Читать книгу How To Host A Seduction - Jeanie London, Jeanie London - Страница 8

New Orleans—three months later

CRADLING THE CELL PHONE between her shoulder and ear, Ellen Talbot hitched up the hem of her beaded cocktail dress—a dress she hadn’t worn since he’d stripped it off her the night they’d made love. Of course, that had also been the night she’d received his marriage proposal and ended their relationship.

One very eventful evening.

But as she’d left him two thousand miles away in New York, Ellen deemed it safe to wear the dress again. Protecting her hose from snagging the beaded fabric, she sank into a chair in the bar of the Château Royal, the historic hotel in New Orleans’s French Quarter that was hosting the annual romance writers’ convention.

“Thanks for checking in with me.” She spoke into the receiver. “Have a safe trip home.”

She said goodbye to her mother, disconnected and flipped her phone shut. It might be three in the morning in this time zone, but her mother was currently in Bosnia, where she’d just concluded a breakfast with the Goodwill delegates from several foreign countries. As her mother wasn’t only a loving parent who stayed in touch with all four of her grown children but a United States Senator, phone calls often came at odd hours.

Ellen didn’t mind. She hadn’t been sleeping. Far from it, as she’d just broken free of a post-award ceremony party where both the winners and the nominees had gathered to celebrate. But now the party was over and, for the first time since she’d arrived in New Orleans, Ellen was practically alone. She checked to make sure her battery wasn’t running low, returned the phone to her purse and willed herself to relax.

The muted glow of chandeliers sparked off the floor-to-ceiling windows that reflected the city beyond, shadowed by a black velvet night. Only a few guests still milled through the bar and the adjoining front lobby—stragglers from the award ceremony, she guessed by their formal wear. Ellen closed her eyes and let the calming hush filter through her. She could finally lose this smile that had been plastered on her face since she’d left her hotel room at 7:57 a.m. yesterday morning.

Exhaling slowly, she allowed her smile to fade, felt the tightness in her cheeks begin to ease.

Ah…

As an editor for the Brant Publishing Group, a corporation that published mass-market romance novels, the thick single-title historicals that readers devoured, Ellen’s workdays didn’t usually involve the spotlight or never-ending smiles. Her days involved meetings with the editorial, marketing and art departments. When she wasn’t in meetings, she spent time on the telephone with any one of her thirty authors. Or reading through manuscripts that demanded her skill at recognizing story potential and writing pithy cover copy to entice readers into picking up a book from an already crowded shelf and buying it.

But during these industry conventions, smiling was as fundamental as breathing, because Ellen was a hot commodity—a romance editor with buying power. She spent her days conducting appointments with eager writers, presenting publishing-related topics to rooms filled to capacity, and socializing with people she only recognized by their name tags.

She preferred life out of the spotlight, so this moment alone was welcomed, would have been perfect if not for the thoughts of him that kept intruding on her overworked brain. She sighed. Maybe she shouldn’t have worn this dress, after all.

Hindsight is twenty-twenty, her mother was fond of saying.

Ellen heartily agreed. Had she had clearer vision about him, she’d have turned down his first invitation for a date and saved herself a lot of heartache.

Marriage.

Ellen had thought he’d been kidding. He hadn’t been, so he’d been history. At best, the man was a daredevil who lived life to test limits. At worst, he was certifiable. No person in her high-visibility situation would ever consider marriage after three months of dating, a lot of foreplay and one night of incredible sex. No matter how incredible the sex had been.

And it had been beyond anything she’d ever experienced.

She’d had to get away from him fast. Before his too-blue eyes, dimpled grins and steamy kisses had melted all her defenses. She wasn’t willing to live with the sort of consequences that happened whenever she let her guard slip….

“Here you go.”

Ellen opened her eyes to find a steaming mug of latte on the table. She glanced up at Lennon Eastman, one of her authors and a very close friend, despite the fact that she and her nutty great-aunt were the reasons Ellen kept winding up in the Big Easy, where she’d first met him.

She couldn’t hold that against Lennon, especially not when her friend looked so happy. Even after a long night in heels that by all rights should have crippled her, Lennon looked ready to go for another round of schmoozing.

“Thanks. I so needed this,” Ellen said. “I think my jaw is locked. I can’t seem to stop smiling.”

“Just let me know if you need to see my dentist.” Lennon had settled into a wing chair opposite and shot her a less-than-sympathetic glance.

