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She imagined herself in the water. Remembered the way her focus became so narrow, so all-encompassing, that she didn’t hear the crowd—didn’t hear a thing. It was just her body and the water, and all she could control was her technique.
Stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, stroke...
The crowd—a world away—was suddenly much louder, and Lanie’s eyes popped open. The anchor swimmer was in the water, and Great Britain had a chance for a medal. The crowd had gone wild.
Teagan squeezed her hand again, harder, and Lanie blinked, refocussing her attention.
Australia had pulled ahead. They were going to win.
And just like that—they had.
The girls had done it, and done it in style—in record time. They deserved every accolade the over-excited commentator was bestowing upon them.
They filled the television screen, swim caps stripped off, damp hair long around their shoulders, as they completed the standard pool-side interview.
‘Lanie?’ Teagan’s voice was full of concern.
Despite her own mental reassurances that she was fine, and the many times she’d told herself she was a bigger person than to be jealous or resentful or whatever, she suddenly realised she wasn’t.
A tear splashed onto her hands, and she looked down to where her fingers were knotted in the flannelette of her pyjamas.
She’d been wallowing. Treading water until this moment—waiting for tonight, for this race.
Why?
Because tonight was the end. The end of her swimming dream.
Teagan silently shoved a handful of tissues in front of her and Lanie dabbed at her cheeks. Blew her nose. And considered what to do next.
She needed to do something—anything. And she had to do it now. She couldn’t wake up tomorrow and be the also-ran swimmer.
She turned to face Teagan on the couch. Her friend was so close to be as good as shoulder to shoulder with her, but she’d wisely not made a move to comfort her.
‘I need a job,’ Lanie said.
Teagan’s eyes widened, but then she smiled. ‘But no drug cartels?’
‘Or anything involving swimming.’
Her friend’s smile broadened. ‘Consider it done.’
TWO
Grayson Manning shoved his chair away from his desk, then covered the generous space between the desk and the door in quick, agitated strides.
Outside his office, his assistant’s desk was empty.
He glanced at his watch, confused. It was well after nine a.m., and Rodney was always on time. Gray insisted upon it.
He frowned as he walked into the hallway. Thankfully a woman sat behind the glossy white reception desk. Behind her, ‘Manning’ was spelt out in ridiculously large chrome block capitals.
What was her name again? Cathy? Katie?
‘Caroline,’ she said, unprompted, as he approached—reminding him he’d guessed wrong last time he’d asked her a question, too.
‘Caroline,’ he repeated. He’d been told doing so was useful when remembering names—not that it had helped him so far. ‘Where’s Rodney?’
The woman blinked. Then bit her lip, glancing away for a moment. ‘Um...Mr Manning, Rodney resigned...’ A pause. ‘Yesterday.’
Gray’s jaw clenched. ‘Our agreement with the agency specifies at least two weeks’ notice must be provided.’
The woman nodded, her blond ponytail bouncing in agreement. ‘I believe he asked your permission that his resignation be effective immediately.’
‘I didn’t agree to that.’
Caroline’s lips twitched. ‘I’m pretty sure you did. Rodney forwarded me your e-mail so he could organise cancellation of his building access and so on. It was there in writing.’
Gray pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and quickly scrolled through yesterday’s sent messages. Yesterday had been stupidly busy—back-to-back meetings, a major issue with one of his contractors, and a lead on a new investment opportunity in South East Asia.
Even so, surely he would have noticed if... Letter of Resignation.
It wasn’t even a vague subject line. He really needed to start paying more attention to his inbox. But then, that was one of the reasons why he had an assistant: to prioritise his mail, to nag him to respond to anything important, and to allow him to pay no attention to anything that wasn’t.
The irony was not lost on him.
Without another word he headed up the hallway to the opposite end of the floor. To his father’s office.
A mirror image of his own, Gordon Manning’s office also had a smaller adjacent waiting area—although his was complete with an actual assistant.
‘Marilyn—’
Unlike Caroline, the older lady didn’t even attempt to hide her smile. She shook her head. ‘Gray, Gray, Gray...’
‘I need a new assistant.’
‘So I hear.’
His lips thinned. ‘Does everyone but me know that Rodney resigned?’
‘A group of us had farewell drinks last night. Lovely guy.’
‘I was unaware you were so close,’ he replied dryly. ‘He was only here a couple of weeks.’
‘Two months,’ Marilyn corrected smoothly.
Really? Since his father had announced his impending retirement six months ago, Gray could barely remember what day it was. He was working seven days a week, and easily twelve-hour days.
‘Is my father in?’
‘No, not today.’
His father hadn’t been into the office in months. Initially his transition to retirement had been gradual—and Gray had been unsure if his father was capable of retiring at all. But soon Gordon’s days in the office had been reduced to only a few hours, and then to nothing. And while Marilyn continued to manage his dad’s life, now she did so exclusively via e-mail.
