Chapter One
Nick
Theliftdoorsareseconds away from snapping shut when slender, blue-stained fingers slide between them and they rebound open. A tangle of absurd curls bounces into the space after them.
“Thank yousomuch,” the owner of the fingers and curls throws breathlessly at me with a blinding smile. A smile that somehow manages to tell me she knows I’d made no effort to hold the lift; she thinks I’m rude, and it’s her intention to embarrass me. Quite a lot to pack into four words and one smile, really.
Sadly for her, I don’t do embarrassed. And today, of all days, when I’m struggling with the guilt of my conflicted emotions, I can’t seem to drum up any response other than irritation. “You’re very welcome,” I reply, matching her sarcasm, note for note.
Not content with slowing me down once, she lunges for the open-door button. Charging through the foyer appears to be every office worker in the Sydney CBD, all heading for the lift. A moment ago, I was alone. A much-needed moment of solitude in a day I hardly know how to navigate. Now, thanks to her, I’m surrounded by a seething mass of humanity and their swirling energies. She gifts them a smile infused with genuine warmth as she shifts backwards to make room and loses her balance, stomping firmly on my foot with her ridiculous spike heels. I catch her by the shoulders and stand her upright, barely managing to contain my grunt of pain. I know it wasn’t deliberate, but I’m not in the headspace to be forgiving right now. I simply want to wallow for a while. Alone.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. Did I hurt you?” She glances over her shoulder at me. She continues to shuffle backwards in the face of the oncoming wave of humanity.
“Don’t give it another thought.” I scowl at the scratch across the top of my previously unblemished Stefano Bemer shoes. This already bad day seems determined to get worse.
At last the lift is as full as it can possibly get, and the irritating cause of the crush is pushed close up against me. I’m tall and so is she. And she’s wearing towering heels. Which means her perfectly rounded arse is pressed tight against me right where it shouldn’t be, and her tangled nest of curls is tickling my face.
As we speed upwards, I’m forced to hold my breath. Those curls tickling my nose smell like wildflowers. Like my grandmother’s garden. The last thing I need today is sentimentality and nostalgia.
She pressed no other button, so I assume she’s coming to Carter, Pierce and Millwood. Not surprising. We get lots of beautiful young trophy wives in our offices, looking for a lucrative divorce settlement. What is surprising is she doesn’t appear to fit the usual profile. No sign of Botox, hair extensions or fake tan. Not the usual trophy wife at all.
I glance down. No tasteless yet expensive ring on her left hand. Not even a dent where a ring may have been. Long elegant fingers are decorated with nothing more than those weird blue stains, short unpainted nails and an enormous purple stone on her middle finger.
The lift has gone from a fast express to an all-stops journey. People are getting off on every floor, yet there still seems to be no room, or air, in the lift. The wildflower scent and the press of her rounded arse have raised the temperature and are in danger of raising something else. I stay as still as possible, but my irritatingly attractive tormentor is shifting back and forth, making room for our fellow travellers as they come and go. I close my eyes, which only intensifies my other senses, defeating the purpose. I think about my first-grade teacher Miss Best and her hairy face wart. That always works. Except this time, it doesn’t.
Finally, to my almost overwhelming relief, the last passenger leaves the lift and the wildflower curls and lush arse move away.
“I truly am very sorry about your shoe. I hope they aren’t your favourites?” Her expression is apologetic, a small, rueful smile showing off the dimples in her glowing cheeks.Jesus wept. She looks like Glinda the Good Witch, all sunshine, sparkles and smiles.
“Not anymore, thanks to those lethal heels.” I can’t keep the annoyance out of my voice. “Perhaps you should consider trainers if you have trouble keeping your balance?” I know I’m being rude, even for me. But I simply don’t have the emotional energy to temper my response today. Rather than upset her, though, my rudeness goads her into a glare.
The lift doors swish open, and I sweep my arm out in mock gallantry. I’m treated to another of her subtext smiles, a waft of wildflowers and an unobstructed view of her very nice derriere as she waltzes past me. I swear I hear her whisper, “Such a gentleman,” under her breath as she passes.
I head straight to the sanctuary of my office, where I can put the strangely distracting woman right out of my mind. Sitting front and centre on my desk is a Post-it Note reminding me—in caps—of the meeting I don’t want to attend.Christ on a bike. I have no idea why we must do this. And of all the days of the year to pick, it had to be today.
My assistant sweeps in with my coffee in her capable hands. “Don’t forget the mee—”
“Yes. I know. The meeting.” I hold up the Post-it Note. “How could I forget?” At that moment, my phone starts to vibrate in my pocket. “You set an alarm? For God’s sake, Mandy. I know how to get to a meeting on time.”
She puts the coffee on the desk in front of me. “Of course you do. You are also quite capable of accidentally on purpose forgetting meetings you don’t wish to attend.” And she’s out the door with one of her evil grins and a toss of her head. I hate her sometimes. I need a new assistant. Except she’s excellent at her job. And I love her to bits.
I have a few minutes before the meeting, and I’m feeling restless, so I fill in the time by stopping by Will’s office. Our grandfathers started this business together in 1960. Will joined the firm right out of uni, while I went to Oxford on a Rhodes Scholarship before joining the firm. Exactly as my father wanted.
“Remind me again why we’re doing this?”
“Doing what?” He glances up from his computer with a frown.
“Why we’re going to—as he so eloquently put it—‘re-energise and modernise’ the office? We have the best tech money can buy. What else do we need?” I drop into one of the worn-out visitors’ chairs in front of Will’s desk and wince as it creaks under my weight. His office isn’t as big as mine, since I’m a senior partner. But at least he doesn’t have to work surrounded by antiques, which are beautiful, but not in the least comfortable or convenient.
“Oh, well,” Will answers. “Let me just save this contract I’m reviewing for our biggest client—on this high-tech computer—and take time out from my busy day to explain to you why we need to look like a successful law firm operating in the twenty-first century instead of a second-rate insurance company from the 1970s.” He saves the document on his screen with a flourish and turns to face me across the desk.
“Wearesuccessful—our billings speak for themselves. Why do we need to spend good money botoxing the office to prove it?”
Will roars with laughter, head thrown back against his leather chair.
“I know it’s not your intention, Nick, but you’re hilarious. Take it up with Harry. Although I’m warning you, he’s made up his mind. You won’t win. Now be a pal and bugger off so I can finish this before the meeting, will you?”
I stalk back to my office and search for something to distract me. It wouldn’t do to be punctual for this one. Let them sweat. It will drive Harry crazy. It’s not my habit to indulge in passive-aggressive behaviour, but I’m struggling with this whole endeavour. Our firm trades on its long history, and I know my father was dead against any changes that made us seem like one of the slick new firms. I get where he was coming from. Our reputation is tied up in old-fashioned service. But changing with the times wouldn’t have killed him. Unlike the booze and cigars. Nevertheless, this firm was his life, so to be doing this today seems like a betrayal of his vision.
