Читать книгу Her Best Friend - Sarah Mayberry - Страница 8

AMY PARKER SLOWED her steps as she approached the Grand Picture Theatre. The setting sun painted the old cinema’s crumbling white Spanish Mission facade pink and apricot, and for a moment—if she squinted and really used her imagination—she could picture the Grand as it had once been: elegant, beautiful, a testament to a bygone era.

Four more days.

Then the sale contract would be signed off and the Grand would be hers and she could start making the image in her mind a reality.

Amy stepped closer to the double glass doors at the entrance. The front windows had been covered with newspaper for years, but a section on the right door had peeled away. She stood on her toes and shaded her eyes with her hands so she could see through the gap. Inside, the marble parquet tiles were dull with dirt and grime while crumpled newspaper, old boxes and dust balls dotted the floor. The once stunning concession stand was scarred with age, the mirrors behind it tarnished and chipped. It would take weeks to set things right in there. And the foyer was the least of her problems. Way down on her To Do list.

The roof needed fixing, the stucco on the facade had to be renewed. The plumbing was shot and the whole of the interior smelled of damp and mold. She had her work cut out for her, that was for sure.

She smiled. She couldn’t freaking wait.

“Amy. There you are. I tried you at the store but your mother said you’d left already.”

It was Reg Hanover, council chairman. Even though he was wearing yet another of his truly hideous ties, she beamed at him. On Friday, this portly middle-aged man and his fellow council members would be signing over the Grand to her in exchange for her hard-won savings and a sizable bank loan. Right now, she loved him, ugly tie and all.

“Reg. Hey there. I was just drooling,” she said. “Prematurely, I know. But I couldn’t help myself.”

Reg’s face was pink from the walk from her parents’ hardware store.

“Yes. Well. About that.” He cleared his throat and smoothed a hand down his tie. This one was beige, with a picture of a black horse rearing on it. Really bad, even for Reg.

She shifted her attention to his face. There was something about the way he couldn’t quite make himself meet her eyes. And the way he kept swallowing nervously.

“Is there some kind of problem?”

“Amy, there’s no point in beating around the bush. I’m just going to say it—we’ve had another offer. And we’re going to take it.”

Amy blinked a few times, trying to make sense of his words. “I don’t understand.”

“Ulrich Construction has come in with a last-minute offer. The council needs to think of the whole community, and we believe this is the best outcome for everyone.”

He sounded stiff, as though he’d been rehearsing his speech in his mind.

“But we had a deal. A contract.”

“No, Amy, we had a conversation. A conversation is not legally binding.”

She gaped. She couldn’t believe he was being so slippery.

“We negotiated a contract, Reg. I have a copy at home. You were going to sign it at this week’s meeting.”

“I’m sorry, but we had a better deal come in, and we took it. I know you’re disappointed, but that’s the way these things go.”

He checked his watch then glanced up the street, as though he had better things to do than break her heart.

“Have you signed off on the deal yet?” she asked.

“No, but we will on Friday.”

“I want to talk to the other councillors,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest and lifting her chin.

“Fine. They’ll all be at the meeting. Members of the public are welcome.”

Members of the public? Yesterday the council had been ready to sign over ownership of the Grand to her and today she was a member of the public?

She was still trying to find something to say that didn’t contain the words sneaky rat fink when Reg reached out and patted her arm.

“It’s probably for the best. It was unlikely you were ever going to be able to restore this big old place on your own, anyway.”

He walked away. Amy stared at his retreating back. She was at a loss as to how to respond, how to feel, what to think.

For more than ten years she’d lived and breathed the dream of buying the old theatre that her great-grandfather had built. She’d lain awake on more nights than she could count regilding the decorative moldings in her mind, reupholstering the sectional seating, polishing the floors, imagining how glorious it could all be if she could only scrape together the money to purchase the theatre from the local council.

She’d invested the small legacy her grandparents had left her and saved her wages from working in her parents’ hardware store and taken any extra work that had come her way, planning for the day when she’d have enough for a deposit.

And finally she’d made it. At least she’d thought she had.

The shock was beginning to wear off. She didn’t understand how another offer could come out of the blue. The Grand had been an eyesore on the main street of the small Victoria, Australia town of Daylesford for years. It had ceased operating as a cinema in the eighties and had been empty for a long time, ever since the antiques dealer who’d been renting the space had found better premises. No one except Amy had seemed to give a toss about the old place. And yet suddenly the Grand was a hot ticket?

