The Perfect Divorce!

by Leigh Michaels

  Synnamon hung her suit jacket in the closet. “That’s easily explained.” Her voice was matter-of-fact. “Once they find out I’m gone, they’ll be quite happy to have your attention instead.”

  “You mean one head of customer relations is just the same as another?” Annie asked skeptically.

  “Well, perhaps not quite. But all you need is the benefit of the doubt for a few weeks till you have a chance to prove yourself, and they’ll be eager to talk to you.”

  “I wish I believed you were right. But one of them hung up on me just now when I explained you weren’t with the company any more—and I think he was going to call Mr. Welles directly.”

  “Who was it?”

  Annie reached for a pink message slip, but she didn’t look at it. The name was obviously engraved on her brain. “Luigi.” She sounded like the voice of doom.

  “The one who owns the string of beauty spas?”

  “There can’t be more than one with a single name and an Italian accent thick enough to slice, can there?”

  “I hope not. Luigi’s an original—a truly self-made man. His real name is Harold Henderson, and my father told me once that he was born in the south Bronx. I wouldn’t worry about him, Annie. I’m sure Mr. Welles will be up to the challenge of dealing with Luigi.”

  “You don’t mind if he talks to Mr. Welles? It’s not you he’ll be complaining about, of course, it’s me, but—”

  “I wouldn’t be so certain of that. Luigi has a tendency to take everything personally, so he’s probably feeling insulted by the fact I’m leaving.”

  “Oh, now that’s a real comfort,” Annie said wryly.

  “Relax. It’s just part of his stereotypical vision of how a temperamental Italian should behave.”

  “Well, it doesn’t change the fact that his account is the size of the national debt, and if he calls Mr. Welles and makes a fuss about how I treated him…”

  “It’s not you, Annie. He just hates change. He complained about me when I first took the job, too.”

  “I suppose that should make me feel better,” Annie admitted. “But since that was before Mr. Welles’s time… Does he know about Harold Henderson and the south Bronx?”

  “I’m sure he does, but I’ll remind him.”

  “Would you? Can you? I mean…”

  “No doubt,” Synnamon said dryly, “Conner and I will exchange words from time to time.”

  Annie sighed. “Then you’re still… Even with the baby… Sorry. I didn’t mean to be nosy.”

  Synnamon started to announce that of course there would be no change in plans. Instead, she heard herself saying softly, “I’m not sure what’s going to happen.” The sudden uncertainty startled her, but she had to admit it was the only honest reaction she was capable of just now. She was too confused to know what to do.

  She knew, intellectually, that Morea was right. The only way Synnamon could achieve her long-term goals was for Conner to change his mind. Arguing obviously wouldn’t accomplish that. It was likely to make Conner more stubborn. But reasoning with him wasn’t going to work, either. She’d already tried that approach. And if she simply went along with what he suggested, and resumed their farce of a marriage… Well, Conner had seemed perfectly comfortable in that role before, so what was to prevent him from settling down into it once more?

  Synnamon was the only variable—or at least the only one she could control. She’d have to make sure he wasn’t so complacent this time around.

  An idea stirred to life at the back of her mind and slowly took shape. What would happen if she became the complacent one—or, at least, if she appeared to be? If she seemed contented with the situation, placidly accepting how things had worked out, might Conner begin to feel restless? Uneasy? Even, perhaps, eager to be free? “Hand me the phone,” she told Annie.

  “Are you going to call Mr. Welles about Luigi?”

  Synnamon had forgotten all about Luigi. “Why not?” she murmured. “He’ll make a lovely excuse. But first…”

  Conner was waiting for her. The door of his office was open, and he was perched on the corner of his secretary’s desk, signing letters, when Synnamon came into the waiting room.

  To a casual observer, she thought, he would appear perfectly at ease. Even Carol probably couldn’t tell the difference. But Synnamon could feel the tension in the lean lines of his body. And of course the fact that he was in the outer office at all was a dead giveaway.