“I just might. Suffering is not on my vacation itinerary.”

“Then we shouldn’t be drinking espresso at three o’clock in the morning. We’ll pay for this sleep deprivation tomorrow.”

“Are you kidding?” Ellen rubbed her jaw to ease the stiffness. “I won’t make it across the courtyard without the caffeine. The bellhop will find me asleep behind a potted palm.”

“You can always ask him to load you onto his luggage cart and haul you up to your room.”

“Then I’d wind up in a potted palm because I can’t tip him. I gave you the last of my cash for these lattes.”

Lennon laughed. “Maybe we should sit right here and pound espresso while the sun comes up. I’ve got that Regency writers’ panel at eight. Don’t you have plans to meet your new author for breakfast at Café du Monde?”

“I do.” But Ellen couldn’t tackle the thought of another day filled with marathon smiling just yet. Even when there were beignets involved. A favorite.

She raised her mug in a toast, instead. “Saluté. You deserved this year’s RAVE Award for Milord Spy. The publicity should shoot your sales through the roof. The book distributors love that award. And you were very gracious when you accepted.”

“Thank you, but winning hasn’t even hit me yet. I’m still stuck on the fact that you actually let me keep my title.”

“No offense, Lennon, but you’re not title gifted.”

“You say that to all your authors. I know, I’ve heard.”

“No, only to you and Stephanie. Did she tell you what the working title of her latest book is?”

“Lord of the Ravished. I know, pretty dreadful. Tell me mine are never that bad.” When Ellen didn’t reply, Lennon relented with a sigh. “I’ll be satisfied that my gift lies in writing orgasms.”

“No argument there, but take credit where it’s due. You picked a great title this time, born out by your award.”

Lennon beamed. This award was just one more good thing to happen in a run of good things, starting with Lennon marrying her handsome new husband. Ellen knew of no one more deserving.

“Congratulations to you, as well.” Lennon tipped her mug in salute. “Couldn’t have done it without your exceptional editing ability. You were very eloquent while accepting your accolades. I thought we were an impressive team. And we looked so good.”

“Thankfully, because I guarantee you the picture of our acceptance is going to make the cover of next month’s Romance Industry Review Magazine. The RAVE is big, big news.”

Not only for Lennon, but for her, too. A RAVE-winning author meant another feather in her cap, and collecting feathers happened to be one of Ellen’s pastimes. She was currently collecting enough feathers to earn the position of senior editor at Brant Publishing, the goal she’d been working toward since accepting a job as an editorial assistant in college.

“Is the RAVE big enough to get me some perks?” Lennon asked. “Like a renowned cover model or a reprint?”

Lennon might be a creative wonder, a rising star who knew how to write women’s fantasies to the delight of her readers, but she was also a businesswoman who didn’t miss a trick.

Ellen scowled. “I’ll see what I can do. Just don’t forget I was the one who battled the marketing department to print your name bigger than the title on your covers.”

“You know I appreciate it immensely, but that was two books ago. How long do you expect me to let you rest on your laurels?”

Ellen laughed, a heartfelt sound that took her by surprise. By all rights she should be too sleep deprived to feel anything but exhaustion right now, yet she felt more relaxed, more content than she’d been in a long time. Too long.

Lifting her mug, Ellen savored another swallow. It felt so good to be away from home, away from the office, away from him. She was a woman on the fast track—although her family didn’t consider her career to be in the same league as those of her lawyer siblings, chief justice aunt, campaign manager uncle, political analyst and lobbyist cousins…

Or her Senator mother and former Cabinet-member father.

In a clan that boasted enough high-power careers to rival those of the Kennedys, Ellen’s decision to go into publishing—albeit with a Fortune 500 company—still had the ability to make all of her relations scratch their heads in bewilderment.

She deserved a break from the hectic pace, the constant pressure…from thinking about—

“Look, it’s Lennon and her gorgeous editor!”

Glancing up, Ellen couldn’t miss the group that had just entered the front lobby, returning from a night of reveling on Bourbon Street, if their costumes were any indication.

“Oh, bloody hell. It’s Mr. Muscle-Butt and his entourage. Oh, Lennon, look at him, he’s wearing a cape.”

“Be nice,” Lennon admonished. “He’s trying to impress you.”

“By looking like Zorro?”

