Gentle Persuasion. Cerella Sechrist

      CHAPTER TWO

      AN HOUR AFTER her arrival at the inn, Ophelia lay in the center of an enormous bed, eyes fixed on the circling ceiling fan. Dane had brought her bags up from the car, and now they rested on the floor as she counted the rotations of the fan blades above her, willing her weariness to ease her into slumber.

      She had drawn the suite’s shades, dimmed the lights and turned on her traveling white-noise machine, but the chatter in her brain wouldn’t allow for rest. Rolling onto her side, she closed her eyes and focused on her breathing, instead. In. Out. In. Out. In...

      It was no good. She was too distracted by the task at hand.

      You can do this, Ophelia. You can do it.

      She had made this her mantra for the past forty-eight hours—ever since her mother had drawn Ophelia into her private office and commissioned her with this task. Even now, recalling the conversation, Ophelia felt her stomach churning anxiously.

      She had just finished wrapping up negotiations for a CFO in an investment group when her assistant, Holly, had stuck her head through the door.

      She’d looked up with a grin. “Dinner at Le Petite Renard to celebrate? It’s on me.”

      The fact that her assistant didn’t jump at this invitation was Ophelia’s first clue something was up.

      “Your mother’s back from her meeting with Bianca Towers.”

      Ophelia’s relaxed posture tightened up at Holly’s warning tone. She waited.

      “She wants to see you in her private office.” Holly paused and then added, “Now.”

      Ophelia swallowed and instantly rose to her feet.

      She, of all the people in this city, knew better than to keep Lillian Reid waiting. Quickly, she headed out into the main office area of her floor. She brushed by Holly on her way, catching her commiserating glance before moving toward the elevators.

      The digital reading blipped all too slowly as she counted the floors until the elevator car reached her. She nodded politely at her coworkers, stepped inside and asked for the senior-executive floor.

      Her mother’s floor.

      Was it her imagination, or were they nudging and sharing glances behind her? It felt as if several sets of eyes were drilling pointed stares into her shoulder blades. She squared her posture and kept her expression impassive.

      The wait for the elevator had been far longer than the ride. As the doors pinged open, Ophelia barely resisted the urge to chew her lip with nervousness. She tried to keep her face professionally neutral as she stepped toward the reception desk and was waved through to the inner sanctum of Reid Recruiting Agency.

      She caved to insecurity as she passed the black marble awards wall and paused to try and assess herself in the shiny reflection of a plaque.

      Everything was perfect, every blond hair in place. She straightened her spine, just as her comportment lessons had instilled in her, and smoothed the designer suit that hugged her thin, five-foot-nine-inch frame. She tried to smile.

      Nothing happened.

      Her eyes were blinking rapidly, a sign of her distress. This would not do. Lillian expected a placid pool, no matter what sort of emotions raged underneath. Emotional displays were for lesser people. The face you presented to the world must be...flawless.

      Ophelia slid her eyes closed, willing a neatness of composure. When she opened them again, the hunted look was still evident.

      She prayed her mother would not notice.

      Knowing she had wasted precious seconds on this perusal, she hurried toward the glass doors and greeted Tamara, her mother’s assistant.

      “You can go on in, Ophelia,” Tamara offered. The other woman’s tone sounded almost pitying.

      Ophelia swallowed as she approached her mother’s door and knocked briefly before sticking her head inside.

      “Ms. Reid? You wanted to see me?”

      Lillian Reid had strict rules about how her daughter addressed her. While “Mother” was appropriate at family events and in the privacy of the home, when in the office or among business associates, only Ms. Reid would do.

      “Ophelia. Come in.” Lillian made a pointed show of studying her wristwatch, though she made no remark on the length of time it had taken Ophelia to reach the top floor.

      Ophelia remained composed as she crossed the room and waited behind the Parisian leather chairs reserved for those summoned to sit across the desk from Lillian. She knew better than to sit immediately. Lillian enjoyed issuing commands, even ones so small as when you might seat yourself.

      Lillian lifted her gaze from her watch, looked at her daughter and after a pause, gestured toward one of the chairs.

      “You may take a seat.”

      Ophelia gracefully brushed a hand beneath her skirt as she did. She folded one leg over the other, her spine straight and several inches away from the seat’s back. Just as she had been taught.

      She did not speak, knowing Lillian preferred to take the lead in such meetings. Her mother took longer than usual, however, to voice her wishes, and so Ophelia did her best not to fidget, not even to shift her weight from one side of the chair to the other.

      Lillian Reid stared down at her desk for an inordinate length of time, her eyes sharply assessing the spotless surface. The silence lingered for so long that Ophelia felt an unusual concern rise within her.

      Swallowing, she broke the rules with a soft murmur. “Mother?”

      It was the wrong move. Lillian’s hawklike gaze shot upward and caught her in its sights.

      “Ms. Reid,” she firmly declared.

      Ophelia dropped her head in shame. “I apologize, Ms. Reid.”

      Her poise proved flawless in nearly every situation she found herself thrust into, but one moment beneath her mother’s—Ms. Reid’s—sharp stare, and she felt reduced to a humiliated child.

      Though she ignored the apology, the exchange at least shook Lillian from her silent reverie. She smoothed her short, faded blond hair, a display of tension from her that Ophelia rarely witnessed, and then folded her neatly manicured hands before her.

      “We have a situation,” she announced, her voice matter-of-fact.

      Not trusting herself to speak further, Ophelia waited for her mother to continue.

      “I have just come from a meeting with Bianca Towers.”

      Ophelia prepared herself for potentially bad news. Bianca Towers was the heiress of an internationally renowned resort chain. With the recent passing of her uncle, the young socialite now possessed sole command of the Towers business and fortune.

      Her reputation as a flighty party girl had caused a drop in revenue for the Towers name once she came into the seat of power, and Bianca seemed anything but happy about it.

      Towers Resorts International had been employing Reid Recruiting Agency for years as their main source to fill top positions within their company. As one of Reid Recruiting’s most lucrative accounts, it remained imperative they keep Bianca Towers on good terms.

      This