Persuaded

by Rachel Schurig

  Feeling a fresh surge of determination, I slipped the portfolio back into my bag and focused on the row of numbers before me, determined to find something in the budget I had missed. There was only one way to get the life I wanted, and it started with winning the bid.

  I would worry about telling Emma later.

  Chapter Five

  Tuesday morning found me at the office, alone. The rest of the staff had not yet made it in, but I had been too preoccupied with the demands of the developers to sleep much the night before. May as well get some work done.

  There has to be a way to make this work, I thought to myself for the hundredth time. There had to be something I was missing. For years, Emma had referred to me as a magician with numbers, thinking me blessed with the uncanny ability to make our books turn out the way we wanted them to. But that magic was failing me now—or had never existed in the first place. Because no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t see a way out of ruin.

  We have to get this bid, I thought desperately. We have to. Even if that means bringing in an outside design firm. Whatever it takes.

  Around eight thirty, the halls outside my office started to come to life with the familiar clacking of heels on tile and rustle of voices and soft laughter. At nine on the dot, Lucy appeared in the window outside my door, holding up a cup of coffee and raising a questioning eyebrow at me. I gestured her in before returning to my screen.

  “Morning,” she chirped happily. “How was your night?”

  “Fine,” I murmured, my attention on the computer screen.

  She was quiet for a beat. “Are you sure?”

  I finally looked up at her. Lucy was dressed, per usual, in a tight, black pencil skirt and a white blouse that showed off her tan. I couldn’t help but hazard a glance at my own skin—still pasty white. You’d think living in Las Vegas would automatically entitle me to at least a little bit of color. You have to go outside for the sun to work, I reminded myself.

  “I’m fine, Lucy,” I assured her. “Just stressed about the bid, that’s all.”

  She placed the coffee on my desk with an understanding smile. “It will work itself out.”

  I sighed. The optimism of youth.

  “Actually, Charlie just called,” she continued, opening the thick, black day planner where she kept my schedule. “He’d like you and Emma in his office at nine thirty.”

  “Did he say what it was about?”

  Her eyes gleamed at me over the planner. “He thinks he found the architect.”

  That had my attention. I sat up straighter, gripping a pen in my hand. “Already?”

  She nodded. “Apparently, someone he knows from school. Richard something, I think he said. He’s been working on hotels in Europe for the past few years.”

  I scrunched up my nose, knowing that working in Europe could encompass a broad array of jobs. Were we talking to someone who had done high-end stuff in some of the heavily tourist-trafficked areas? Or someone who was designing cheap, dormitory-style hostels in run-down areas of town?

  Before I could say any of this out loud, Liz stuck her head around the door. “Oh, good,” she muttered, striding into the room without invitation. I bit my tongue, wishing, for the millionth time, that I could remind her who she worked for.

  “Are you going to this meeting?” she asked, plopping into the seat across from me. Lucy hovered awkwardly to the side, unsure if she should stay or go. I nodded at her, and she shot me a relieved glance before scurrying from the room. I didn’t blame her; Liz could hardly be bothered to give her the time of day. She had never thought much of Charlie Musgrove, or of Mary’s plans to marry him. Something about his “new money,” a subject she had brought up many times, while shooting me pointed glances across the table, eager to remind me that Charlie wasn’t the only one she thought was out of his element in our circle. Being Liz, she did very little to hide this opinion from Lucy, the man’s sister.

  “Of course I’m going to the meeting,” I told her.

  She sighed. “Mary thinks I should go, but I honestly can’t think of anything more boring.”

  I wondered, not for the first time, why Liz still worked here. Shortly after we had moved to Vegas, she followed, Mary in tow, and Emma had quickly offered them both jobs. I wasn’t entirely sure what Liz did all day, but I knew work didn’t play much of a part. I had a feeling she had taken the job in the first place only to meet men, staying on out of lack of anything better to do when she remained single in spite of the plethora of eligible businessmen we routinely worked with—apparently, not eligible enough for Liz’s exacting standards. Anyone could see that she took little pleasure in the day-to-day running of our company. Unlike Mary, who didn’t work much but still wanted to appear important, Liz’s complete disinterest couldn’t have been clearer.

