Читать книгу A Girl Less Ordinary - Leah Ashton - Страница 7

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?