  He’s eager to talk to me, she thought, and her pulse went into overdrive.

  She hadn’t told Carol what her business was, just that she needed a little time with Conner. She’d been counting on having a couple of quiet minutes to gather her thoughts before confronting him. Now, robbed of that island of serenity, she felt her mouth going dry with anticipation.

  He signed the last letter, handed the clipboard to the secretary and stood up. “Hold my calls, please, Carol. Synnamon…” His gesture toward the open office door was a wordless invitation.

  She accepted it silently and told herself it was foolish to be anxious. Either this idea would work—eventually— or it wouldn’t. If it didn’t, she would be no worse off than she was at the moment.

  Still, she couldn’t quite stop her insides from quivering.

  Conner waved a hand toward the couch. “Make yourself comfortable. What can I do for you?”

  Synnamon settled into the corner of the love seat. Her pastel tweed skirt slid slowly upward. Her fingers twitched with the urge to pull it down, but she forced her hands to stay still, folded in her lap, instead. To give her skirt a nervous tug would carry a twofold message. It would say first that she was jittery around him—which was true enough but was hardly a thought she wanted to cross Conner’s mind. Second, it would imply that she expected him to be watching, and perhaps even wanted him to be interested in the view of her knees—which was far from the truth, and again not something she wanted Conner to be thinking about.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  She raised her gaze to his face. “Have you talked to Luigi lately?”

  She wasn’t disappointed. Surprise flickered in his face, and his eyes shadowed from blue to intensely purple. She had to admire his control, however. An instant later there was no evidence he’d been so much as startled. “Not for a couple of weeks. Why?”

  She told him about Annie’s encounter with the spa owner. “He threatened to call you, and naturally she’s concerned that you might blame her for upsetting him. I told her you understood Luigi’s point of view—”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “And his history, and that you wouldn’t have any trouble handling his complaints.”

  “Your confidence in me is touching, Synnamon. I’ll certainly give it my best effort. Thanks for the warning.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” She stood up. “Oh, yes—there is. Something I’ve always wondered.” She paused, letting curiosity have a chance to grow. “Is there really a bed built into this office?”

  To her disappointment, Conner’s eyebrows didn’t even twitch. “If so, it’s too well hidden for me to find. Or are you suggesting that I install one?”

  “Certainly not for my sake,” Synnamon said politely. “I was just wondering. You won’t be late tonight, will you?”

  She thought she saw wariness creep into his eyes, but all he said was, “I was planning to stop by the hotel first, pick up my clothes and check out.”

  He hadn’t already done that? So he hadn’t been nearly as sure of himself as he’d been acting, Synnamon thought, and annoyance chewed at the corners of her mind. Perhaps, if she’d held firm just a little longer instead of acting on Morea’s advice…

  “But I’m sure that will take only a few minutes,” Conner went on smoothly.

  It was too late to back out, Synnamon knew. She was embarked on this new path, and she’d have to see it through. “It’s beef bourguignonne,” s
he said. “Mrs. Ogden and I decided since it was your favorite…”

  “Then I’ll try to hurry—” he paused “—home.”

  “Good.” Synnamon allowed herself a smile. That tiny hesitation of his had spoken volumes. Her self-confidence took a gigantic leap. All she had to do was be sweet, innocent and accommodating—up to a point— and before long Conner would be choking on his grand idea.

  “Because I’ve invited a guest,” she went on. “She’ll be there at seven o’clock.”

  “She?” There was a note of distrust in Conner’s voice. Synnamon had to make an effort to hide her delight at the reaction.

  “Yes,” she said gently. “Since she’s going to be working here at Sherwood, I thought perhaps I should get to know her better. I hope you don’t mind spending an entire evening with Nicole Fox?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The apartment was dim and quiet when Synnamon let herself in. The thin gray daylight was gone, as was Mrs. Ogden. But true to her promise, the housekeeper had left the bourguignonne simmering in the oven, and its scent wafted down the hall to greet Synnamon.