  That would be a way to trim my budget, I thought, feeling annoyed. I knew Emma would never go for it, her loyalty to old friends even stronger than her business sense. So long as Liz wanted a job here, she had one—even if she was useless.

  “It’s your call,” I told her. “We’re talking about the new architect, so it might not hurt to check it out. You’ll have to work with the guy.”

  She made a face. “I still don’t understand why we have to go outside of the company.”

  I shrugged. “The developers say jump, we jump.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Anyway, I really don’t get why Emma doesn’t just call her father. Then we could move onto a project we can do on our own. Why on earth would she want to be beholden to an outsider?”

  Of course, her gaze flicked meaningfully over my face as she spoke, and I had to struggle not to roll my eyes. No matter what I did, no matter how long I was around, I would always be an outsider to Liz. Even if I did own half of the company that she sponged off of in a poor approximation of work.

  I didn’t point out that her father was nearly as loaded as Mr. Russell. The idea of owing money to the Webbs was too terrible to even contemplate.

  She glanced at her watch. “I really did have a packed morning,” she went on, and I bit back a laugh. From the way she was fiddling with her barely chipped fingernails, I had a feeling she’d be taking an early lunch to go get a manicure.

  “You could always ask Mary to fill you in,” I offered. Part of me wanted to order her to the meeting, make her earn a bit of her excessive salary—but that part battled mightily with a years-long desire to avoid Liz whenever possible.

  Her face immediately brightened. “You don’t think Emma will mind?”

  “I’m sure it will be fine.”

  She beamed at me. “Thanks, Annabelle. You’re a life saver.” She made a big show of tossing me an air kiss before practically skipping from my office. I finally indulged in a massive eye roll at her retreating back.

  Once she was gone, I downed the rest of my coffee in one gulp. If anything called for a caffeine boost it was dealing with Liz.

  Ten minutes later, I headed to the conference room where I felt momentarily surprised by the sight of rain I saw falling outside the wall of windows across the room. It had been clear—and still dark outside—when I arrived that morning.

  “Morning,” Emma called, waving at me from the head of the table.

  “Oh, good,” Charlie said, bustling in with his hands full of glossy folders, Mary at his heels. He handed one to each of us in turn before taking his seat at the end of the table closest to the door, straightening his tie importantly. I hid a smile—Charlie loved being in charge, loved feeling important. Emma and I generally let him have his moment in situations like these—God knew he didn’t get much of a chance to feel important in his home life.

  “What’s this, Charlie?” Emma asked, picking up the folder and flipping through it with a slight frown on her face—a frown she would have quickly wiped away had she been aware of it. Emma had been obsessed ever since we turned thirty with what she considered a full-on invasion of lines on her face. I tried to tell her that she had the skin of a teenage
r, but she wouldn’t listen.

  “This is our saving grace,” Charlie said triumphantly, earning himself raised eyebrows from Emma and me, while Mary did her best not to preen importantly next to her husband. I picked up the glossy folder, seeing Mary’s stamp all over it. Only she would think it necessary to spend company money on a glossy print job for just Emma and me.

  “Saving grace?” Emma asked. “What are you talking about?”

  Charlie jabbed a finger into the cover of his own folder. “This guy right here. Architect friend of mine. Well, not a friend, not exactly, haven’t seen the guy in years, but still.” I glanced out the window, my sleepless night starting to catch up with me. Charlie was such a rambler, always had been, but I simply did not have the patience for it right then.

  “Charles,” Mary snapped, pointing at her own folder. He grinned sheepishly.

