Having His Babies

‘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.’