Rochambeau moved to the other side of his large oak desk and sat down. He waved a hand for her to do the same. All Jasmine wanted to do was get this over with and make her escape. She perched on the edge of the chair like a nervous sparrow.
‘And what makes you think you have to prove me wrong, Miss Barrington? You think I am a poor judge of talent?’
The blood rushed to her face and her palms were sweating. She laid them flat on her thighs and swallowed, wishing she weren’t so crippled by nerves in his presence. ‘No, sir. I’m sure you are very good judge. That’s why I’m leaving. It’s pointless for me to keep trying to prove you wrong.’
His frown deepened. ‘And you know exactly what I’m thinking, do you? Are you blessed with psychic powers?’
This was not going the way she had predicted.
