from our market research are that the Armada phone is generating little interest from consumers. Our US and Japanese competitors have the market cornered—people want the familiar brand, regardless of our superior phone.’

Jake paused. ‘And what, exactly, do you think I could do about that? How is my mug on a magazine cover going to sell phones?’

The VP smiled. ‘The results of our copy-testing focus groups are compelling. An advertisement including your name and photo scored significantly higher in brand linkage and consumer motivation. We’re talking quadrupling of interest in the product.’

Jake didn’t even bother being surprised that focus groups had been run. Of course they had. He was the only one late to this party.

He rubbed his forehead, a futile effort to erase the newly created furrows. His jaw was clamped shut and his teeth ground together.

‘The board’s recommendation is that we proceed with the Jake Donner campaign.’ It was Cynthia again.

‘If you decline, we’ll be forced to reconvene to begin implementation of the company restructure,’ added the CFO. Restructure, of course, being code for mass redundancies.

Now the VP chimed in. ‘We’re planning a short campaign, Jake. One month of inconvenience to you for tens of millions in potential increased revenue.’

The whole board murmured in enthusiastic agreement. Yes, this was definitely an ambush. He half expected them all to start lobbing their pens at him next—in a perfectly coordinated fashion, of course.

One month of inconvenience.

Could he do 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 him? It was a risk. One she’d decided worth taking after her weekend of preparing for—read: stressing about—this meeting.

Her plan was simple: brazen it out, and hope for the best.

The alternative could not possibly be considered.

Jake’s gaze was unreadable as the silence stretched. Stubbornly, Ella kept her hand right where it was, and her stare did not waver.

Not that it didn’t want to. Her eyes wanted to drop to the floor—desperately. Her shoulders wanted to slouch. Her arms wanted to cross and form a useless shield.

And most of all, her body wanted to sprint as fast as her spiky heels would carry her—out of this room and infinitely far, far away.

But she’d never do any of those things. Not any more. The girl Jake had known would have. Definitely.

With no other option but to look at him, she did, her gaze travelling across a face—despite all the photos she’d seen of him over the years—that was still a surprise. He was just so different from the boy she remembered.

He was more. More broad, with muscles clearly outlined by the thin fabric of his T-shirt. More handsome, with any hint of softness long ago erased by the harsh angles of age, and a sharper edge to the line of his jaw to complement the hollowing out of his cheeks. And more dark, with his hair bereft of its splashes of sun-streaked blond and now simply the colour of her morning espresso.

She’d once thought him cute. Gorgeous, even. But that no longer covered it.

Devastatingly handsome came closer.

Finally, she let her hand drop. She smoothed it over her hip, the fine fabric of her wool pencil skirt just the slightest bit rough under her palm.

She nodded, a brisk, workmanlike movement. ‘Well, then. I guess our first task will be to discuss the value of a good first impression.’

Again, she sounded absolutely normal. She even managed a smile, although her lips felt as if they stretched across her teeth.

Ella was definitely able to read Jake’s expression clearly now: guarded and wary—following just the briefest flash of confusion.

‘Is that your expert opinion…. Ella?’

She held her breath, sure Jake was going to announce that he already knew her. Reveal in one fell swoop the past she’d gone to such great lengths to hide—and to her star client, no less.

And then inspiration hit. She needed to talk to Jake—alone.

‘It is,’ she said. ‘But don’t worry,’ she said, turning to Cynthia. ‘I’ll get him from surly to suave in no time.’

In her peripheral vision Ella was sure she saw Jake’s jaw drop. He went to speak, but she cut him off.

‘Actually, Cynthia—would you mind leaving us for a few minutes? I know this was supposed to be a brief meet and greet, but, really, there’s no time like the present. And obviously we have lots of work to do.’

The older lady grinned. ‘That you do,’ she said, and her eyes were sparkling as she looked from Jake to Ella and back again. ‘Good luck,’ she whispered as she paused briefly beside Ella on her way out. ‘Don’t worry, he’s not normally this prickly. He just needs a little time to adjust to his new role.’

If only that were the real reason Jake was currently near burning her skin with the intensity of his glare.

But Ella just laughed, smiling as if she were a woman with infallible confidence—and not at all concerned that she was about to be alone in a room with Jake Donner.

An instant later, as the door clicked shut, she was.

The next second he was on his feet. Then, suddenly—horribly—he was standing far too close to her. Close enough that she could smell the clean, fresh scent of him—not cologne, something else. Maybe whatever he washed his clothes in? An innocuous, friendly scent that did not match the reaction he triggered in her.

Blood thrummed through her veins and the hairs on her arms stood on end.

And then warmth collected low in her belly, the sensation shocking her. Surely he couldn’t still affect her in that way? Hadn’t she learnt the hard way what a mistake it was to want Jake Donner?

He waited before he spoke, for what felt like hours. Could he sense her tension, even though she did nothing—not a blink—to give herself away?

Finally, finally, he spoke.