She needed to know more. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed her friend Denise, who worked at the municipal office. If anyone knew the details of this other offer, it would be her.

“‘Nise, it’s me. I need some inside info. But only if it won’t get you in trouble.”

“Fire away. I’m all yours, babe,” Denise said.

“Ulrich Construction has put in a last-minute bid on the Grand. I need to know what their prop says.”

“But the Grand is yours! I typed up your contract myself.”

“It’s not signed yet, ‘Nise.”

“Oh. Crap. The meeting’s this week, isn’t it? Give me five minutes, I’ll call you back.”

Amy paced in front of the Grand while she waited, arms crossed over her chest. It was late April and it was getting darker and colder by the minute, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t leaving this spot until she knew for sure what was going on. That her dream really was over.

Seven minutes later, her phone rang. It was Denise, and when she told Amy what she’d discovered, Amy literally felt dizzy with shock.

Ulrich Construction wanted to buy the Grand and knock down everything but the facade, replacing it with a four-story apartment block. They wanted to destroy the intricate plasterwork on the domed ceiling inside the theatre, smash the marble stairway to the balcony section, scrap the Murano glass wall sconces. They would pay lip service to preserving the Grand while wiping out everything that made the theatre so unique.

“You want me to come pick you up and pour some wine into you?” Denise offered when Amy was silent for too long.

“No. Thanks for this, ‘Nise. I have to go.”

Amy ended the call and pressed her palm against her forehead.

She needed to think. She needed to get past the panic that was making her heart race and her stomach churn.

She needed a lawyer.

Yes. Absolutely. That was definitely the first step. She needed a smart, sharp mouthpiece in a suit. Someone formidable who could arm her with the necessary information.

She started searching her phone contacts for a number she hadn’t dialed in months.

There had been good reasons for that, of course. Sensible, sanity preserving reasons. But this was an emergency. All bets were off. Her old school friend Lisa dealt with property law all the time in Sydney. She’d know how to handle this. She’d tell Amy if there was any way she could stop this disaster from happening.

Amy found the number as an unwelcome thought slunk into her mind: What if Quinn answers instead of Lisa?

Amy froze, staring at the number on the screen.

After all these years, she still couldn’t think of Quinn Whitfield without feeling a skip of excitement, closely followed by a thump of dread.

Dumb. And dangerous. He was married. They were married. Her two best friends.

Which was why she’d been deliberately trying to distance herself recently. Not returning phone calls. Being lazy with e-mails. Freezing them out.

But it wasn’t as though she’d gone to school with a million lawyers. It was either Lisa or a lawyer chosen at random from the phone book—an arrangement that would come complete with a hefty bill her tight restoration budget could not afford.

Hopefully Lisa would pick up and not Quinn. And if it was him … well, Amy would deal with it. She pressed the button and listened as the phone rang.

Come on, Lisa, pick up. Pick up, pick up, pick up.

A click sounded and suddenly Quinn’s voice was in her ear. Her stomach tensed—then she realized it was only a recording.

“Hi, there. You’ve called the Whitfields. We can’t get to the phone right now. Leave a message and your contact details and we’ll do our best to get back to you as soon as we can. Unless you’re selling life insurance, then you know what you can do.”

It had been nearly eighteen months since she’d spoken to Quinn, but he sounded exactly the same. She could even imagine the slight smile he would have been wearing when he recorded the message. Self-aware, wry. Charming as all hell.

The answering machine beeped and she took a quick breath.

“Lisa and, um, Quinn. Long time no speak, huh? Lis, I was actually calling to talk to you. I need some legal advice and it’s kind of urgent—”

“Amy. Hey. How the hell are you?”

Amy’s heart banged against her rib cage as Quinn’s deep voice sounded down the line. Not a recording this time. The real thing.

“Quinn. Hi.”

She closed her eyes. He sounded so good. And so pleased to hear from her.

And why not? She’d been the “best person” at his wedding. They’d grown up next door to each other. He’d taught her how to fish, and she’d taught him the best way to climb the apple tree at the bottom of her parents’ yard. They’d learned to ride their bikes together, and they’d been punished together any number of times for too many pranks to count. Rotten eggs in the air-conditioning vent at school. Releasing Quinn’s pet ferret in class. Filling the neighbor’s exhaust pipe with water from the garden hose.

