Having His Babies. Lindsay Armstrong
But we don’t get any younger and, while it may not have been on your conscious agenda, perhaps you should take into account that it may have been on your unconscious one...’
When Clare was back in her office, she grimaced because the thought of her biological clock ticking away unbeknownst to her was disturbing.
She looked around, at her framed degree on the wall, at the cool eggshell-blue walls and sapphire carpet, the vast mahogany desk she was inordinately proud of—an antique she’d unearthed and had restored—at the silver-framed paintings on the wall, and she sat down with a deep sigh.
She’d instructed her receptionist to hold all calls for half an hour and knew they’d be piling up like a tidal wave. Business was booming, and although she had an articled clerk and a legal secretary, what she really needed was a qualified solicitor to take some of the pressure off her—more than ever now, she mused, and gazed at one particular picture on the wall.
It wasn’t a painting but an aerial photo of a suburban housing estate across the Pacific Highway from Lennox Head, and it was where so much had started.
The land, originally a dairy farm, had been owned by the Hewitt family. Just before she’d bought out the practice, it had been subdivided and developed—and the unexpected plum of handling the conveyancing for the developers, the Hewitt family again, had fallen into her lap.
She’d been unable to believe her good luck then briefly disturbed when her father, with whom she’d always had a turbulent relationship, had hinted that he’d been instrumental in getting her this coup. He had, frustratingly, refused ever to elaborate.
But the fact of the matter was that she’d never looked back. Other estates had sprung up as well as strata title unit developments, some litigation work had started to come her way and she’d soon had more work than she knew what to do with.
As a direct result, she now owned her own apartment in a lovely position close to the beach, she drove a magenta-coloured flashy little sports car and, when she could take the time for a holiday, she could afford the exotic and unusual.
But it wasn’t until about six months after the plum had fallen that she’d met Lachlan Hewitt himself. She’d always dealt with his project manager although by then she’d known a lot about him and the family history: about his grandfather who had bought up so much of the country for a song. About the macadamia and avocado plantations they also owned; about the wonderful old house they lived in.
Then, one day, when she hadn’t even had time to read through her appointments for the morning, Lucy, her receptionist, had buzzed her and announced in hushed tones that Mr Lachlan Hewitt had arrived for his appointment.
Clare had gasped, gazed around at her littered desk then down at her person, and, in a voice unlike her own, had asked Lucy if she could stall him for a minute or two.
‘If you say so, Ms Montrose,’ Lucy had replied disapprovingly.
Coming back to the present, Clare smiled faintly as she recalled her receptionist’s exact tone. And recalled how she had tidied her desk frantically, smoothed the skirt of her straight taupe linen dress with its white revere collar, reached into a drawer and studied her face in the small mirror of her gilt compact. And she’d had no more time than to run her fingers through her hair, apply a dash of lipstick and smooth her eyebrows before a discreet knock had sounded on the door.
She remembered it as if it were yesterday, she thought, and closed her eyes as the images of that first meeting seeped into her mind...
‘Ms Montrose, Mr Hewitt,’ Lucy said as she ushered a tall man into the office.
‘How do you do, Mr Hewitt?’ Clare came round the desk and offered her hand.
‘How do you do, Ms Montrose?’ Lachlan Hewitt replied, with the faintest emphasis on the Ms and a slight narrowing of his eyes as he took her hand and allowed his grey gaze to inspect her from top to toe.
Clare blinked once. She was five feet ten and not used to being towered over, but Lachlan Hewitt was at least six feet four. And those penetrating, smoky grey eyes were set in a tanned, interesting face beneath thick tawny hair with a tendency to flop on his forehead. The rest of him was well-proportioned: wide shoulders, narrow waist and more than a hint of whipcord strength beneath his casual checked shirt and khaki trousers worn with short brown boots.
But what surprised her most was that he was younger than she’d expected—in his middle-thirties, she guessed.
The other thing that surprised her was the hiatus that developed as they stared at each other. So that even Lucy appeared to be rooted to the spot.
Clare decided to break it with a tinge of annoyance running through her. She did not appreciate being so thoroughly inspected even by the head of the Hewitt clan, she decided, and said smoothly as she took her hand back, ‘Do sit down, Mr Hewitt. May we offer you coffee or tea? It’s about that time.’ She smiled perfunctorily and moved back around her desk.
‘Something cool if you have it,’ he murmured.
‘By all means but I’ll have coffee, thank you, Lucy.’ Clare sat down and clasped her hands on the desk as Lucy left. ‘I presume you’ve come to discuss the housing estate with me, Mr Hewitt?’
‘No,’ Lachlan Hewitt replied idly.
Clare blinked as a pause of his making developed. And felt herself grow restive and awkward as she was once again the subject of his scrutiny. But one of the things she’d taught herself over the years was the value of not rushing in, although, she thought, with some self-directed irony, she had rushed in initially.
All the same, she managed to make herself wait with no more than a polite look of enquiry.
‘No,’ he said again, and smiled briefly. ‘From all reports you’ve been most competent and professional, Ms Montrose. As your father assured me you would be.’
Clare felt her hackles rise as so often happened in the context of her father, but all she did was smile meaninglessly.
Lucy intervened at this point with a long frosted glass of fruit-flavoured mineral water and a steaming cup of coffee. There was also a plate of biscuits and she fussed a little as she disposed of these. Then she left them alone, but her whole bearing was pregnant with curiosity.
Clare stirred her coffee with a ruefully raised eyebrow. And decided to be honest. ‘You’ve caused a bit of a stir, Mr Hewitt. Amongst my staff and myself.’
He looked fleetingly amused. ‘My apologies, Ms Montrose—’
‘The Ms is Lucy’s invention, Mr Hewitt,’ Clare broke in swiftly, annoyed again by the odd little emphasis he seemed to place on it. ‘She thinks it gives me some kind of mysterious status but I myself prefer to be known as Clare Montrose, unmarried—never married for that matter—and I don’t mind who knows it.’
‘I see,’ he said, and grimaced. ‘To be honest, Ms as a title always makes me think of women in limbo and I’d much rather call you Clare. I’m Lachlan, by the way, married but soon to become unmarried—and that’s why I’ve come to see you.’
Clare’s eyes widened incredulously.
‘Have you ever handled a divorce settlement, Clare?’ he asked.
‘Yes. A few. But—’ She couldn’t go on.
‘You’re amazed?’ he suggested. ‘Because I’m divorcing my wife or because I’ve come to see you about it?’
‘Both, to be honest,’ she said a touch feebly, and swallowed.
‘Do you know my wife, Clare?’
‘No, I’ve never met her, but...well, she—that is to say, I’ve seen photos of her in the local paper and—heard mention of her.’
She stopped abruptly as images of Serena Hewitt, stunningly beautiful even