‘What the hell is going on, Eleanor?’

CHAPTER TWO

ELEANOR CARTWRIGHT.

Jake couldn’t quite grasp the frankly crazy concept that the woman before him, this woman who didn’t so much as flinch as he delivered his trademark—or so the papers said—glower, was Eleanor.

It didn’t make any sense.

He’d recognised her immediately, of course.

Or maybe not immediately. All he’d heard was Cynthia starting to talk some rubbish about hiring him an image consultant—an image consultant? That was a job?—and then he’d turned around ready to tell this consultant that he had no requirement for her services. He’d barely been paying attention when Cynthia had mentioned the consultant’s name, too focused on ending this latest bout of high-handedness as quickly as possible.

The board might have got away with it this morning—due to very specific extenuating circumstances—but Jake Donner did not get pushed around. He never had been, and he never would. It was yet another reason why he avoided the corporate world.

He had no time to pander to the whims of others.

But then, with the words Unfortunately you’ve wasted your time right on the tip of his tongue—he’d seen her.

His gaze had caught with hers, instantly. And his first reaction, if he were brutally honest, had been something hot, and primal, and male. His body had registered the obvious: a beautiful woman stood before him. A woman with brilliant emerald eyes and thick lashes of blackest black.

But then his mind had kicked into gear, and he’d recognised her.

It had been a long time. A very, very long time. Long enough that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought of her.

But he hadn’t forgotten Eleanor.

Although his memories clashed dramatically with the woman who stood before him now.

Because the transformation was complete.

Hair, teeth, glasses—lack of—everything had changed. Where Eleanor had once had nicely rounded curves she was now willowy, bordering on thin. Her dirty blonde hair had become auburn-streaked mahogany and her pale skin now had a golden hue. The braces were gone, the glasses as well, and—he was sure—she was wearing those coloured contact lenses. As at sixteen, Eleanor Cartwright’s eyes had definitely been brown.

And finally, her nose … It was long, thin and straight. The bump she’d hated so much conspicuously absent.

At a glance, he’d been right—she was beautiful. But if you looked past the dazzling camouflage of her hair and make-up, the reality was quite different.

Full lips, but her mouth veered closer to wide than delicate. And while she did have defined cheekbones, her jaw was strong, not elegant. Plus her eyes, once you saw beyond all the make-up, were pretty, but certainly not spectacular.

So, no, she wasn’t beautiful, if you really looked. But as a whole package—from her perfectly fitted suit, to the soft elegance of her upswept hair and the aura of confidence she just oozed from every pore—it would be easy to think she was.

She still hadn’t answered his question.

‘Eleanor—’

‘That’s not my name,’ she said. Snapped, really.

She gave a little shake of her head and stepped around him, covering the short distance to the table in three hip-swinging strides. She turned, leaning her butt against the table, her hands lightly resting on either side of her on the polished wood surface, her ankles casually crossed.

‘I thought the answer was obvious,’ she said. ‘I’m an image consultant. You need your image to be made over—quickly—so, tada! Here I am. Image consultant at your service.’

He was a little in awe at her unflappable demeanour. Oh, he knew she wasn’t as calm as she appeared. He’d seen the flicker in her eyes when he’d stepped too close.

But she was determined to give nothing else away.

‘What’s with ignoring the elephant in the room, Eleanor?’ he said. ‘Don’t play games. We’re not strangers.’

No, definitely not strangers.

But certainly not friends. The room hummed with uncomfortable tension.

She shrugged. ‘I fail to see how our past is relevant. I’m a professional. You’re a professional. I can see no reason why anything but the here and now would be of any importance.’

However, what was relevant was his sudden urge to end this meeting—and this whole image consultant debacle. Immediately.

‘Eleanor—’

She groaned and shook her head. ‘Really? You think the fact I had a crush on you—when I was a very silly and very angst-ridden teenage girl, no less—would matter now? I assure you, I’m not secretly carrying a thirteen-year-old torch.’ A pause. ‘Don’t worry, you’re safe. You’re in no imminent danger of further declarations of love.’

That hadn’t been what he’d been thinking at all. He’d been thinking that there was a woman in his boardroom who made him feel …

Lord, he didn’t know. Made him feel as if he didn’t want to be in the same room with her any more.

The issue didn’t need any further analysis than that.

The benefit of being very wealthy—and known for being, well, surly, as Eleanor had said—was that he didn’t need to do any of this. He didn’t even need to worry about a carefully polite excuse. He could tell her to leave, give no explanation, and that would be that.

A very silly and very angst-ridden teenage girl.

Jake had no idea why her words were echoing in his brain.

She was wrong, too. He remembered strength. And pain. And …

Need.

She’d needed him.

Just like …

The words he’d had piled up and waiting on the tip of his tongue—to end this unwanted, awkward meeting—stalled.

Jake watched her watching him. Had she guessed what he was about to say? He thought so.