Their exploits had been legendary. Then Lisa moved to town the year of Amy’s fourteenth birthday, and everything changed.

“I’m good, thanks. How about you?” she said.

“Keeping body and soul together. Man, it’s been a long time since I heard your voice.”

“Yeah.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. Wondered if he guessed she’d been deliberately pushing him away, or if he thought it was just time and distance that had come between them.

“I was thinking about you the other day, actually,” he said.

She’d been about to ask if Lisa was home, but his words caught her by surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah. I was thinking about the wedding. The night before, actually. How you and I went down to the lake and drank all that beer. Remember?”

“I remember.”

How could she forget? She’d matched him beer for beer, desperate to prolong every last second with him before he stopped being her best friend and became one half of Mr. and Mrs. Quinn and Lisa Whitfield.

Would it have been easier if Lisa hadn’t been her close friend, the third musketeer? Would it have hurt as much if Quinn had fallen for a stranger from out of town?

Amy would never know.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. This was why she’d hesitated over calling. So many memories, all washing over her.

Time to get this conversation back on track.

“Listen, I, um, don’t want to keep you too long. Is Lisa around? I need to ask her advice on a legal thing.”

There was a short pause as Quinn registered the abrupt shift in conversation. She’d been too sharp, too quick to cut him off. She held her breath, waiting for him to ask the questions that were bubbling beneath the surface of their conversation.

Why did you stop returning my calls?

Why aren’t we friends anymore?

What did I do wrong?

“Lisa’s not around at the moment. Is it anything I can help with?”

“It’s fine. I’ll wait for her to call me back.”

“What’s the problem, Ames? Lisa might have gotten better marks than me but I made partner before her.” Quinn was joking, but there was an edge to his tone.

Because, of course, Quinn was a lawyer, too. One of the many things he and Lisa had in common. He could just as easily answer her questions, yet Amy had made a point of asking for Lisa, of thinking of Lisa and not him when she’d realized she needed legal advice.

“It’s not that. I didn’t want to bother you,” she said quickly.

“But you’re happy to bother Lisa?”

Because I haven’t been in love with Lisa for more years than I can count. Because talking to her doesn’t make me think about all the hours I’ve spent aching over you, wishing you loved me instead of her. Making myself sick with jealousy and guilt and lust.

“No. It’s just we haven’t spoken for a while, and I don’t want to be one of those fair-weather friends who calls out of the blue and hits you up for a favor because I need some legal advice.”

Quinn made an impatient noise. “For Pete’s sake, Amy. We grew up together. You’re my oldest friend. Tell me the problem.”

She hesitated a moment longer. But he was right. She was being stupid. She’d always been stupid where Quinn was concerned.

“I’ve been negotiating with the council for the past few months to buy the Grand. We have a contract all ready to go—”

“Whoa. Hold on a second. You finally got the money together to buy the Grand?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Ames. That’s fantastic. What an amazing achievement.”

It scared her how much his praise meant to her, how much it made her chest ache.

“Well, I’m not there yet.”

“Right. You’ve got a contract …?” he prompted.

Over the next few minutes she briefed him on the situation. It made her feel sick and angry all over again as she thought about the peremptory way Reg Hanover had delivered the news. As though she was a pesky child to be shooed from the room.

“If the contract wasn’t signed, there’s not much you can do to hold them to the agreement. You know that, right?” Quinn said.

“This isn’t about my contract. I need to know if there’s anything I can do to protect the Grand. It’s on the town’s heritage register. Surely that means Ulrich can’t knock it down?”

Her voice broke on the last few words and she felt immeasurably foolish.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to need some time to do a bit of research, find out more about the local heritage register and council bylaws. In some municipalities, what Ulrich is proposing is acceptable—a compromise between heritage preservation and commerce. Can I get back to you?”

“Of course.”

“Probably won’t be until tomorrow morning, okay?” “Sure.”

“Try not to freak out in the meantime.”

“Too late. And thanks, Quinn.”

She could almost see his shrug, even though he was hundreds of miles away. “No worries, Ames.”

He ended the call. She slid her phone into her pocket and started walking to her car.