“By looking like a romance hero. You’re a romance editor—see the connection?”

Ellen saw, all right. Was not interested. Romance heroes didn’t exist outside of books and even if they did, she’d had her fill of men recently, thank you very much. This one swept through the lobby with a dramatic flourish that demanded the attention of every person in the place, including the sleepy-eyed desk clerks.

His brown hair fell to his waist and the black cape flew out behind him as if he were striding off a windswept moor. Not to mention his thoughtlessness—his entourage, a gaggle of model-thin women dressed in outlandishly sexy costumes, was forced to gallop to keep up with his long-legged strides.

“Oh, no. He’s not wearing his name tag. Who is he again? I can’t very well call him Mr. Muscle-Butt.”

“Vittorio,” Lennon whispered beneath her breath while standing to greet the new arrivals. “Congratulate him on winning first place in the cover model competition tonight. He’ll be crushed if he thinks you didn’t notice.”

“Got it.” Ellen set her mug on the table, slapped on her professional smile again and followed Lennon’s lead. “Good evening, Vittorio. Congratulations on your win.”

He extended his hand, and she had no choice but to offer hers, while he smiled what had to be a smile even more professional than her own. She had the unkind thought that he’d probably devoted days to practicing that smile in front of a mirror. Going for charming…dashing…roguish—ugh!

“My lovely Ellen.” He bowed and his mouth grazed her knuckles gallantly, while she struggled to keep a straight face. Lennon rolled her eyes in her periphery. “Congratulations on your success this evening, as well.”

He reluctantly let her hand slip away before turning to kiss Lennon on both cheeks.

“Where’s Josh? Surely your new husband isn’t neglecting you on your special night.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “He came for the award ceremony and offered to stay, but I could tell he was antsy. Too much estrogen flying around for his taste.”

A frown drew Vittorio’s brows together. “Too much estrogen?” He swept an expansive glance at the groupies who’d settled into silence behind him. “No such thing.”

No doubt. Ellen wasn’t sure whether he referred to her or his entourage, but when he flashed another smile—definitely aimed at her—she suspected the former and bit back a groan.

“Lovely Ellen—tell me you’re not planning to run off right after the convention. I want to tour you around the Big Easy. Show you all the secret places only the locals know.”

He may have said secret but he meant intimate, and his suggestive tone made her swallow back yet another groan. “I’m not running off. Not right away,” she said.

“My good fortune, then.” Another roguish smile, this time accompanied by a slight flaring of his nostrils that just screamed testosterone. “You’ll make time for me.”

No question. No politely asking. Just a you-will-make-time-for-me declaration that jump-started her half-sleeping synapses.

“I’m sorry, Vittorio. We’re going to need a day planner to keep up with all we’ve got scheduled,” she said, lying so easily it was scary. “Lennon’s Auntie Q has this murder-mystery thing planned. We’ll be leaving New Orleans on Wednesday.”

That wasn’t a lie. She’d committed to some corporate-training-murder-mystery event for Miss Q’s—Miss Quinevere McDarby’s—latest business venture. Ellen still wasn’t clear on the details, but Lennon and a few of her other authors would be attending, and she figured solving mysteries would provide an interesting diversion.

She needed a good diversion right now.

A quizzical lift of dark brows hinted that Vittorio wasn’t turned down very often. Ellen would have felt bad, but the man appeared to have enough women fawning over him. So technically she was saving him from disappointment—because she didn’t fawn. Ever.

“Right. Okay.” He eyed her as though something had taken place and he hadn’t yet figured out what.

His groupies obviously recognized the power shift, though, and stopped glaring long enough to console him, enveloping him in a press of bodies and a cloud of expensive perfume. Vittorio took his cue to leave, with a dashing smile and a jauntily delivered “Good night.”

Ellen watched him go, marveled that not one of those women had objected to him asking her out in their presence. No, they’d glared at her, instead, like she’d forced him to flirt.

“Why me?” she asked.

The question had been rhetorical, but Lennon obliged her, anyway. “It’s your hair. That swingy new style.” Her gaze shot straight to the hairstyle in question. “I love it.”

“My stylist gets the credit.” Ellen sat back down and reached for her mug. “He promised me something different.” She shook her head, still enjoying the way her shorter, fuller style swung around her face when she moved.

“What made you decide to cut all your hair off?”