And she wouldn’t just meekly leave; he knew it, absolutely. She was different—and it wasn’t just her clothes, or her hair. This Eleanor studied him with a hard edge he never would’ve imagined her capable of.

He couldn’t even begin to reconcile his memories with the woman standing before him now.

It was as if she were a different person. Certainly not Eleanor, his best friend through those awkward high-school years when they’d both been painfully stereotypical social pariahs.

They’d been straight out of Central Casting. Jake was The Geek, while Eleanor had been The Wallflower.

With no other friends, they’d initially banded together through necessity, the only two students on scholarships at their fancy private school—low socio-economic ones, too, just for that added stigma. The only two students who lived in government-subsidised housing, and the only two students with eccentric new-age parents—hers—or a drug-addled verging-on-neglectful mother—his.

Eleanor’s words still hung in the air between them.

‘So what you’re saying is that you’re not interested in a walk down memory lane. As far as you’re concerned, we met five minutes ago.’

That wasn’t even close to what he’d meant to say. Those words, waiting too long, had evaporated.

She beamed—but was her smile brittle? ‘Exactly.’

‘That’s kind of nuts.’

This was kind of nuts.

She blinked, but smiled on, undeterred. ‘That’s your opinion. Personally, that’s what I’d call dwelling on our past as—clearly—we’ve both moved on. I don’t remember either of us sending Christmas cards.’

Touché.

Yet, he still didn’t know quite what to make of this situation.

He wanted her to leave—but didn’t.

His confusion bothered him—after all, Jake Donner thought in black and white. Binary ones and zeros.

He’d never thought he’d see her again. It was a shock … no. Not even that. A surprise. Combined with the recently completed board meeting, it was hardly unexpected that his thought process would be a little … muddled.

But, one thing was clear.

‘Here,’ he said, ‘I’m going to make this easy. I don’t want an image consultant. So I’ll tell Cynthia, and—’

‘No!’

It was by far and away the most expressive word she’d uttered so far.

He watched her as she took a deep breath and rolled her shoulders slightly. ‘I mean, that’s unnecessary. I’m an experienced image consultant, Jake, with one hundred per cent positive feedback from my clients,’ she said. ‘My firm isn’t the biggest, but my track record is outstanding. As you know, Cynthia is one of my clients. But I’ve also assisted some of the most famous and powerful people in Sydney.’

She listed a few names, from singers, to television journalists to chief executives.

‘I assure you, you won’t find anyone better qualified than myself to help you,’ she said, finishing her little pitch.

‘That’s all well and good,’ he said, ‘but what if I don’t think I need an image consultant at all?’

She laughed, the first time her expression had diversified from its mask of professionalism.

Jake crossed his arms defensively, but he refused to ask for the cause of her mirth. He had no doubt she was about to tell him.

Just as soon as she—finally—stopped laughing.

Ella did her very best to silence the last little hiccups of laughter, frankly appalled at her reaction.

What had happened to Jake being ‘just another client’? As if she’d ever fall into fits of giggles with anyone else.

It was basically Image Consultant 101: Don’t laugh at your client. Ever.

Not exactly the ideal way to build up someone’s self-confidence, was it? And that was kind of the whole point of her job.

More importantly—he already didn’t want anything to do with her. It radiated from him in waves.

So, yeah, hysterical giggles were far from the most intelligent way to change his mind.

She cleared her throat. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘That was uncalled for.’

Jake was obviously waiting for her to elaborate, watching her with an oddly contradictory intensity—as if he was pushing her away while simultaneously filing her somewhere for future reference. Whatever it was, it did all sorts of unwanted things to her equilibrium.

Which just wasn’t acceptable. She’d learnt years ago how to present herself at her absolute best in all situations. The old Eleanor would’ve ducked her chin, and slouched, and blushed under the intensity of Jake’s attention.

It bothered the new Ella that her body was trying its best to do all those things. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had to fight to project the confident, polished image she’d so carefully crafted.

It had been long enough that she hadn’t thought she was pretending any more—that she just was Ella. But five minutes with Jake and if she wasn’t careful, she’d be sixteen again.

And she was never going to let that happen.

Deliberately, she restraightened her already perfectly straight shoulders. Took a deep breath. Remembered the affirmations she’d once stuck to her bathroom mirror:

Confident. Polished. Successful.

‘Jake, you’re a walking “Before Picture”. Look at you,’ she said—and she was relieved her voice was back to cool and collected. ‘Hair that you don’t cut often enough—and I’d guess that when you do you go to those “no need to book” salons?’ Jake’s stony lack of denial she interpreted as a yes. ‘You’re wearing a T-shirt that looks at least five years old, your jeans have a rip in them, and to say your shoes were scuffed would be kind.’

To be fair, he did look rather hot in his super, super casual get-up—the well-washed pale grey fabric of his shirt outlining the strength of his chest, and the worn jeans hanging low on his hips. But an image that was going to sell millions of phones for Armada? No, not so much. Unless Armada’s new corporate look was ‘scruffy’.