She hadn’t spoken to Quinn for months, had dodged his phone calls and avoided responding to his e-mails. And he’d responded to her request for help without hesitation. Without question.

It was one of the things she’d always loved about him the most: his generosity. But then there had always been a lot to love about Quinn Whitfield. His clever mind. His kindness. His sense of humor. Then there was his body—tall and broad and strong….

Stop it. Stop it before you’re right back at the same old place again.

She had bigger fish to fry than lost loves and old regrets. It was far better to channel her energy into a battle she at least had a chance of winning.

Because she’d lost Quinn long ago.

QUINN SAT QUIETLY for a moment after he’d hung up the phone.

For the first few seconds of the call he’d thought Amy was calling because she knew, because his mother had let something slip or Lisa had made contact to tell her the big news.

But Amy hadn’t known. And he hadn’t told her.

“I’m going home now, Mr. Whitfield.”

Quinn glanced up to see Maria hovering in the doorway of his study.

“Okay. Thanks. I’ll see you in a few weeks,” he said.

“You have a good holiday, okay?” she said. “You work too hard. You need to rest.”

“I will. You enjoy your break, too.”

She waved her hand as though he was talking nonsense. He knew she cleaned a number of houses as well as his own. She probably never stopped working.

“And maybe you should try to eat some more while you’re away,” she said.

“I’ll do what I can.”

She gave him a last wave before disappearing and he let the easy smile fade from his lips. She was worried about him, just as they’d been worried about him at the office. Lots of hushed conversations about “poor Quinn” and how he was working too late and how much weight he’d lost. Hence the holiday. Two weeks up north on Hamilton Island, whether he liked it or not.

“Take some time off, Quinn. Look after yourself. No one expects you to be a machine,” his boss had said.

Not an order, but close enough.

Quinn sighed and raked a hand through his hair. At the moment, work was his solace. He had no idea what he’d do without it. Face the wreckage of his marriage, he supposed.

Hard to get too enthusiastic about that.

Even though his leave had officially started this morning, he’d been tidying up loose ends at home, and he saved the last draft of the Monroe contract before sending a quick e-mail to his assistant to let her know it was ready to be released to the client. Then he glanced down at the notes he’d made while talking to Amy.

He still couldn’t believe she was in a position to buy the Grand, after all these years. And that he hadn’t known about it.

She’d been obsessed with the place since they were kids. Used to drag him past it as they walked home from school every day, even though it was out of their way. It had been a clothing clearance store back then, the cinema having gone out of business years before. He used to wait beside the door while she made her way through the racks of seconds and the previous year’s fashions to stand with her head tilted back as she studied the elaborate plaster ceiling high above. He could still remember how she used to wrap her arms around her midsection as she drank it all in, as though she was scared her excitement would get away from her if she didn’t keep a grip on herself.

It felt wrong that she’d reached such a significant milestone in her life and he’d known nothing about it. But then he’d been hanging on to some pretty big news of his own, hadn’t he? He could hardly fault her when he’d just failed to tell her that he was getting a divorce.

He called up an online search engine. Given a choice, he’d rather work than contemplate his navel. Every time.

An hour later he’d accessed the local council Web site and downloaded the relevant bylaws. He’d also tracked down some recent decisions on heritage protections in the Victorian Supreme Court. It was nearly eight and his stomach was hollow with hunger. He walked to the takeout Indian restaurant on the corner and bought a chicken curry he probably wouldn’t finish.

It was cool out and he tugged the collar of his leather jacket higher on his neck as he walked back home. Two-storied Victorian terrace houses marched down either side of the street, their balconies decorated with elaborate wrought iron lacework. He stopped in front of his own terrace house, taking a moment to note the clean white paint and the glossy black trim. Wisteria climbed one of the balcony supports, and the front garden was a masterpiece of precise hedges and rounded topiary.

He’d been so proud of this place when they’d signed the papers two years ago. A little scared, too, of the debt they’d been taking on. But Lisa had sold him on the risk, convinced him that they needed to live in the right suburb, drive the right kind of cars, have the right people over for dinner. She’d always been ambitious. Keen to kick the dust of small-town Australia off her heels. It was one of the things he’d always admired about her.

He hadn’t realized that she’d outgrow him one day, too.