  “Right-o, dear. Sorry, getting away from myself. Anyhow—this guy. Knew him in college, great guy, really smart. British, obviously.” I felt a little thrill of interest. Charlie had attended Oxford for his undergraduate—I had often wondered how many favors his alumnus father had pulled to make that happen. Not that Charlie was stupid, by any means, but he also wasn’t quite what I would consider Oxford material. Of course, that was only based on the one Oxford alum I had spent any time with.

  I shook my head, trying to concentrate on Charlie.

  “He’s done some fantastic work all over Europe,” Charlie was saying. “He and his partner—Jim something or other. Anyhow, they’re trying to break into the market over here. Don’t have much experience on this side of the pond, so they’re looking for an established firm to work with.” He puffed himself up mightily. “I figured it could be the perfect marriage, you know? We’re established and looking for some talent. He has the talent in spades but no connections here.”

  Emma was frowning again, flipping through her folder. I took a look at my own folder. Charlie (or Mary, more likely) had printed out glossy, full-color photographs of some swanky-looking buildings—exterior shots of gleaming buildings, detailed pictures of interiors, close-ups of fountains and tile work.

  “He has talent,” I murmured, running my fingers along a glossy shot of intricate woodworking.

  “That he does,” Charlie said seriously, nodding. “Jim does the interior design stuff, and Rick focuses on the architecture.”

  There was that little thrill again. First the talk of Oxford, now the name. My stomach was starting to feel queasy, but that was silly, right? There was no way that there was any connection here, no way at all.

  “But,” Charlie continued, “by Jim’s account, Rick is the big idea guy, you know. A really special talent.”

  The queasy feeling in my stomach was growing. I flipped back through the pages, feeling slightly desperate, looking for information on this architect.

  “What do you think, Annabelle?” Charlie asked, his face painfully hopeful as he looked for my approval. “Looks pretty good, doesn’t he?”

  I nodded, trying to shake the sense of growing dread. “The pictures look good.”

  He beamed at me. “And Jim tells me he’s very easy to work with.”

  “He looks a lot more expensive than what we were hoping for,” Emma said uncertainly.

  Charlie was shaking his head before she even finished. “We can afford this, Emma. I’ve done all the number crunching.” He shot me an apologetic look, as if he had stepped on my toes. As if he wasn’t the CFO. “Like I said, they’re looking to get into the business here. Don’t know anything about our codes or bidding processes. Don’t have any investor connections. We can get them for a steal.”

  “And help them to get their foot in the door?” Emma asked.

  “Exactly.”

  She dropped the folder on the table, a loud slap echoing through the room.

  “You’re asking us to help launch someone’s career. Someone who will become competition on the next project.” Her voice was flat, and Charlie visibly deflated.

  “Well, I just thought, you know, we—”

  She held up a hand, sighing loudly. “Unfortunately, I don’t think we have any other choice. Annabelle has been going over the numbers non-stop since that meeting.” Her eyes met mine across the table, and I was shocked to see the fear there. I wasn’t sure that I had ever once seen Emma afraid of anything. “Hiring any of the established architects we know would put us under, wouldn’t it?”

  I nodded, the queasy feeling of a moment ago replaced by something close to numbness. Here it was, then. Everything out on the table. Everyone on the same page.

  “If we don’t get this deal, I don’t see us lasting much past the New Year,” I said, my voice surprisingly even. “We need to make a profit, big time. If we don’t get the deal…” I shook my head, unable to entertain the thought. “Even if we get it, if half of our take is going to an established architect…”

  “So then we don’t have a choice,” she repeated. She pointed at the folder. “This is our best shot, whether it comes back to bite us in the ass or not.”

  Our eyes met across the table and I nodded. She sucked in a deep breath as she picked up her folder and set her shoulders the way I’d seen her do a million times, steeling herself for the next step, the next obstacle to overcome to get what she wanted. “Then we go with this Rick…” She thumbed through the folder, landing on the bio page that had eluded me. “Wentworth.”