  She was happy to see that Mrs. Ogden had opted for the dining room instead of setting up an intimate meal before the fireplace. The table was covered with starched white linen and half a dozen candles. Two silver service plates had been polished to a gleam and laid at a corner of the table, ready for the dinner plates to be put in place.

  It was very thoughtful of Mrs. Ogden to arrange it that way, Synnamon decided, so it would be possible for the two diners to stare into each others’ eyes without blinding themselves with the candlelight. And the housekeeper had added white ribbons, and something that looked like orange blossom.

  Synnamon shook her head with wry humor as she got another service plate from the cabinet and set it at the opposite end of the table from the other two. The idea of inviting Nicole Fox was looking better and better. Set for three, the dining room had a pleasant party atmosphere. As a twosome, it would look positively bridal—which of course was exactly what Mrs. Ogden had in mind.

  Synnamon frowned. One thing she and Conner hadn’t talked about was whether he intended to move into the master bedroom as well as the apartment.

  Surely he wouldn’t even suggest it, she thought. He’d hardly spent any time there when the marriage was still a real one, and now that it was purely a nominal relationship…

  She frowned again as she went to the kitchen to stir the bourguignonne. She was just sliding the dish into the oven when the doorbell rang. It was seven o’clock on the dot, and standing on the welcome mat was Nicole Fox.

  She looked just a bit pale, Synnamon thought, and very wary. Of course, that was no surprise. She’d been practically speechless this afternoon when Synnamon had phoned her to issue the invitation.

  Nicole stepped into the foyer and gave up her coat with what Synnamon couldn’t help but interpret as reluctance. Her gaze darted across the hall into the obviously empty living room, and Synnamon had no trouble following the path of her thoughts. As a matter of fact, she was thinking the same thing herself. Where was Conner?

  Surely, she thought, he wouldn’t leave her to entertain Nicole Fox alone. It wasn’t that he’d feel obligated to appear, exactly. She could even imagine him saying that since she hadn’t consulted him before inviting a guest, she could hardly rely on him to help her entertain.

  But she didn’t think it likely he would risk it, under the circumstances. He couldn’t know what she might have planned for the evening, and surely he wouldn’t dare leave the two of them without a buffer.

  However, Synnamon supposed she might have miscalculated. Perhaps he had enough faith in Nicole to leave her on her own with the problematic wife. They might have been together somewhere just now, snatching a few moments of privacy and making plans for how to handle Synnamon. She could almost hear the conversation.

  “What’s she up to, anyway?”

  “I don't know, we’ll have to just play along.”

  “Maybe she suspects?”

  Oh, stop it, Synnamon told herself. She was starting to sound like a bad spy movie!

  “Conner isn’t home yet,” she said lightly as she led Nicole into the big living room, where the gas fire was already giving off a pleasant wave of warmth. “He had some things to do after he left the office, I think. Would you like a Scotch and water?”

  The redhead nodded. “What a beautiful view you have of the mountains.”

  Mrs. Ogden had left a tray on the cocktail table, Synnamon noticed, something she hadn’t done since Conner had moved out. Before that, it had been a daily routine, even though much of the time the tray had gone untouched. After Conner had left, Synnamon had told the housekeeper to stop. It was one more reminder she didn’t need.

  The scary part, however, wasn’t that Mrs. Ogden had so easily returned to the routine of the old days, but that Synnamon had turned automatically to look for the tray. Perhaps it would be easier than she thought to slide into the old ways. Not that she wanted to, of course. But maybe Conner wasn’t so far off track about thinking this cool and civilized marriage could work.

  Nicole held the cocktail glass Synnamon handed her, but she didn’t take a sip.

  Synnamon poured herself a champagne flute full of club soda and dropped in a wedge of lime. She settled into a wing chair by the window and gestured to the matching one opposite her. “Please sit down. It is a wonderful view, isn’t it? I think that’s what made me choose this apartment over every other one I looked at before Conner and I were married.”

