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‘Yes, but I didn’t know he knew you. I believe your father died some months ago?’
‘It was at his funeral that your father mentioned you.’
‘I see. Then you mustn’t have minded the feminist tag he labelled me with.’
‘I didn’t say I was sexist,’ Lachlan Hewitt drawled. ‘And I did happen to know that your father saved my father’s life once.’
Clare breathed deeply with some frustration. ‘Thus the world turns—on the head of a pin. I have to confess I would far rather have earned your conveyancing fair and square but—’ her lips curved into a reluctant smile ‘—I know how petulant and ultra-feminist that would make me.’
Unbeknownst to her, during the short pause that ensued as they traded rather wry glances, Lachlan Hewitt was discovering himself unwittingly intrigued...
Not, on first impressions, drop-dead gorgeous, he thought, apart from those wonderful eyes. A thin, intelligent face, pale, smooth skin and a tall, very slender but elegant figure. Otherwise nothing stood out; well, he amended, there was that shining mass of dark hair and lovely hands—but no, what was intriguing was her air of composure, uncompromising ethics and intelligence even when she was annoyed.
He said, as the pause drew out, ‘You’ve more than earned it with the way you’ve handled it, Clare. No matter how many times your father may have saved my father’s life, you wouldn’t have still been acting for us if you hadn’t proved your worth.’
‘Thank you,’ she said simply.
‘And have I reassured you to the extent that you feel you could handle my divorce?’
‘I...’ Clare hesitated then drew a yellow legal pad towards her. ‘Yes. I presume you know that you have to register a separation which has to stand for twelve months before the divorce can be finalized, although financial settlement can be—’
‘Yes. We have actually been living separate lives for at least that length of time and we have also been through the required marriage counselling.’
Clare absorbed this. ‘Are there children involved, Mr Hewitt?’
‘One son. He’s six—nearly seven.’
‘Will you be contesting custody?’
‘Not unless my wife proves to be unreasonable in the matter of access.’
Clare bit her lip.
‘You have reservations about that?’ he asked coolly.
She put her pen down and clasped her hands on the desk. ‘Only to the extent that legal battles over custody can most harm the person they’re designed to protect—the child, who may become involved in a tug of war between his or her parents. And, whilst it’s no concern of mine, I always feel morally bound to point out that this is one area where both parties should act honourably and preferably between themselves.’
‘I certainly intend to,’ he said dryly.
‘Good. Then if you’re really sure about this, Lachlan, this is where we start trying to carve everything up—to be blunt.’
She said it lightly but watched him narrowly at the same time. Because, in her experience, although in these days of the cause for divorce having to be no more than the simple breakdown of a marriage, the carving-up process could be as painful and complicated as the old way of establishing guilt, and often gave people cause to pause...
But he said wryly, ‘Don’t worry, Clare, my mind is made up and here is what’s involved.’
Half an hour later she had to acknowledge that he had a razor-sharp mind and the considerable Hewitt empire at his fingertips. Also, that the soon-to-be ex-Mrs Lachlan Hewitt would be very handsomely provided for.
‘Well,’ she said at length, ‘on the basis of what you’ve told me this appears to be a generous settlement and I don’t think there should be much for her to contest.’
‘Don’t you believe it.’
She looked at him enquiringly.
‘She’ll contest every valuation down to every stick of furniture and throw in some interesting and highly fanciful claims, I have no doubt. It’ll be your job to see she doesn’t get away with them.’
‘I see.’ Clare glanced at him again and felt an odd little tremor run through her because of the glimpse of something cold and hard his words had revealed. But he said no more on the subject of his wife and they concluded the appointment shortly afterwards.
She watched him drive away from her first-floor window, in a maroon Range Rover with cream leather trim, and, although it was no business of hers, couldn’t help wondering what Serena Hewitt had done to incur the displeasure of her good-looking, clever husband.
Of course, it could be the other way around, she mused as she let the blind drop, but somehow she didn’t think so.
And nothing over the next twelve months caused her to change her mind.
Serena did indeed contest every valuation; she contested the validity of the Hewitt family company and trusts, the ownership of the homestead and all the furniture and objets d’art in it. She even contested the ownership of the two Irish wolfhounds, Paddy and Flynn, that she claimed she had bought as pups. And Clare had to fight each claim every inch of the way.
