The Bachelorette. Kate Little

her luck, and Meredith hoped that it would work for her today at her presentation, even hidden away in her pocket.

      At work, she always wore a long gray smock over her clothing. It protected her clothes while she worked, constructing samples of her jewelry designs, and conveniently for the modest Meredith, also hid her body. She took it down now from the hook behind her door. The smock was a must today, even for the meeting. Without it, I’d look like a contestant in a wet T-shirt contest, she reflected wryly as she fastened the snaps.

      Meredith knew she wasn’t a “babe”—not like some of the women around the office. She was definitely the type men called a “plain Jane.” It had always been that way for her and she doubted now it would ever change. Some women were just born that way. They either had it—or they didn’t. Hadn’t her glamorous mother always told her so, in one subtle way or another? If she looked a little disheveled today, nobody would care. Nobody would notice.

      Meredith took a seat at her drawing table and turned her thoughts to more important matters. She flipped the lid off a paper cup of coffee and took out a large project folder. The folder held the sketches for a new line of wedding bands, her current design project. She removed the sketches and spread them out on her drawing table. It was the line she was due to present at eleven o’clock and she still wanted to do some finishing touches. Her co-workers called her a perfectionist, but Meredith had always thought that the real impact of any piece was always in the details. Since it was so difficult for her to speak at meetings, she needed to walk into a presentation feeling that her work was flawless, otherwise her shyness would get the best of her.

      As Meredith reviewed the sketches, she felt pleased. She was proud of the “Everlasting Collection” and eager to see what others thought. The his-and-her wedding rings had been solely her idea, and the simple but elegant designs bore her distinctive, contemporary flair. Yet, part of her found it ironic that she was so adept at creating such perfectly stunning wedding rings, when it seemed so unlikely that a man she loved—a faceless stranger so far—would ever slip a gold band on her finger and pledge his everlasting devotion. Her single attempt at romance during her senior year at college had been a total disaster. One that Meredith believed she’d barely survived. If that’s what they called taking a chance on love, Meredith knew she wasn’t fit for the game.

      Designing wedding rings or heart-shaped lockets or any of the many trinkets lovers exchanged always left her with a feeling that was bittersweet at best. But she would try to distance herself, to tell herself it was her work and there was no need to get emotional. Then she’d go home, put on her grungiest clothes and head out to her studio. Alone in the empty warehouse space, she’d fire up her blowtorch and fuel all her loneliness and frustration into her artwork—her wild-looking abstract metal sculptures.

      Sometimes it was hard for Meredith to believe that she had been working at Colette for four years. Time had passed so quickly. It had been her first job out of college, and though she hadn’t expected to stay this long, she’d already had two promotions and had never once considered looking for work elsewhere, though a few rival firms had tried to recruit her.

      She liked the atmosphere here, the way that everyone worked together without a lot of petty rivalry and office politics which she knew went on in other firms. Over the years, she’d made some very good friends within the company, Jayne Pembroke, Lila Maxwell and Sylvie Bennett, to name her three closest pals, who also happened to live in the same apartment building as she did, on Amber Court.

      But how long would she—or anyone else on the payroll—be employed by Colette, Inc.? Rumors of a corporate takeover had started as a vague whisper among the rank and file but now ran rampant through the company. Some hotshot financer named Marcus Grey was buying up as much stock as he could get his hands on. The firm’s mysterious predator was moving in for the kill, like a lone wolf poised to strike. The giant jewelry manufacturer had few resources to defend itself. It was now just a waiting game, and morale around the office was at an all-time low.

      But like many other employees, Meredith was determined to carry on with an optimistic attitude. That was partly why she was so particular about her work these days. Instead of giving a halfhearted effort, as if the assignments didn’t matter anymore, she pushed herself to give her all, to produce designs that were truly inspired and would remind her co-workers that the company did indeed have a future. And everything might just turn out all right in the end.

      She gazed down at the second set of sketches and lifted her pencil to add an extra embellishment. The phone rang just as her pencil point hovered above the drawing.

      “Meredith Blair,” she answered in a businesslike tone.

      “It’s me,” Jayne Randolph answered in a hushed but urgent tone. “You’re needed down in the showroom for a consultation.”

      “The showroom? Do I have to?” Meredith knew she sounded like a five-year-old. But she couldn’t help it. Besides, Jayne was a friend. Surely she’d let her off the hook.

      “In a word, yes,” Jayne replied.

      “Oh, drat.”

      Meredith hated visiting the showroom. She knew she’d rather starve than have a job in sales, catering to the representatives of large accounts and an upmarket, private clientele. Yet, from time to time designers had to go down for consultations with the sales personnel and a client.

      A visit to the showroom usually meant that some spoiled, wealthy woman couldn’t find the diamond ring or jewel-studded necklace she had in mind, and now wanted to drive somebody crazy as she tried to describe her jewelry fantasy. Meredith knew that nine times out of ten trying to get it right was an exercise in futility. She doubted that even a mind reader would manage to satisfy such clients. Meredith was much more comfortable hiding away in her studio then being thrust into the limelight.

      Besides, if she went down now, she’d never get through the sketches in time. “Come on, Jayne. Can’t you call someone else? I’m really absolutely swamped. I’m due to show designs at a big marketing meeting this morning and I’m still cleaning up some rough spots. Can’t Anita or Peter help you?”

      “I called Frank first,” Jayne said. “When I told your boss who the client was, he said to call you. Specifically, you, Meredith.”

      “Who’s the client?”

      “Adam Richards,” Jayne replied solemnly. She spoke in a whisper, so Meredith guessed that Mr. Richards—whoever he was—stood within earshot.

      “Am I supposed to know who that is?” she asked, laughing despite herself.

      “No offense, Meredith but…what planet do you live on?” Jayne asked sweetly. “Adam Richards? Owns Richards Home Furnishings? One of the company’s top private clients? Spends loads of money here every year? Just your average, self-made millionaire,” she added.

      “Oh, that Adam Richards,” Meredith said lightly. “I find it hard to keep up with the self-made millionaire list lately…. What’s he doing now?”

      “Pacing around the showroom. In an irritated tycoon sort of way. He’s chosen a few items he likes, and he wants to speak to a designer about customizing the designs. I’m going to bring him into room number three and serve him coffee. You’d better get down here right away. I think he knows Frank personally,” she added.

      Meredith had always gotten along well with her boss. He had taught her so much and encouraged her own creative talents to blossom. But Frank Reynolds still didn’t cut any slack for her, though she was probably his favorite. If Frank said she had to go, she had to go.

      “All right,” Meredith conceded with a sigh. “Tell your average, impatient tycoon I’m on my way.”

      Meredith hung up the phone, then grabbed her smaller sketchpad and her coffee. As she headed for the door, she thought to check her appearance, maybe swipe on a bit of lip gloss or check her hair again. But then she shrugged off the impulse. Big deal. Adam Richards. So the man had money—a great deal of money. Material success had never impressed her, and she rather disliked people who believed they were due special treatment just because they