A month ago Gordon Manning had had his no-expense-spared retirement party and that had made it all official. But Gray wasn’t silly enough to clear out his dad’s office just yet—apart from the fact it contained about forty years’ worth of god-knew-what paperwork, it would be a while before Gordon—or Gray, come to think of it—could imagine a Manning Developments office without a desk for its founder.
‘So you can help me today? Fantastic. I need you to accompany me to a meeting in West Perth. And to sort out my flights for next week. And—’
But Marilyn was shaking her head. ‘No need. Your new assistant should be here soon.’
Oh. The agency must already be on to it. Even so...
‘I’d rather not have someone completely new to Manning with me today. This is a very important meeting. It’s essential that—’
Marilyn’s look froze him mid-sentence, exactly as it had frozen him many times before—although the vast majority of such glares had been twenty-five years ago. A kid learnt quickly not to mess with Marilyn.
‘If you don’t want a new assistant, be nice to the assistant you have.’
‘I am nice.’
Her eyebrows rose right up beneath her dead straight fringe.
‘Be nice to this one, Gray. Let’s try for three months, this time, hey?’
* * *
Almost an hour later, Caroline ushered Gray’s new assistant into his office.
‘Mr Manning?’
He was just finishing an e-mail, so he barely glanced in the direction of the figure in his doorway and instead just waved an arm in the general vicinity of one of the soft leather chairs in front of his desk.
Absently, he heard the door thud quietly shut, and then the click of heels on the marble floor—but all his attention was on the e-mail he was composing:
I look forward to discussing the proposal further...
No. He hit the delete key half a dozen times, maybe a little harder than was necessary. He didn’t want any discussion. He wanted a decision. The deal was already behind schedule. He needed a yes and he needed it last week.
I trust you’ll agree...
That was even worse. He held down the delete key again, thinking.
But that was the problem. He was thinking too much. It was just an e-mail—an e-mail to an investment partner with whom he already had an excellent rapport. The proposal was little more than a formality.
Or at least it should be. But their last meeting had been...off. It had been subtle—more questions than he’d normally expect, more careful perusal of the numbers Gray had shown him. All perfectly normal things for a wise investor to do. The thing was that this particular investor had so much confidence in Manning that he was usually rather relaxed about conducting his own due diligence.
Quite simply—he’d trusted Manning.
But now...
Maybe it was a coincidence that this new-found caution coincided with Gray’s father’s retirement...
Gray didn’t believe that for a second.
And it was damned infuriating.
Gray glanced up. His eyes landed on the woman’s hands—long, elegant fingers, unpainted, neat, short tips. She was sluggishly rubbing each hand down her thighs, the movement slow but clearly triggered by nerves.
She wore trousers, not a skirt, he noticed.
‘How do I finish this e-mail?’ he asked. His tone was sharper than he’d intended, and Marilyn’s words echoed momentarily.
His gaze shot to the woman’s face.
As their eyes met her body gave a little jolt and she gasped—quite loudly.
Immediately one of those long-fingered hands was slapped to her mouth.
Her eyes widened as she looked at him.
And they were very lovely eyes, he acknowledged. Big and brown, framed by dark lashes—even though he was almost certain she wore no make-up. They watched him with unexpected intensity and an expression that was impossible to read.
He didn’t understand. Surely his request wasn’t so shocking? Abrupt, maybe, but hardly earth-shattering.
When the silence continued he shrugged, his temporary interest in her reaction rapidly morphing into frustration.
He didn’t have time for this. The agency would just have to send someone else.
‘I don’t think this is going to work out,’ he said, very evenly. ‘Thanks for your time.’
He didn’t bother to wait for her to leave, just gritted his teeth and got back to his e-mail.
Again he only half listened to the sound of her heels on the marble—although soon he realised she was coming closer, not going further away.
‘Regards,’ she said, from right behind his shoulder.
‘What?’
He looked up at her. She was somehow bigger than he’d expected—taller, and wider through the shoulders. She leant forward slightly as she studied his computer, her long hair shining in the sunlight that flooded through the office’s floor-to-ceiling windows.
‘I’d delete all that stuff at the end, and just say Regards. Or Sincerely. Or however you normally sign off your e-mails.’ She met his eyes, and this time she didn’t look like a deer caught in the headlights. She watched him steadily, and there was a sharpness to her gaze that he appreciated.
Her eyes were definitely hazel, he realised. Not brown.
When he didn’t say anything, she explained further. ‘Judging by the e-mail trail beneath this one, you’ve been having this conversation for a while.’
Gray nodded.
‘And you want a resolution? But you don’t want to be seen as pushy?’
