“Next you’ll be telling me it’s riding off into the sunset with a pair of your shoes.”
She nodded, her expression mock serious. “You just can’t find good help these days. Especially not of the leather variety.”
She was rewarded with a small lift of his lips. “Do you have an appointment here today?”
“Yes,” she straightened, remembering with a crash that bore the weight of concrete the reason she’d ascended to the spectacular offices high in the crowds. “I do.” She reached into the broken bag and pulled out a slightly dog-eared business card.
It bore the name Clint Douglas, and the time of her appointment. The handsome man flicked his gaze over it then turned his speculative attention to her face again. “Come with me, please.”
As they passed the receptionists, he lingered to say something but she didn’t catch his words. She was too busy staring at the view beyond the door of his office.
“Wow,” she breathed out in admiration. She settled her bag into one of the leather chairs and moved across the tiles. The windows were floor to ceiling, and the outlook of Manhattan was, in every direction, spectacular.
“You get used to it,” the man said, moving towards the table in the centre of the room. “Would you like a tea? Coffee?”
“Scotch?” She joked, her lips trembling a little when she turned to face him. She walked unevenly to the table and sat down in the chair he indicated. “I shouldn’t joke about that. Not with you. I don’t drink.” Guilt made her strive for a more honest tone. “Not scotch, anyway.” She grimaced. “Not at this hour, at least.”
Again, the tiny shift in his face that showed him to be laughing with her. “Coffee, then?”
“Usually yes, I love coffee. But I think I’m about to jump out of my skin. I mean it. If I have any caffeine today, I’ll literally turn into some kind of nervous wreck. Or there’ll be a me-size hole in that wall over there.”
He dipped his head forward to hide his smile. Clint Douglas was a reasonably recently hired divorce attorney at the firm. Though he was fresh, he was good. But not as good as Hendrix Forrester. Not many were. And Hendrix had an idea that this woman needed the best help available.
He crossed one leg over his knee and reclined comfortably in his chair. The diminutive woman with the enormous blonde bun was right. Her anxiety was a palpable force. Her accent was British. He would have guessed she came from Northern London. “Why don’t you tell me what brings you here today.”
A frown tugged at her lips. They were perfect lips. The thought came to him out of nowhere. It was unwelcome. They were no more perfect than any other woman’s. Except they were shaped like a cupid’s bow, and a shade of pale pink that he could see was natural, not filled in with cosmetics.
“Don’t you have my file? I sent all those forms back a week ago.”
His nod was slow. Thoughtful. “It’s on its way. In the mean time, it’s helpful to hear things in your own words.”
“Of course.” She was instantly contrite. Apologetic even. It didn’t make sense. At least, it didn’t tally with the woman who’d made jokes about her handbag having a mind of its own. “I’m sorry.”
He bit back the temptation to reassure her.
“I need a divorce.” The way she said it was like stone hitting marble. Cold and decisive, with tiny shards of pain ricocheting through the room.
“I see.”
She pulled a face. “Somehow I doubt it.” Her fingers were rubbing together on top of the table. She stared at them silently. Her cheeks had paled. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly. She was struggling with how to say what she needed.
“Go on,” he encouraged, unconsciously holding his own breath while waiting for her to continue.
She swallowed. “My husband comes from a very powerful family.” She cleared her throat and forced her eyes to meet his. “He doesn’t want a divorce.”
“Unfortunately for the gentleman in question, he’s not really in a position to deny you your divorce petition.”
“No,” she shook her head, her eyes haunted. “But he can and will make it as difficult as possible, sir.”
“Are you separated?”
“Yes. We have been for almost three years.”
Hendrix wondered about this woman’s secrets. He knew, sure as day followed night, that she was sitting on a bundle of them. “And financially you’re independent?”
Something like anger sparked in her enormous blue eyes. “No.”
“You still have access to the communal assets?”