  Nicole nodded and obediently sat, but she didn’t answer.

  For nearly twenty minutes Synnamon kept the conversation going, moving from one innocuous subject to the next—but it was some of the hardest work she had ever done. Nicole seemed to consider every response at great length.

  Synnamon heard Conner’s key the instant it clicked into the lock, and a wave of relief swept over her. She was puzzled for an instant by her reaction. She certainly wasn’t particularly happy to see him. His presence wasn’t going to make the situation delightful or her own role any less guarded. In fact, the tension level could only increase with him there. And that was why she’d planned the evening in the first place, wasn’t it?

  But at least she wouldn’t be stuck trying to pry a few words out of a silent dinner companion. And at least she’d be able to add a little discomfort to his life as well as her own, and if she was lucky, that uneasiness would make him start to question his decision.

  “Hello, dear,” he said calmly as he came across the living room. “Good to see you, Nick.” He bent over Synnamon’s chair before she had considered what he might do. Almost reflexively she jerked her head, and his lips brushed across her hair. Synnamon was annoyed with herself. He’d intended to kiss her temple, she was sure. It wasn’t as if he’d planned some passionate display. She ought to have stayed perfectly still, not tried to dodge him like a nervous virgin.

  He shook Nicole’s hand, and smiled.

  Synnamon was greatly impressed with his self-control, less so with the way Nicole’s eyes widened and fastened on him as if she was a drowning sailor who’d just glimpsed a life belt.

  “Shall I fix you a drink, darling?” Synnamon asked solicitously.

  “No, thanks.”

  She tried to sound casual, perfectly normal, as she launched the next element of her plan. “Then if you’ll excuse me, Conner, I’ll leave you to entertain our guest until dinner. The bourguignonne needs just a bit of last-minute attention.”

  Leave them alone, she’d decided, and see what happens. Of course, she wasn’t naive enough to think that they couldn’t arrange to meet anytime they liked. There were opportunities aplenty for that. But the idea of being alone together with the troublesome wife just down the hall had a piquancy that Synnamon thought they could not ignore.

  “Is the bourguignonne what I’m smelling?” Nicole asked just as Synnamon left the room. Conner must have nodded, for she went on, “It’s a wonderf
ul aroma. Just think of the potential if we could reproduce that for a kitchen air freshener, Conner.”

  She was laughing a little, but there was a catch in Nicole’s voice when she said his name that sent a quiver up Synnamon’s spine.

  Synnamon told herself it was nothing out of line, exactly. It was so subtle that if she hadn’t been listening for something of the sort, she probably would have passed it over. It wasn’t as if Nicole was in obvious pain…

  She began to feel a little ashamed of herself for dragging Nicole into this. It might not have been smart of the woman to get involved at any level with a man who was still technically married—but it wasn’t exactly her fault, either. Who could have predicted this twist of events?

  Synnamon served the broiled grapefruit appetizer, and when she went into the living room Conner and Nicole were talking about the research and development team. There was something a bit strained about the conversation, Synnamon thought, but at least Nicole was talking.

  Conner held a chair for Nicole and then came around the table to help Synnamon, but she’d pretended not to notice and had already seated herself. “How has the response been from the other chemists?” she asked as she spread her napkin carefully across her lap and picked up her grapefruit spoon.

  “There’s been some grumbling,” Conner said. “Not as much as you expected there would be, however— mostly because, with your warning in mind, I made it clear from the start that I wouldn’t tolerate it.”

  The note of approval—almost appreciation—in his voice startled Synnamon.

  “I think even that will die down once Nick really gets started.” He smiled at the redhead. “Once they see what she can do…”

  Was there something a little more than friendly about that smile? Synnamon asked, “When will you start to work, Nicole?”

  “I have to give a month’s notice to my current employer.”