Her Best Friend. Sarah Mayberry

stranger, okay? Drop me a line now and then. And let me know how things go on Friday, okay?”

      “I will.”

      Neither of them said anything for a long moment. He could hear her breathing and he could feel the truth pushing its way up his throat.

      It’s all screwed, Ames. My marriage, my life. I have no idea what I’m doing anymore.

      “Good luck,” he said. Then he put the phone down before the truth could escape.

      She didn’t want to hear his sad story. She was fighting for her dream. And they weren’t friends the way they used to be. He’d done something wrong, or something had gone wrong and he’d been too busy with his own crap to notice.

      Same difference.

      He flicked off the lights and walked through his empty house.

      OVER THE NEXT THREE DAYS, Amy cajoled, begged, bribed and harassed her friends and neighbors until they agreed to join her at the council meeting on Friday evening. She phoned the local newspaper no less than seven times chasing Denise’s friend and finally cornered him in the butcher’s at lunchtime on Thursday.

      One of the advantages of living in a small community—you could run, but not for long, and you sure as hell couldn’t hide. She promised him a good show and he promised her a reporter. She left in high spirits.

      Quinn had been as good as his word and e-mailed her a precisely written statement to read during the meeting. It cited precedents and bylaws and subsections and clauses. She couldn’t follow most of it, but she figured that probably meant that the majority of the councillors wouldn’t be able to, either, which was good. She wanted them to be intimidated. She wanted them to know they were going to have a fight on their hands if they tried to push this thing through.

      Her great-grandfather had built the Grand in 1929. He’d commissioned an architect in Sydney and imported marble from Carrara and light fittings from Venice. He’d created a wonderful legacy for the community. No way was Amy going to roll over while some greedy developer turned it to dust and replaced it with a bunch of shoe-box-size apartments.

      She dressed carefully for the big meeting. A borrowed suit from Denise, neat and black and businesslike. A pair of new shoes that hurt her toes but gave her an extra four inches in height—very necessary since she was only five feet tall and often mistaken for a kid. She pulled her shoulder-length curly blond hair into a bun and painted her face with more makeup than she usually wore. She didn’t want anyone mistaking her for a kid tonight.

      It was only a short drive to the council chambers. Amy’s new shoes pinched her feet as she walked across the gravel parking lot toward the front entrance. By the end of the evening she doubted she’d be able to feel her pinky toes, but if she won the Grand, she figured it would be well worth the sacrifice of two small digits.

      She saw her family and friends the moment she walked into the meeting room. The public gallery was full of familiar faces—her parents, the Joneses, Denise,

      Maria, Katherine. Cheryl and Eric from work, a few of the customers from her parents’ store.

      A better turnout than she’d hoped for. Which was good, right?

      She made her way to the front row where tables were provided for members of the public who wanted to make notes or present evidence. She put down her bag and took a deep breath. So far, so good.

      Then she looked up and saw Barry Ulrich standing with his lawyer, a young guy in a slick suit. They were talking to Reg Hanover and a couple of the other councillors, and everyone was smiling and nodding as though they were in complete and utter agreement with each other.

      Amy could feel the blood drain out of her face.

      Barry had brought his lawyer. And all she had was a statement from Quinn and her own very inexpert understanding of the council bylaws. She pressed a hand to her stomach. If she messed this up, it was over. The Grand would be smashed to pieces. There was no coming back from that.

      Barry glanced over and caught her eye. His smile broadened and he gave her a friendly little wave. As though this was a cocktail party, and he the host.

      Goddamn.

      She should have hired a lawyer. She’d resisted because of the expense, but it was stupid to economize when failing at this hurdle meant the end of the game. What had she been thinking with her puny little statement and her cheering squad?

      “Sorry I’m late,” a deep, familiar voice said from behind her. “My flight was delayed, and there was construction on the freeway.”

      A shiny black leather briefcase landed on the table.

      Amy turned and blinked at the tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed man standing beside her. “Quinn,” she said. “You came.”

       CHAPTER TWO

      “LIKE I SAID, I would have been here sooner but shit happened.”

      It had been a close-run thing, but he’d made it. And in the nick of time.

      Quinn pulled a file and a legal pad from his briefcase then clicked it shut again. Only when he was satisfied that he was ready to roll did he look Amy fully in the face.

      Her blond curls had been tamed into a conservative bun, and her face was less full and her cheekbones more prominent than when he’d last seen her. His gaze got caught for a moment on her lower lip, full and shiny with gloss, then slid lower to take in her neat little suit and towering high heels.

      He frowned.

      “You look different.” He wasn’t sure if he liked it. Whenever he pictured Amy in his mind’s eye, her hair was always wild and her clothes mismatched. Most importantly, she was always laughing. The woman standing in front of him looked as though she’d had all the laughter drained out of her.

      “Do I?”

      “Yeah. Since when did you start wearing suits?”

      “Since I borrowed this from Denise.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”

      “I did a bit of checking into Ulrich,” he said. “Guy’s got some serious connections around town. Figured you might need someone to ride shotgun.”

      Her gaze searched his face just as his had searched hers. He wondered if he looked as tired as he felt, if she could see past the mask he’d worn for months now.

      Before either of them could say any more, a middle-aged man wearing the ugliest tie he’d ever seen banged a wooden gavel on the long table placed before the council members.

      “This council meeting is now in session. I call upon the secretary, Councillor McMahon, to read over the minutes from the previous meeting.”

      A gray-haired woman with a severely short haircut began to drone her way through the minutes. Quinn turned to Amy but she spoke before he could get the question out of his mouth.

      “Reg Hanover,” she said. “He’s the chairman, and Dulcie McMahon is the one speaking.”

      Quinn drew a quick representation of the council table on his notepad and labeled the central position and the secretary. Amy reached across and slid his pen from his hand, an old trick of hers from high school. She angled his notepad toward herself and started jotting names in the other six seats along the table, indicating official roles where applicable. He glanced at her profile as she wrote. She might have swapped her usual bright, haphazard fashion for a suit and high heels, but she still poked the tip of her tongue between her lips when she was concentrating.

      He suppressed a smile.

      She glanced up at him and quirked an eyebrow. What?

      He shrugged. Nothing.

      She pushed his notepad toward him.

      “What happened to Hamilton Island?” she