“A change to celebrate my upcoming thirtieth birthday.”

She wouldn’t admit that he’d been attracted to her long hair, but a line from an old song echoed in her memory.

I’m gonna wash that man right outta my hair….

Well, Ellen had cut him right out of hers.

“Your new style makes your face softer somehow,” Lennon said. “And it’s amazing how the change draws attention to your skin. You’ve got this whole creamy Snow White thing going on. No wonder Vittorio is smitten.”

“I hope I didn’t put you in an awkward position,” Ellen said, though she didn’t feel the least bit repentant.

“He doesn’t need my help to get a date. Besides, his ego is rock solid. I don’t think he even realized he was in over his head.” Lennon sank back into her chair and grabbed her latte. “So what didn’t you like about him?”

“You know my family. Can you see me bringing home a man who uses more cream rinse than I do?”

Lennon burst into laughter, drawing the attention of a nearby bartender. “That’s not difficult with your new hairstyle. But you’re selling Vittorio short. He may have an ego the size of the Southern Hemisphere but he’s got a heart of pure gold.”

A heart of pure gold would not make the difference. Her family was already tolerant enough of her foibles. Bringing home a man with whom the media would have a field day would cast doubt on her sanity. She could already see the headline: Senator’s Daughter Plays Fantasy Games with a Hero From a Trashy Romance Novel.

Her mother, of course, in an effort to help, would likely direct her wayward youngest to the nearest psychiatric facility.

It’s for the best, Ellen, really. Let’s give you a chance to take a deep breath and clear your head, reassess your priorities and reexamine the objective. We’ll tell the press you’re suffering stress from your bohemian career….

All for Mr. Muscle-Butt?

She’d pass, thank you.

Sometimes Ellen thought that as an infant she must have been left in a basket on the front doorstep. In a family of high achievers, she always seemed to be a step behind. Her siblings had all gone into law, yet she’d chosen publishing. They were all still scratching their heads over that one. Perhaps if she edited more literary fare, or even better, nonfiction…

Her parents had assured her long ago that she hadn’t been a foundling they’d taken in as a charitable publicity stunt for some campaign. And given that she resembled other family members, Ellen was forced to take them at their word.

But she still didn’t feel like she’d ever make the cut.

None of her siblings had ever been questioned about whether they were the “right fit” for the fancy private schools the Talbot children had attended while growing up. But Ellen had.

She’s very creative, the administrators had said, not sufficiently goal-oriented. Perhaps she’d be better suited to a school with a less ambitious curriculum.

With the clarity of that twenty-twenty hindsight, Ellen thought the administrators might have been right. Especially after the summer debacle when her older sister Leah had been chosen student ambassador for their school. Their parents had decided the family should accompany Leah on her tour of the continent to support her in her new duties. A great plan that the whole family had quickly embraced.

Until Ellen’s report card had arrived.

Her grades had nosedived so much during the previous two semesters that the school had considered retaining her. Of course, her grades had only nosedived because she’d been struggling so hard to grasp pre-algebra and she’d only gotten so far behind because she’d been determined to solve the problem herself….

The choices had been to leave Ellen home with her grandparents for a stint in summer school or to hire a tutor to travel with the family. Believing in always keeping a united front, her parents had opted for the latter solution and amended their travel arrangements to afford Ellen time to study in the hotel rooms during the mornings.

That was just one example. Unfortunately, the list went on and on. And after this latest episode with him…

Lennon peered at her over the rim of her mug. “I want you to have fun while you’re in town. What was it Mr. Bingley said to Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice? ‘I wouldn’t be as fastidious as you are for a kingdom’?”

“Humph.” Ellen dismissed her with a laugh. “Spoken by a woman who just married a hero straight off the cover of one of her books.”

“A man you said existed only in books, incidentally.”

“So you found the only one who didn’t, lucky girl.” Ellen managed to keep a straight face. Josh Eastman was a doll, definitely the perfect man for Lennon—but a hero? Well, Lennon thought so and that was all that counted.

Lennon’s smile faded. Leaning forward intently, she tapped her manicured nails on the tabletop, and her sudden intensity put Ellen on red alert.

The subject of romance heroes and whether such beasts actually existed off the written page was a topic much debated, and one that would logically lead to…

“Auntie Q found you a hero, too, but you threw him back,” Lennon said, right on cue.