Curiously, the only thing Serena accepted with dignity and reasonableness was the access Lachlan Hewitt should have to his son, Sean, which was virtually unlimited.
But finally it was all accomplished, a divorce was finalized, and on that day Lachlan Hewitt said to Clare, ‘Well done, Slim. Can I buy you dinner?’
Her eyebrows rose because, apart from nicknaming her Slim quite early on in the piece, their relationship had been strictly professional.
He observed her raised eyebrows with a faint smile twisting his lips. ‘I am a free man now, Ms Montrose, if it’s your conscience you’re worried about—or mine. Besides, I feel you deserve the best meal and best bottle of champagne I can come up with. You’ve certainly earned it, that was quite a fight you put up.’
Her lips quivered in suppressed laughter. ‘If you must know there were days when I found myself wishing you’d at least give her the damn dogs.’
He laughed softly. ‘Paddy and Flynn are as big as small ponies. How she planned to have them in an apartment in Sydney makes the mind boggle.’
‘In that case I accept, Mr Hewitt,’ Clare said after a moment’s thought.
And, having never discussed his ex-wife, Serena, personally, that was the last mention he made of her.
They had dinner that night, then again a month later.
It was on this occasion that he said to her, ‘I’d like to see you again, Clare.’
She looked across the candle at him, her aquamarine eyes slightly wary.
‘But only if that’s what you would like. You see, whilst I thought it was inappropriate at the time to tell you this, you’ve been on my mind in a certain way for many months now.’
And he looked at her with a clear question in his eyes.
Clare found herself breathing a little raggedly as she recalled the many times over the past months when she’d had to admit to herself that she was attracted to this man, and had wished quietly that he was not a client, not a divorcee. Times when she’d lain in bed at night with the sound of the sea rhythmically bathing the shore so close by, and wondering how he saw her.
‘I,’ she said slowly, ‘have had the same problem at times.’
He looked faintly wry. ‘Then you hid it well.’
‘It would have been unprofessional to do otherwise. For that matter, so did you.’
He grimaced but didn’t answer directly. ‘Your career means a lot to you, doesn’t it, Clare?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that why you’re looking a little troubled and wary?’ he said gently, and slid his hand over to cover hers.
‘No. I suppose I’m surprised for one thing.’ Her fingers trembled beneath his. ‘I’m not terribly experienced for another.’
‘You shouldn’t be surprised. In your own quiet way you’re—captivating. And we know each other pretty well now.’
‘In some ways,’ she agreed.
‘Walk with me along the beach?’ he suggested.
The beach was only across the road and she agreed. They took their shoes off and paddled in the shallows, Clare holding the skirt of her long floral dress up. Then they sat on a bench on a grassy promontory and watched the lights of a big ship as it slid up the coast, and the flash of the Byron Bay Lighthouse.
To her surprise, they talked. He told her about his great-grandfather and how he’d come to Australia with only a few pounds in his pocket. He talked about his son, Sean, who was now seven and had a very high IQ and an equally high propensity for getting into trouble, and about how his latest crop of macadamia nuts was progressing.
And she responded, gradually relaxing and telling him about her teenage years when her fascination with law had begun to emerge, her years at university and something of her home life. She’d grown up in Armidale, a leafy, pretty town of some substance on the tablelands of New South Wales about three hundred and seventy kilometres south of Lennox Head. Armidale was home to the University of New England and home to her father’s prosperous tractor and farm machine agency.
She told Lachlan that she was an only child, and something about her gentle, retiring mother. Also, how her father dominated her mother and had tried to dominate her.
‘Which fed your ambition, I suppose,’ he commented.
‘Probably,’ she agreed with a little grimace.
‘Helped along by being as bright as a tack, no doubt.’
‘That hasn’t always been an asset,’ she said slowly.
He put an arm around her shoulders. ‘Frightened all guys away, you mean?’
Clare hesitated because she was suddenly acutely conscious of him, but she tested it in her mind, this first physical contact. And came to the conclusion that she felt comfortable against him, that she liked the subtle scent of clean cotton and his faint lemony aftershave, and even wished to draw closer to his warmth and bulk.
‘Perhaps,’ she answered eventually. ‘Not that it’s ever bothered me greatly,’ she added honestly.