Jake crossed his arms in a slow, deliberate movement. ‘So I’ll go shopping.’

Ella took a measured breath.

‘To someone unfamiliar with the importance of personal appearance in the corporate world, I can see how my services may seem easily replaced by a trip to your local shopping centre.’ She paused, skimming her gaze down Jake’s lean form. ‘However, over the next few weeks I’ll demonstrate to you the transformational impact of personal image. We’ll also explore and develop your own personal brand through my media-training services.’

Jake’s expression was someplace between scepticism and contempt. ‘Personal brand, Eleanor—really? People actually talk like that, and think it means—or makes a difference to—anything?’

‘Yes,’ she said, refusing to be rattled. ‘People do. Many people. And while you may be in denial you do need my help. Help with your image—and the way you handle the media and the general public. Open and approachable are not two words anyone would ever associate with you.’

‘I wouldn’t want them to,’ he said. ‘My life is my business.’

‘Of course it is,’ Ella said. ‘And with my assistance, you’ll have far more control over the pieces of your life you choose to reveal—and those you choose to keep private.’

To hide.

Jake shrugged dismissively. ‘You’re a bit too late for that. The media dug up my past years ago. They can write what they like. I’m just not going to help them out.’

He was right. The media had splashed his past across the more tabloid of Australia’s newspapers and magazines. The disadvantaged childhood. The prescription drug-addicted mother. The absent father who’d squeezed every cent he could out of Jake’s fame by talking to any magazine that approached him.

And, of course, the women he’d dated. More than one had sold their stories within what must have been moments of the end of their liaison with Jake.

Although, come to think of it, Ella couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen that type of article. Did he have a girlfriend now?

No. He was just another client.

It wasn’t any of her business.

‘If you give them something, Jake, you can take back control. The media won’t need to write lies in place of a truth you give them.’

He shook his head, rejecting her words.

‘There’s no avoiding it, Jake—the media is key to this campaign. So you’re going to have to learn to play the game for a few weeks.’

‘I’m not a child,’ Jake said, walking past her and closer to the windows. The rain had become heavier and so Jake was gazing at little more than a wall of water. ‘I can play nice. I don’t need lessons.’

This time the smallest of frustrated sighs did slip out. ‘You’re committed to the campaign. And my services will make a difference. I promise you that, after a few sessions with me, you’ll barely recognise yourself.’

He met her gaze. ‘That’s exactly what I’m worried about.’

She blinked. Normally her clients couldn’t wait to begin their transformation. Ella understood that, understood the need to grow and change. Jake— so apparently happy to ignore what the rest of the world thought of him, and so reluctant to concede anything to conform—she had a lot of trouble getting her head around.

She always had. In that way, at least, he hadn’t changed at all.

But she could do this. She had to.

‘While it would appear I’m not going to convince you today—I will convince you. You need me, Jake.’

With his back to her, Jake shrugged. ‘I seriously doubt that.’

Ella’s jaw clenched.

‘Give me two hours.’

He turned back towards her, a rapid movement in stark contrast to his default speed of languid. Maybe, finally, she’d piqued his interest. ‘For what?’

‘Proof,’ she said. She mimicked his casual shrug of before. ‘That’s all.’

‘And if you fail—that’s it. You’ll walk away—leaving me image-consultant free?’

She nodded. ‘Exactly. Although it’s possible the Armada board may disagree with this arrangement.’

Disagree was probably too soft a word. ‘Have conniptions’ would more likely be their response at the prospect of Jake Donner—with no buffing or polishing—fronting their campaign.

But, of course, it wouldn’t get to that.

Jake made a flippant gesture. ‘I’ll handle the board.’

Ella’s lips tipped up into the tightest of grins. ‘So, we have a deal? Two hours of your time. If I’m right, you agree to follow my programme. If I’m wrong—that’s it. Armada can tear up my contract.’

Slowly, he nodded. Then closed the distance between them and held out his hand.

Ah. Now he was going to shake her hand—when he thought she’d just made a deal she was certain to lose.

Had he seriously forgotten how competitive she was? Losing was never an option for Ella Cartwright.

But Jake’s touch suddenly obliterated any thoughts of victory or defeat.

It was a simple movement: just a handshake. Yet the sensation of his palm, and his fingers—large and just the slightest bit rough—wrapped around hers, it … struck her momentarily dumb. All she could concentrate on was the warmth radiating from this very G-rated connection. The sparks …

‘Why are you so determined to work with me?’

Ella snatched her hand away. No. Regressing back to a gooey, lovesick teenager was so not an option.

‘Because any image consultant worth her salt would want to work with you. High-profile client, high-profile campaign—what more could I ask for?’ Then she added, because she didn’t think she could reiterate it enough, ‘The fact we were once friends has absolutely no relevance. This is a business relationship, pure and simple.’

It was just slightly catastrophic that Cynthia had insisted it exist at all.