Ah, here they were, at the place Ellen had been sidestepping for three months. Only, this time she couldn’t hang up the phone. She would finally have to face the subject of him.

Rule number one of Ellen’s sound business strategies: A strong offense was more effective than a strong defense.

“The real question here is, why did your great-aunt feel compelled to set me up with a man at all?”

“You’ll have to ask Auntie Q yourself. I can’t speak for her, and trying to second-guess her is always risky business.”

Truer words had never been spoken. Lennon’s diminutive great-aunt, the woman Ellen had come to know as Miss Q, was definitely an odd duck. A woman who believed in passion and crusaded for everyone else to believe, too. Ellen might have smiled if the memory of him hadn’t been quite so fresh.

“Christopher Sinclair is a romance hero incarnate,” Lennon said. “And he was perfect for you. Executive-level management. A talented businessman who’s sharp enough to appreciate a strong independent woman without being pushed around or intimidated. He’s from a respectable Southern family. Not to mention that he’s financially successful enough to keep up with your rather upscale interests.”

Ellen arched a skeptical brow. Okay, so it was no secret she preferred slumber parties at the Plaza Hotel to those in tents, art painted on canvas as opposed to lithographs, but that didn’t necessarily mean she was an expensive date….

“I also happen to know Christopher isn’t the kind of man to fawn or cling or crowd you, and he’s absolutely gorgeous,” Lennon continued. “His parents loved you, and not only did your family approve of him, Ellen, they liked him. Your mom told me so.”

Yes, her family had liked him, which had translated into awkward explanations. She wouldn’t share her real reason for breaking up with him and have them question her judgment, again.

“So what happened?” Lennon was saying. “I’m not buying that lame excuse you gave me. I’ve waited to hear the truth in person because I care about you, but be forewarned, Auntie Q wants answers, so you’d better have them handy. You’ll be a captive audience during this murder-mystery training. Think four days and five nights in an antebellum plantation with no escape.”

There usually wasn’t any escape when it came to Miss Q. Not even her own great-niece had managed to outrun the little schemer’s matchmaking. Her efforts to bring Lennon and her new husband together could have made a RAVE-winning book.

“It’s old news now. We dated…”

Three months where he could make me tingle with the slightest touch…and that one red-hot night.

“…and realized we were heading in opposite directions. We have different goals…”

Marriage? After three months? Was the man crazy?

“…so we went our separate ways.”

I ran screaming because he wouldn’t play by the rules.

A lifetime of dealing with the high-profile baggage she brought to a relationship had taught her the hard way to be careful. She’d learned to walk the straight and narrow. And to force her creative brain into remembering the rules, she’d devised a method of making lists just to keep them straight in her head.

Her latest rule for survival: No dating impulsive men.

Lennon frowned as though she wasn’t quite buying this explanation. “What do you mean ‘opposite goals’?”

“He wanted to get married.”

Lennon dissolved before her very eyes into one of those melting oh-how-romantic expressions Ellen was very familiar with after eight years of working with romance authors.

“And you turned him down?”

“Of course I turned him down, Lennon. Honestly.”

“But why? You were crazy about him.”

That was before she’d found out he was crazy. “Listen, Lennon, he’s past history and I’m looking to the future.” Plastering her smile back on, Ellen tried to look reassuring. Her cheeks stretched. Her jaw creaked. “I’m waiting to meet the one, and when I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

“The one?”

“The man who’ll love me for who I am, with no questions. The man who’ll respect my situation enough to play by my rules.”

Lennon looked thoughtful. “Unconditional love. Are you sure you believe that exists?”

“Of course. I couldn’t edit romances if I didn’t. But I’m not going to sit around waiting for it to happen. I’ve got things to accomplish and goals to reach. Worrying about whether or not a man fits into the equation is simply not something I’ll do. If I meet the one, so be it. If not, well, so be it.”

“You’re sure Christopher isn’t the one?”

“Completely.”

“What convinced you?” Lennon insisted. “A man that intense and that gorgeous has to be amazing in bed.”

“I am not sharing the details of my sex life, so don’t bother badgering me. You and Miss Q might discuss how much and how good over dinner, but I prefer to keep my sex life private, thank you. That’s the second rule of the Talbot family code of conduct—no discussing sex at the dinner table.”

“Note to self—” Lennon grimaced “—have a handy excuse to decline the next Talbot family dinner invitation. Just out of curiosity, what’s the first rule?”

