Gladly Beyond Read Free Page A

rubbernecking at the scene of a car accident.
    She had stopped her panicky twirling and had moved down the piazza a bit. Now she stood in front of a Baroque-era palazzo, gazing up at the Tuscan-orange building with its pedimented windows and carved marble corbels. The building that was my destination.
    Of course. She was attending the same meeting.
    Branwell had suggested she and Pierce might be in the running for this job too. Heaven knew, the poor woman probably needed it as badly as I did.
    With a toss of her head, she threw her shoulders back, as if steeling herself.
    She had guts, I would give her that.
    It was only as she stepped forward and pressed the call button that it all clicked. That I finally noticed.
    Stupid typical guy . . . I had been too busy checking her out and cataloging the crazy to analyze why she drew my eye. But now it was so obvious—
    I couldn’t see her.
    Not. A. Damn. Thing.
    Chills goosebumped my arms and back.
    I blinked. Squinted.
    She was blank . Absolutely and completely capital-B Blank .
    All the air punched from my lungs. My heart went from zero to sixty.
    I instantly whirled my head around the square, mentally noting other people: three university students, a pair of tourists, a black-habited nun with groceries—
    Shadows. Movement. Normal.
    I could see them just fine.
    But when I came back to Claire . . .
    Niente. Nulla. Nothing.
    She was empty air.
    What. The. Hell.
    Claire pushed the palazzo door open, disappearing inside.
    With shaking hands, I shrugged off my helmet and locked it into the seat of my bike. Pulled my tie out of my shirt and unpegged my suit pants. Grabbed my briefcase.
    One thought alone pounding through my skull:
    Of all the women on the planet, why couldn’t I see Claire Raythorn?

Three

    Claire
    I walked into the room exactly four minutes early, politely greeting everyone with a professional smile.
    Striding around the large table in the center of the room, I slid into a chair that afforded me a clear view of all exits. (I didn’t lie about being paranoid.)
    I pointedly ignored ground zero of my paranoia—a.k.a. Mr. Pierce Whitman—seated across the table.
    He winked at me from behind his chunky, dark-framed glasses.
    Honestly? After everything? That’s how he chose to greet me? Besides, who winks at a female business associate in this day and age?
    Stay professional. Calm. Deep breath.
    I pretended interest in the mahogany table between us, mentally tracing the contrasting rosewood and satinwood inlay. (Northern Italian. Early nineteenth century. Master craftsman.) Using the moment to tamp down all worry labeled men —Pierce, Mr. Darcy stalker—and channeling my concentration into this potentially life altering meeting.
    Pierce kept trying to capture my gaze, dipping his head all earnest-like and pleading. He exuded a nerdy, harmless vibe. Brown hair, soulful eyes . . . lots of glasses and bow ties.
    The entirety of him shouting he was the safe choice, the prudent one. That had always been his schtik.
    A deep voice cleared his throat.
    “Can I get you something to drink, Ms. Raythorn? Mr. Whitman?”
    This came from the white-haired man seated at the head of the table, Mr. Kenneth Finster-Cline, the billionaire we had come to audition for.
    He radiated energy, despite being over seventy years old. He was one of those men who retained a luxurious mane of snowy-white hair well into old age. It complimented his neatly trimmed beard and Frank Sinatra-esque blue eyes.
    As is, he should have looked like Santa Claus, but instead bore an uncanny resemblance to Colonel Sanders. Combined with his initials (KFC) and drawling Kentucky accent, everyone just called him the Colonel.
    The few times we had met, the Colonel seemed grandfatherly, though chatty in the way elderly men can be. I intended to use every charm in the book to make a good impression on him.
    “No drink?” The Colonel gestured toward a sideboard laden with bottles, soda and an espresso maker.