A Girl Less Ordinary

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.’