Jake met her gaze and just looked at her for a long moment. He didn’t waver from her eyes, but Ella still had the sense he was searching. Exploring.

‘Are you sure that’s it?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ she replied. Firmly, without missing a beat.

Because she was sure. Absolutely sure.

It was time for her to go.

‘I’ll contact your PA to organise our two hours for tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘We could do today, if you prefer,’ she said. Sweetly.

Ella was nearly positive she saw Jake grin—just a little.

As long as she remembered to treat him exactly as who he was: a client, and she continued to diligently leave the past exactly where it belonged, this could actually work out okay.

It could. Kind of like how pigs could—theoretically—fly right past this twenty-sixth floor window.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow is fine.’

‘Excellent,’ Ella said—briskly and with utter professionalism.

She excused herself and exited the Armada building just as briskly and professionally.

And to look at her, absolutely no one would ever know, or even suspect, how much she was shaking inside.

What had she just got herself into?

CHAPTER THREE

THE next day, Ella stepped out of one of the Armada building’s high-rise elevators onto the charcoal-flecked white marble tiles that paved the lobby of Jake’s floor. Armada shouted out to her in foot-high mirrored letters above the reception desk, and every piece of furniture in the vicinity seemed to be made out of glass or chrome. It was all very … shiny.

Somehow she’d expected something different of this space—something different from the rest of the corporation’s building. Jake’s PA had explained that it was the developers’ floor—basically the place where all the geeks like Jake worked. Although, of course, his PA hadn’t called them geeks. She’d used words like software engineers and system architects, all of which had whizzed right over Ella’s head.

But effectively, this was Jake’s domain—and it just wasn’t what she’d expected. With all its hard edges and heavy aura of obscene wealth, it didn’t seem to fit with the guy who’d worn faded jeans to an executive board meeting.

This whole building just wasn’t where she’d imagined Jake would end up—the boy who’d first earned her awe with his skill with those ancient computer games they’d played on his mother’s unreliable, flickering TV. Even back then, in the early nineties, he’d dismantled and tinkered—always needing to know how things worked. He’d built things, too. As soon as their school had internet, he’d been there at the library, figuring out how to build a web page. And then software that actually did stuff. Although she’d never really understood how it all worked—she’d been so easily impressed—a little counter on his web page that counted down the days to her birthday had wowed her far more than the pages and pages of programming code he was so proud of.

She gave her name to one of the handful of efficient-looking receptionists, and then took a seat on an uncomfortable white leather couch—with shiny chrome feet and armrests, of course. Beside her, floor-to-ceiling windows gave her a clear view down to the Royal Botanic Gardens, although she could see only glimpses of the harbour, what with the surrounding skyscrapers acting like splayed fingers across her eyes.

The sound of footsteps drew her gaze back into the room, and there was Jake.

In a variation of what he’d worn yesterday, but this time his jeans were dark grey, and his white T-shirt had a complicated logo splashed across the front of it.

Without thinking, she smiled—not a businesslike, work-appropriate smile, but a big, cheesy grin. Even if his outfit broke every one of her executive style guidelines, this was the Jake she remembered. It was an unexpectedly reassuring contrast in this environment of austerity and high gloss.

For an instant—so quickly gone that she was almost sure she’d imagined it—he smiled back. And then his gaze drifted to the camera bag at her feet, and his lips thinned.

‘Let me guess—you’re not carrying that camera around for the fun of it?’

No hello, no nothing.

Bringing her grin down a lot of notches—to determinedly cheery rather than genuinely cheesy—she replied, ‘Nope. You and this camera will be seeing a lot of each other over the next couple of hours.’

His lips managed to get even thinner. ‘Fine. Let’s get this over with.’

The cool words were just the reminder she needed. Jake was no more the boy who’d once lived in the fibro house with the overgrown lawn than she was the girl in the multicoloured weatherboard cottage next door. And right now, he was not pleased.

She toned down her smile even further—to bland—and smoothed her palms down the back of her skirt as she stood. She grabbed her handbag and hooked the heavy camera bag over her shoulder.

Jake muttered something under his breath that sounded something like total waste of time.

She simultaneously bristled and ignored him.

His conviction that he didn’t need her was, almost, a little endearing. He really had absolutely no idea. But he would—very soon.

So she didn’t bite.

‘Brilliant,’ she said. ‘Lead the way.’

Without a word he led her down a corridor lined with meeting rooms, all but one empty. Through the nearly opaque glass she could see an enthusiastic meeting in progress, and, from what she could surmise given her blurry view, all attendees were dressed just as casually as Jake.

‘So the dress code on this floor is “jeans”?’ she asked Jake’s back as he strode ahead.

‘My staff can wear whatever they like,’ Jake replied. ‘What they achieve is more important to me than what they look like.’

‘Dressing professionally is about more than just looking good,’ she pointed out.

Jake didn’t even bother to look over his shoulder. ‘They’re just clothes,’ he said, in a frustratingly dismissive tone.