He walked up the path to the front door and slid his key into the lock. He braced himself, then pushed the door open. And there it was—a wash of jasmine and spice. Lisa’s perfume, even though she’d been gone for nearly a year. He caught an echo of it every time he came home. Something he could definitely live without.

He walked to the kitchen, dumping his dinner on the counter before crossing to the rear of the house and flinging the French doors wide open. The house needed airing out, that was the problem.

He upended his curry into a bowl and grabbed a fork from the drawer. Once the divorce was finalized, this place would go on the market and he wouldn’t have to worry about her perfume anymore. Then he could move to an apartment, maybe some place in the city. A bachelor pad, full of high-tech gadgets and the kind of non-fussy furniture he preferred.

Quinn stared down at the messy curry in his bowl. This was not how he’d imagined his life would look at thirty. Not by a long shot.

He took his dinner to the study and immersed himself in the work he was doing for Amy. Another hour of research and digging and he had the information he needed to help her with her cause. He picked up the phone, then put it down again without dialing.

There was something he needed to get straight with himself before he spoke to her again. He’d lied to her earlier when she’d asked if Lisa was there, leading her to believe that Lisa was out for the evening rather than long gone. Which went far beyond simply not telling her the marriage was over.

Why hadn’t he told her, the way he’d told his parents and his colleagues at work and his and Lisa’s mutual friends here in Sydney?

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Leaned back in his chair.

The truth was, he hadn’t wanted his oldest friend to know that his marriage was a failure. Which was a great gauge for where his head was at the moment, wasn’t it?

Maybe he really did need this holiday.

He hadn’t been lying when he told Amy that he’d been thinking about her, though. He’d been thinking about her a lot. About the conversations they used to have lying in the tall grass at the bottom of her parents’ yard. About the way she always used to call him on his bullshit. About the times all three of them, he and Amy and Lisa, had gone swimming in the lake after dark.

All of it a far cry from the polished, finely honed world he occupied now. The corner office. The partnership in the prestigious law firm. The expensive European car. The soon-to-be expensive divorce.

Quinn shook his head. He really needed to get his head out of his own ass. Too much time on his own these days and he started thinking things to death. This was why he worked late. And why he was reluctant to spend two weeks on an island somewhere pretending to read a spy novel.

He palmed the phone and dialed Amy’s cell. She answered after one ring and he knew she’d probably been hovering by the damned thing, hoping he’d call back, even though he’d said it wouldn’t be until morning.

“Quinn,” she said. She sounded breathless. Scared.

“Good news. I’ve done some digging, and the Grand is listed on the town’s heritage register for both its interior and exterior architectural features. Which means that any development has to preserve the interior as well as the facade.”

“Oh my God. Thank you. Oh, Quinn. Thank you.” Her voice was thick with emotion.

“Don’t get too excited yet. Ulrich’s proposal shouldn’t have ever made it past first base. But it did, which means council are prepared to flout their own bylaws if given enough incentive.”

There was a long silence from the other end of the phone.

“But once I point out that they can’t do that, they’ll have to reject the offer, right?” Amy said.

“Not if they think they can get away with it. If the money’s big enough, people will do just about anything, Amy. I’ve been doing some checking, and Ulrich Construction has the contract to build the extension on the school gym, the new wing on the library and the new medical center over near the day spa. I’d say Barry Ulrich and the council are very nicely tucked up in bed with each other, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh.” She sounded nonplussed, and despite the seriousness of the situation, he had to smile. Amy had always been too busy thinking the best of people to see the worst.

“The council was probably hoping that they could slip this under the radar while nobody was looking.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen,” she said. “Not while I’m still living and breathing.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“So, what do I do? Go to the meeting, let them know that I know what they’re up to?” He could hear her taking notes.

“For starters. Take people with you, make sure there are plenty of witnesses to keep the councillors on their toes.”

“Dad can get his cronies from the Chamber of Commerce to come along. They can throw a bit of weight around when they want to. And Denise knows a guy at the local paper.”

“Perfect. I’ll draft up a statement for you to read. Something with enough legalese in it to give them pause.”

“Good. Pause is just what I want to give them. And then some.”

“I’m heading off on holiday tomorrow, but I’ll get the statement to you by morning, okay? And you can reach me on my cell if you need me.”

“Oh. Okay.” There was a short silence. “Where are you guys going?”

Now was the time to correct her, tell her that he was going on holiday alone. That Lisa had left him.

