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,’