But again she held her tongue. After today she’d have many opportunities to change his opinion.

At the end of the hallway, Jake opened a heavy door, holding it open to let her walk in ahead of him.

It wasn’t a small door—quite the opposite in fact—and yet Ella found herself hesitating.

Why?

He wasn’t crowding her, he wasn’t doing a thing but stand there. But he was tall, and broad—just big—and even in jeans his presence felt far from relaxed. Literally and figuratively, he filled the space around him.

You’re being ridiculous.

But it was as if suddenly every cell in her body were aware of him and, as a result, she’d apparently lost her ability to move.

If she waited another nanosecond, he was going to notice. And that would hardly help the situation if he knew exactly how effortlessly he pushed her off balance.

So she took a deep breath. And walked past him.

There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?

She mentally smacked herself in the forehead as he closed the door and his deep voice directed her to take a seat.

She really needed to pull herself together. She was as jittery as … well, whatever was jittery enough to overthink walking through a doorway.

She sank into a red leather chair across from a glass and stainless-steel desk. The whole office looked like an explosion of dot-com clichés—multicoloured couches grouped in a corner, a mini basketball ring above the bin, a football table in front of the panoramic windows. There was even one of those magic eight balls on the desktop.

‘Great office,’ she said, because it was. Although, once again, she had an odd sense of incongruence, as if Jake didn’t quite belong.

He shrugged, arranging himself in his chair across from her: one shoulder propped against its back, his backside dangerously close to the edge of the seat, one leg thrown out stretched, the other bent haphazardly at the knee. Sprawled would be an apt description.

All dark and broody, he did sprawled well.

‘Armada hired some fancy interior designer,’ he said with derision, dismissing the room with barely a glance

Ah. That made sense. And again she was oddly reassured that this wasn’t Jake—a crazy reaction, given her role was to help Jake fit better into exactly this type of environment.

Ella tugged at the houndstooth fabric of the hem of her skirt, her knees pressed together primly, her back ramrod straight.

She was acting as if she were at a job interview, she realised.

All nervous and fidgety. All Eleanor.

And that just wasn’t on.

Once again, she repeated that reminder to pull herself together.

This was not a big deal. He was just another client.

A brilliant addition to her growing list of success stories. As she’d reminded herself repeatedly in her middlingly convincing pep talk on the train that morning.

If she focused on that—and not their past—she’d have no problems at all. And with that in mind, she deliberately smiled her most welcoming smile.

Jake raised an eyebrow, but she chose to ignore that.

‘So, what we’re going to do this morning is have a mock interview. I’m going to ask you a few questions, and film your responses. Then we’ll watch the footage back together, and I’ll identify areas where I can assist you.’

Jake looked less than enthusiastic, but at least he didn’t argue.

He continued to convey general lack of interest as she set up the tripod, although he did perk up a little when the camera came out.

‘What kind of camera’s that?’ he asked as she bent and fiddled with the equipment.

Ah. Always such a techno geek. Trust Jake to be interested in this shiny, state-of-the-art example of technological wizardry.

‘It’s a digital SLR that also shoots video,’ Ella said. ‘Normally when I do these shoots with clients I have a proper set-up with a journalist, lights and a cameraman. Helps to create the sense of a real interview. But for today, this will do.’

He frowned. ‘There wasn’t time to organise all that?’

‘I thought you’d prefer something a little more low-key,’ she said, although until right this second she hadn’t truly considered why she’d thought that.

‘Thank you,’ he said gruffly, surprising her.

She finished securing the camera and met his eyes across the wide glass table. ‘No worries.’

He didn’t manage to crack a smile—but something had definitely softened in his gaze. Well, at the very least, now he looked marginally less likely to grunt his way through the upcoming mock interview.

Soon everything was in place, Jake remaining behind his desk with Ella and the camera across from him. She’d considered relocating to the comfy-looking couches across the room, but figured that a desk between them was probably the better idea. She didn’t need a repeat of that awkward moment at the door. Or even her reaction to his touch when he’d shook her hand yesterday. Maximum distance between her and Jake could only be a good thing for her sanity.

‘Let’s start with a few warm-up questions, just to get you started. Pretend I’m interviewing you in a television studio.’ Ella put on her best interviewer voice. ‘So tell me, Jake, what did you have for breakfast?’

He blinked. ‘Is this really necessary?’

Ella nodded. ‘Trust me. It’ll help you get used to the camera.’

‘Toast,’ he said.

‘Interesting. And what did you have on your toast today, Jake?’

‘This is riveting,’ Jake said, with absolutely zero expression. ‘Surely we can do better than this?’

In reply she just watched him steadily, and finally he sighed, and then spoke. ‘Vegemite and cheese.’

Obviously, some things never changed.

‘Tell me a little more—’

‘What are you grinning about?’

Ella hadn’t even realised she was smiling. ‘Pardon me?’

‘Come on, share the joke.’

He didn’t sound defensive—a welcome change. Just curious.