“Hamilton Island. Couple of weeks of sun and surf.”

“Sounds good.”

He drew a meaningless squiggle on the page in front of him. “Yeah.”

She took a deep breath on the other end of the line. “You’ve been great, Quinn. I want you to know I really appreciate your help with this.”

“It’s no big deal, Ames.”

“It is to me. It’s a huge deal.”

“Well.” He made another squiggle, then obliterated it in a flurry of pen strokes. “Don’t be a stranger, okay? Drop me a line now and then. And let me know how things go on Friday, okay?”

“I will.”

Neither of them said anything for a long moment. He could hear her breathing and he could feel the truth pushing its way up his throat.

It’s all screwed, Ames. My marriage, my life. I have no idea what I’m doing anymore.

“Good luck,” he said. Then he put the phone down before the truth could escape.

She didn’t want to hear his sad story. She was fighting for her dream. And they weren’t friends the way they used to be. He’d done something wrong, or something had gone wrong and he’d been too busy with his own crap to notice.

Same difference.

He flicked off the lights and walked through his empty house.

OVER THE NEXT THREE DAYS, Amy cajoled, begged, bribed and harassed her friends and neighbors until they agreed to join her at the council meeting on Friday evening. She phoned the local newspaper no less than seven times chasing Denise’s friend and finally cornered him in the butcher’s at lunchtime on Thursday.

One of the advantages of living in a small community—you could run, but not for long, and you sure as hell couldn’t hide. She promised him a good show and he promised her a reporter. She left in high spirits.

Quinn had been as good as his word and e-mailed her a precisely written statement to read during the meeting. It cited precedents and bylaws and subsections and clauses. She couldn’t follow most of it, but she figured that probably meant that the majority of the councillors wouldn’t be able to, either, which was good. She wanted them to be intimidated. She wanted them to know they were going to have a fight on their hands if they tried to push this thing through.

Her great-grandfather had built the Grand in 1929. He’d commissioned an architect in Sydney and imported marble from Carrara and light fittings from Venice. He’d created a wonderful legacy for the community. No way was Amy going to roll over while some greedy developer turned it to dust and replaced it with a bunch of shoe-box-size apartments.

She dressed carefully for the big meeting. A borrowed suit from Denise, neat and black and businesslike. A pair of new shoes that hurt her toes but gave her an extra four inches in height—very necessary since she was only five feet tall and often mistaken for a kid. She pulled her shoulder-length curly blond hair into a bun and painted her face with more makeup than she usually wore. She didn’t want anyone mistaking her for a kid tonight.

It was only a short drive to the council chambers. Amy’s new shoes pinched her feet as she walked across the gravel parking lot toward the front entrance. By the end of the evening she doubted she’d be able to feel her pinky toes, but if she won the Grand, she figured it would be well worth the sacrifice of two small digits.

She saw her family and friends the moment she walked into the meeting room. The public gallery was full of familiar faces—her parents, the Joneses, Denise,

Maria, Katherine. Cheryl and Eric from work, a few of the customers from her parents’ store.

A better turnout than she’d hoped for. Which was good, right?

She made her way to the front row where tables were provided for members of the public who wanted to make notes or present evidence. She put down her bag and took a deep breath. So far, so good.

Then she looked up and saw Barry Ulrich standing with his lawyer, a young guy in a slick suit. They were talking to Reg Hanover and a couple of the other councillors, and everyone was smiling and nodding as though they were in complete and utter agreement with each other.

Amy could feel the blood drain out of her face.

Barry had brought his lawyer. And all she had was a statement from Quinn and her own very inexpert understanding of the council bylaws. She pressed a hand to her stomach. If she messed this up, it was over. The Grand would be smashed to pieces. There was no coming back from that.

Barry glanced over and caught her eye. His smile broadened and he gave her a friendly little wave. As though this was a cocktail party, and he the host.

Goddamn.

She should have hired a lawyer. She’d resisted because of the expense, but it was stupid to economize when failing at this hurdle meant the end of the game. What had she been thinking with her puny little statement and her cheering squad?

“Sorry I’m late,” a deep, familiar voice said from behind her. “My flight was delayed, and there was construction on the freeway.”

A shiny black leather briefcase landed on the table.

Amy turned and blinked at the tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed man standing beside her. “Quinn,” she said. “You came.”