Ellen patted her purse. “Always be accessible, which means the cell phone stays on.”

Talbot family code of conduct rule number four: Don’t pry. Ellen could almost hear her mother explaining, Prying shows a decided lack of manners, and unless you’re interested in answering similarly private questions…

She wasn’t.

Unfortunately, Lennon wasn’t versed on Talbot family code of conduct rule number four. She sighed so heavily that Ellen knew she was in for a lecture about making time to have fun. Another conversation they’d had before.

She switched gears, fast. “I will tell you it’ll be a frosty Friday before I involve myself with another impulsive man.”

Lennon set her mug down on the table with a thunk, leaned back in her chair and smiled. And kept smiling.

“What’s so funny?”

“Finally.” She made a visible effort to curb her amusement, though not much of one, judging by her smothered laughter. “You are the most stubborn person I know.”

“I’m not stubborn. I just like stability and constants. He’s an adrenaline junkie who lives life to test fate. The press would have a field day, and that wouldn’t be fair to him. Or me, for that matter. I can’t handle living my life worrying about what sort of stunt he’s going to pull next and what the fallout will be. Marriage! We’d only dated three months.”

“I accepted Josh’s marriage proposal after three days.”

“Your decisions aren’t subject to public scrutiny. If I accept a marriage proposal after three days or even three months, my mother’s parenting skills come under fire. Her party spins my acceptance to mean she raised a confident daughter. The opposing party spins it to mean she has no control over her wild child. I prefer not to start the debate. I don’t enjoy the spotlight in my face, and the media loves writing about guys who flaunt the rules.”

“Christopher is one of the neighborhood kids, Ellen. I’ve known him since I was ten years old.”

She might have laughed at Lennon’s casual description of “neighborhood kids,” which brought to mind a motley gang riding bikes or playing ice hockey on frozen ponds in the winter. But like Ellen’s own, Lennon’s upbringing hadn’t exactly been traditional. She’d been raised in the exclusive Garden District of New Orleans, where kids lived in mansions and toured the continent during summer breaks.

“What’s your point?”

“My point is that I’ve known him a long time. Christopher may enjoy adventurous hobbies, but he’s no adrenaline junkie. He just likes to have fun—which is something you could use a little help with, I don’t mind saying.”

She should have known Lennon would drag her back here despite evasive maneuvers. “You call driving a car in circles at a hundred miles an hour fun?”

“He plays hard, but that’s only because he works so hard. He’s incredibly driven. Just like someone else I know.”

Her pointed stare left no doubt that she considered Ellen guilty of the same crime.

“Well, I don’t spend my weekends jumping out of airplanes, or scuba diving for sunken treasure.”

“I don’t always go into the Gulf with Josh on his week-long fishing excursions—and we make out just fine. A couple can enjoy individual interests. What’s wrong with that?”

“I don’t equate the risk factor of deep-sea fishing with rappelling down a mountainside in the Rockies.”

“It could be dangerous if Josh was caught in a hurricane.”

“Josh won’t be caught in a hurricane unless he’s an idiot. They have meteorological satellites that track storms.”

Lennon was still battling that smile when Ellen slugged back the last of her latte and set the mug on the table.

“He thrives on breaking the rules,” she said. “I was just his challenge du jour.”

“You don’t believe Christopher cares about you?” That wiped away the last of Lennon’s humor. “Ellen, the guy’s crazy about you. I know because he told me.”

He told me, too.

With a sigh, she decided to make the argument she’d intended to reserve for herself. “If he was so crazy about me, then why couldn’t he compromise and do things the right way? Why did he just let me go? He made a few token phone calls and that was it. I haven’t heard from him in three months.”

“You wanted him to chase you?”

Ellen winced at how petty that reasoning sounded. And yes, she would even consider that her need to know he was the one might be petty in some regards. But she’d spent most of her life trying to prove herself—to her family, to the press, to her supervisors, to herself. Was it really so much to ask to be reassured that the man she married would always, always believe in her, no matter how rough-and-tumble life got? No matter how much baggage she came with?

“If he’d been the one, he would have been willing to compromise, Lennon, willing to find some way of accommodating both our needs. He wasn’t.”

It was her most fundamental rule of sound business: Choose your battles and only fight for what you believe in.

She obviously hadn’t been worth fighting for.