‘Oh. I guess I was remembering you and your breakfast feasts. I thought you had hollow legs, the amount of bread you went through.’

Ella carefully rearranged her face back to serious interviewer. They needed to focus—plus she was not in the habit of talking about old memories. Ever. ‘As I was saying, tell me a little—’

‘Do you still have the same breakfast? It was Froot Loops, right?’

He’d remembered. Before she could stop herself, she smiled again—but bit her lip as soon as she realised.

How dumb to be pleased he remembered something as stupid as her favourite cereal.

‘Of course not,’ she said briskly. ‘It’s pure sugar. I’m careful to follow a low-fat, low-sugar, whole-food diet.’

‘That sounds terribly boring.’

To be honest, it kind of was. But it was the only possible way she could stay a size ten. And she wasn’t about to give that up.

She shrugged. ‘You’d be surprised how varied and satisfying it is—and it’s so good for my health and well-being.’

Now she sounded like a rather dodgy advertisement for a miracle weight loss solution.

‘Look, let’s get back to the questions. Tell me—’

‘New breakfast. New name. What’s with the Ella thing, anyway?’

She sighed. ‘Jake, I’m not the one being interviewed here.’ She tilted her head in the direction of the camera beside her. ‘Remember? This is about you.’

He shrugged unapologetically. ‘Consider this part of the warm up? Besides, I would’ve thought you’d like me to build a rapport with my interviewers.’

She couldn’t really argue with that. Then he put his palm to his chest. ‘Hand on my heart, I promise I won’t interrupt you again.’ And then he smiled a knee-melting smile that made her seriously glad she was sitting down.

Words tumbled from her mouth. ‘I never liked the name Eleanor. I changed it by deed poll years ago.’

She blinked. Damn. She shouldn’t be talking to Jake like this. After all, he’d lost the right to ask her personal questions a long time ago.

More importantly, she reminded herself, he was her client.

Armada wasn’t paying her to sit around and chat.

On the plus side—if he smiled like that at a female interviewer, Ella reckoned he could make anyone forget whatever curly question they’d thrown at him.

Ella dismissed the way her body instantly tensed at that idea as pure frustration, and not ridiculously placed jealousy related to hypothetical future interviews.

He nodded. ‘And you changed pretty much everything else, too, I’ve noticed.’ His gaze travelled over her—her hair, her impeccably made-up face, her perfectly fitted outfit.

Though she knew it was terrible, she all but preened under his gaze.

See, I can scrub up okay. I’m not a clumsy schoolgirl with bad hair any more.

But—strangely—he didn’t look all that impressed. If anything, his expression was … disappointed?

Which was crazy. No one could possibly argue that she hadn’t improved every single aspect of herself since the last time she’d seen Jake. She’d changed everything—and for the better.

She shifted awkwardly in her seat, then stilled her fingers when she realised she was plucking absently at the fabric of her skirt.

‘Jake, can you tell me what makes the new Armada phone so special?’

He raised an eyebrow at the swift change of subject, but, thankfully, didn’t call her on it.

Instead, almost instantly, he became more animated. He launched into a detailed—far too detailed, really—description of the phone, and his pet topic the operating system, which, she knew from Cynthia’s briefing, was his brainchild.

For the next few minutes, Ella absorbed all she ever—ever—needed to know about multi-touch capability, near field communications, API support and the team’s focus on usability. His detailed description went on and on—and eventually, she yawned.

‘Am I boring you?’

She nodded emphatically.

‘Lots of people are interested in that stuff,’ Jake said, back to being just the slightest bit defensive.

‘Not the average consumer,’ Ella said. When he opened his mouth—to argue, she was sure—she took much enjoyment in being the one to interrupt this time. ‘Put it this way. Do you want to hear me wax lyrical about my whole-food diet?’

He blanched.

‘Exactly. Your multi-field-API whatsit …’ her deliberate mangling of the secret language of software developers made him flinch ‘… is like my discussion on the health benefits of spelt. Only a very specific type of person is interested. And that person is not the average Australian.’

He nodded—reluctantly.

‘How about I ask you a question that people will really want to know about “Sydney’s reclusive millionaire”—’

‘I’d rather you didn’t call me that.’

‘I’d rather you didn’t interrupt me. You promised, remember?’

He gave the slightest of grins, and again she needed to bite her lip.

It was unexpected—this … what? Friendly conversation? Banter?

No. No. They were building a rapport, just as he’d said. That was all.

She took a deep breath. ‘You’re renowned for refusing to do interviews. What’s changed?’

Jake immediately swung back to the defensive—this time, very defensive. ‘I’m here to talk about the Armada phone. Not about myself.’

Undeterred, Ella carried on, now sticking determinedly to her interviewer persona. ‘But, Jake, all our viewers are equally interested in you.’

‘You know the answer, Ella. I’m sure Cynthia told you.’

‘Pretend I’m an interviewer, Jake. Not Eleanor.’

Jake stared at her for a long moment. What?