  All of the air seemed to go out of the room. I could actually hear my heart pounding, so loud I was sure everyone else could hear it, too. But they continued to talk, pouring over the folder, as if the entire world hadn’t turned on its side.

  “Educated at Oxford and Bath,” Emma was saying, peering down at the bio page. “Worked in Cannes and Mykonos.” She whistled. “That could be some high-end work there.”

  “It’s page thirteen, Annabelle,” Charlie said, seeing me fumble. “The bio Emma is reading from.” Their voices seemed far away, as if coming to me through a bad connection. Feeling like I might throw up at any moment, I flipped through the pages until I finally found the bio page.

  There would have to be a picture, I thought fleetingly. I gripped the table, afraid I might actually pass out. There he was. Rick Wentworth. Staring up at me from the page, after all these years.

  The analytical part of my brain was able to notice how little he had changed. He was broader now, his hair slightly darker. But then, he probably wasn’t spending as much time scampering around the woods and fields of Michigan. I felt a sharp pain in my chest and nearly let out a whimper. He was dressed in a suit, not the faded jeans and T-shirts I was used to.

  You’re not used to anything, I tried to tell myself. You haven’t seen him in ten years.

  Except in my dreams.

  I shook my head, trying to get it together before anyone noticed.

  Come to think of it, why hadn’t anyone noticed? I glanced sharply at Emma, certain she would be staring at me, wondering how I was reacting to the news. But she was still going over his bio with Charlie and Mary. Like she didn’t even realize who this was.

  I drew in a ragged breath, realizing the truth of that statement. She had no idea. No idea who this person was, no idea of the connection.

  The only person I’d ever been in love with, and my best friend didn’t even recognize him.

  I felt a stab of anger at her, anger that she didn’t remember, that she had never figured out, after all these years, what it had all meant to me. Anger that she could sweep in from the Hamptons and change the entire trajectory of my life without even realizing the impact she was having.

  Almost immediately, the anger was replaced by sadness so deep it made my entire chest ache. If no one remembered what I had with Rick, did that make it somehow less real? If my best friend didn’t even know, was it less vital than I had always believed?

  And, worst of all, if my best friend—the person who was supposed to know me best, the person who was supposed to really see me, care about me, in a w
ay no one else ever had—if she didn’t know this part of me, this huge, gaping wound that never seemed to close, how alone was I?

  I stood on shaking legs, finally earning the attention of Emma. Her face creased in concern. “Are you—”

  “I don’t feel well,” I managed to gasp, pushing away from the table.

  “Is it your head?” She moved to stand, as well. “Damn it, Anna, I told you to see your doctor about these migraines.”

  “I… Yeah, my head.” I waved her back to her seat. “Don’t get up. I just need…some water.”

  “Well call Lucy,” Mary said crossly. “Isn’t that her job?” She glared at Charlie. “If your little sister doesn’t appreciate how lucky she is—”

  But Charlie was already at my side, leading me to the door. I was grateful for the sturdiness of him, his steadiness. The room was starting to spin.

  “You go to your office and shut the blinds,” he told me softly. “I’ll send Lucy in with some water.”

  “Thanks.” At the door, he looked like he might lead me all the way to my office so I patted his arm and took a step away. More than anything, I wanted to be alone. “Go back to the meeting.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. I just need to take my pill. I’ll be fine.”

  He didn’t seem inclined to believe me, but I set off down the hall, doing my best to stay steady, before he could argue.

  In the quiet of my office, I closed the blinds on the small, single window behind my desk and sank into my chair, tilting my head back.

  You need to get it together, I ordered, trying to control my breathing.

  There was a soft knock at the door, and then Lucy appeared, a glass of water in one hand and a can of Pepsi in the other. “I’ve heard caffeine can help with a bad headache,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper as she set them each in front of me on the desk. Without another word, she moved to the blinds on my window facing the hall, shutting them tightly and blocking out all the light from the hallway beyond. “Do you need anything else? Are your pills nearby?”