‘It hasn’t frightened me away—it’s part of the attraction,’ he said quietly. And he started to kiss her for the first time.
Initially she was aware that the feel of his fingers moving gently on her cheek was pleasant. That his lips were cool and dry and she seemed not to mind parting her own for him. Then her senses took over.
The hunger that she’d battened down for twelve months asserted itself and the intimate act of being kissed by a man became a mutual pleasure.
The difference between her own soft skin and the slight graze she felt as she trailed her fingertips along his jaw, the knowledge that he could probably span her waist in his long, strong hands—all this brought a heady feel of elation and desire.
The feel of his arms around her, the feel of him against her body was rapturous and ignited a steady flame within her that made her forget the beach, the bench, the park. It was as if the only beacon in the night was this man and the mixture of excitement and quivering need he aroused in her...
When they drew apart, Clare was stunned and speechless for a few moments. Then she said, ‘I didn’t expect that...’
He grinned. ‘That we would generate those kind of fireworks? I did.’
Two weeks later they became lovers.
Coming back to the present again, Clare moved restlessly in her office chair and put her hand on her stomach.
It was six months since she’d begun a relationship with Lachlan Hewitt. Six months during which she’d been—well, almost blissfully happy, she conceded to herself. Six months during which the power of their attraction still took her by surprise.
He still called her Slim, but he used it now in moments of great intimacy, when her slender figure with its pale satiny skin fascinated him and together they experienced the kind of passion she’d thought might never exist for her.
Then there was the friendship they enjoyed, the moments of laughter, the things they did together such as climbing to the top of Lennox Head and watching the hang-gliders take off. But there were no ties—she still worked as hard as ever and if she wasn’t available he never made a fuss, and vice versa.
She visited Rosemont, the family home, often, and knew young Sean as well as Lachlan’s aunt May who ran the house, and Paddy and Flynn who were the size of small ponies but otherwise charming and gentle dogs.
By mutual, unspoken consent, she never stayed at Rosemont, however, although Lachlan stayed often at her apartment. But she didn’t feel excluded by this; she wouldn’t have felt right about it anyway.
Yet there had been times, she mused, still with her hand resting gently on her stomach, when an unidentifiable sense of unease had troubled her. How strange that an unplanned pregnancy should crystallize it all, she thought suddenly, and sat up.
She picked up her pen to doodle absently on her blotter and asked herself some things that she should have asked months ago; where had it all been leading, for example?
Had that inexplicable sense of unease grown because she, paradoxically, had wanted more than this undemanding relationship that she’d thought so suited her career? How would she feel if he ended the affair—perhaps she’d been a stopgap while he rebuilt his life after Serena?
And, of course, the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, she mused as she drew a dollar sign on the blotter: what really happened with Serena to make it all go so terribly wrong?
She put her pen down and contemplated the unlikelihood, if she’d been asked to forecast it, of Clare Montrose getting herself into this situation. Because she’d never been able to visualize herself getting deeply, emotionally tangled with anyone. But then again she’d never visualized herself having this kind of relationship with a man, she reflected. Was she mad?
Because even without this complication she knew she was deeply and emotionally tangled up with Lachlan Hewitt, although she might not have cared to admit it. The crunch was, however—and she flinched as she acknowledged it—she had no idea where she stood.
She did have a week, though, she thought suddenly, to really think this through while he was in Sydney on business.
Her phone buzzed and she rubbed her face wearily, knowing her half-hour was up and she was about to be deluged.
But it was Lachlan. ‘Clare, can I come for dinner tomorrow night? I’m still in Sydney but instead of being down here for the week I’ve had a change of plan.’
‘Of course,’ she said.
‘Is something wrong?’
It shook her that he should have been able to read the sudden tension that had gripped her in her voice.
‘No, not at all. Well, I’m flat out as usual.’
‘See you about seven-thirty, then?’
‘Yes. I ... I’ll look forward to it. Bye!’ She put the phone down and closed her eyes. Because her week to prepare her—defences?—had suddenly shrunk to overnight.
And her phone rang again and would keep ringing all afternoon, she knew.
CHAPTER TWO
AT SEVEN-FIFTEEN the following evening, Clare was ready—or as ready as she’d ever be, she thought.