‘Eleanor?’

Too late she realised her mistake. One she’d never, ever made before.

‘Ella,’ she said. ‘Of course that’s what I meant.’

As he watched her Ella felt her cheeks grow steadily warmer, until she was very glad she wasn’t the one with the camera pointed in her direction.

She bit her lip, trying to refocus. Remember where she was. And, more importantly, who she was. She was Ella Cartwright—successful, confident, popular.

Ella Cartwright: businesswoman, friend, girlfriend, even—sometimes. For very short periods. Her career always came first. Always.

But what she was not—not even in the slightest—was Eleanor.

‘Freudian slip?’ Jake asked.

‘Not at all. My subconscious is obviously a little confused. When I knew you, I was Eleanor.’ She shrugged, attempting nonchalance despite the tomato-hue of her cheeks and the whirring of her brain.

‘You act like Eleanor’s an entirely different person.’

‘She is,’ she said. Firmly. ‘Now. I’m doing the interviewing, not you.’

‘I liked Eleanor,’ Jake said, ignoring her.

‘No, you didn’t,’ she said, quickly, before her distracted brain could halt her tongue.

But it was true. He’d made his dislike quite clear that night, in his bedroom. And then confirmed it when he left Perth, and her life, without a backward glance.

For weeks—months—she’d expected something. An email maybe, so she’d checked the computers at school religiously each day. Or a phone call—and for far too long she’d leapt to her feet whenever its ring had reverberated throughout her wooden-framed house.

Really, she would’ve been happy with a postcard of the harbour bridge, even.

She’d been totally pathetic.

And now she was horrified to register an echo of that ache she’d forcibly buried so long ago. It had faded, for sure, but it was still there. Somewhere inside her.

A little piece of who she once was. Of the girl that Jake had rejected.

That everyone had rejected.

The realisation shocked her.

‘Ella,’ he said, and his voice was far too kind. ‘You can’t possibly—’

No. She didn’t want to hear this. It should be impossible to remember his pity-edged tone from thirteen years ago but she did, and she didn’t want to hear it again. ‘When will the phone be available for purchase?’ she said, snatching up a question at random.

There was a long silence, and Jake’s brow furrowed as he studied her.

Surely he wouldn’t push? What was the point? If there’d been anything worth saying, or saving, between them, it would’ve been said and done long ago.

Eventually, finally, he answered. ‘The Armada phone will be launched worldwide on the first of August …’

And just like that, they were back on track. She was Ella, and he was Jake—her client. Only. Because that was the way it had to stay.

The way it was going to stay.

Jake tried—he really did—to pay attention.

It shouldn’t have been too difficult a task, as Ella was sitting a perfectly respectable distance away from him. Given the huge size of his LED computer screen—about the only thing he actually liked in his office—their chairs weren’t exactly shoved close together behind his desk. And yet, without the barrier of the desk between them, her nearness was distracting.

Currently she was possibly talking about the mock interview. But he couldn’t be absolutely sure.

He’d been right, yesterday. This was not a good idea.

He was still uneasy in a room alone with Ella Cartwright.

What he wasn’t—was any closer to understanding why.

She’d been right, logically. There must be a reason their friendship had ended with such finality. That he’d never been tempted to seek her out.

Nothing.

And yet, here they were, with definite undercurrents beneath every word they said, despite Ella’s absolute insistence that this was nothing more than a business relationship.

Why had he even agreed to this?

It was a total waste of time, only prolonging the inevitable. He didn’t need an image consultant.

He didn’t need Ella back in his life.

Although even yesterday, even as he’d been telling her he didn’t require her services, he’d been considering the possibility of asking her out for a—platonic—drink. A catch up between old friends. That was all. An hour or two of his life to get this weird imbalance out of his system.

Maybe he should still do that, once this was over. A means to an end, so to speak.

Because despite his best efforts, in the less than twenty-four hours since she’d walked back into his life, he’d spent way too much time thinking about her. Wondering. How could she possibly have changed so much?

Although—now and again, little actions had triggered half-forgotten memories. The way she tucked her hair behind her ears. The way, when the questions had turned to her, her gaze had skittered all over the room.

But for every glimpse that was familiar, there was so much that was not. Like her emerald green eyes, the freckle-free skin and her sexy-as-hell fire-engine-red lips.

Momentarily, there was absolutely no confusion for the cause of tension in the room. For now, he was back to basics.

‘Jake,’ she said, ‘have you heard anything I’ve said?’

His gaze darted up from her mouth to her eyes and he watched as her cheeks went pink.

Ah. He remembered that blush, too.

She must have seen something of his very much work-inappropriate thoughts in his eyes, and her blush only deepened. Those thoughts, he remembered too—although thirteen-odd years ago, she’d been wearing a school uniform when she’d triggered them, not a tailored suit and three-inch heels.

Oh, yeah. He had liked Eleanor. A lot.

And all grown up, she was having a similar effect.

Which wasn’t ideal.

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