style="font-size:15px;"> What reason could she possibly have for seeing me five years after she walked out?
Reaching toward the telephone on his desk, Lucas stabbed the button that would call his secretary. “Jennifer,” he said, “what can you tell me about the ten-thirty appointment you’ve penciled in this morning? I know it wasn’t there yesterday.”
“Yes, that’s right, Mr. Neuman. She called fairly late, when you were out of the office.”
“And?” he prompted, attempting to suppress his mounting irritation—or at least keep it out of his voice. He didn’t have a lot of patience these days, but he didn’t need to shoot the messenger. In this case Jennifer. “Any idea what it’s about?”
“Well, not exactly,” Jennifer responded, sounding uncommonly flustered. “She was…well, she was evasive when I asked.” Lucas heard her take a deep breath before rushing on. “Actually, Mr. Neuman, she said she was your wife,” her disbelief conveyed itself in her voice, “and that it was family business. I didn’t…well, you know, I didn’t push her after that. Do you want me to call and cancel, or do you want me to bring in security, not let her come in?”
“No, no, that isn’t necessary,” Lucas reassured her. “I’m sure it doesn’t merit that. I was just curious.” Nonchalant would be a good way to sound, even though curious was an understatement. “Thanks, Jennifer.”
Lucas listened for the click that would signal the disconnection from Jennifer’s phone and leaned back in his chair, alone with his thoughts. So Rachel is coming here today. God, I hope she isn’t going to be difficult. I hope she doesn’t make a scene.
Reaching toward the humidor on his desk, Lucas selected and lit a cigar, watching as the smoke drifted toward the ceiling.
“Now there’s something Rachel wouldn’t appreciate,” he murmured, thinking of cigars and Rachel’s utter revulsion at the act of smoking. She hadn’t been a health nut herself, not exactly. He shook his head, shaking off the memory.
Rachel had been to his office only once before. That day, five years ago. The day she’d brought him an agreement to separate. He’d been shocked, he recalled. Unable to comprehend what was happening.
Rachel had walked out on him. Quite decently, quite civilly, but she’d walked out nevertheless. He’d have been perfectly content to let things go on as they were.
He had loved her so much then. So completely. But he’d grown up. He no longer believed in love, not like that, not ever again.
He leaned back in his chair again, watching the smoke float to the ceiling, still pondering.
And then it hit him. Knocked the wind right out of him. It was so obvious.
Maybe she finally wants a divorce.
Stepping off the elevator at the seventh floor, Rachel approached the reception desk and introduced herself. Upon the icy instructions from the woman seated at that desk, she found a place to wait. Until her appointment.
Rachel couldn’t help thinking that the woman’s demeanor complemented the decor perfectly.
Neuman Industries—where Lucas was employed and where she was sitting—had been the family business since the 1930s, when Lucas’s great-grandfather had started the company as nothing more than a provider of cement during the WPA projects of the Depression era. His son, Lucas’s grandfather, had expanded the business to encompass large development projects: apartment complexes, office buildings, shopping centers. With Arnold Neuman leading the company, Neuman Industries now designed such projects, as well as constructing them. Lucas himself had been not-so-subtly encouraged to join the company, heavily encouraged to obtain his M.B.A. Lucas had thrown himself into the business with gusto.
As far as Rachel knew, he still did. That would be his style.
“Ma’am,” the overly bleached-blond receptionist intoned in Rachel’s direction, “Mr. Neuman is ready to see you now.”
“Thank you,” Rachel responded, rising from the couch, marveling at how clearly the receptionist had conveyed her contempt for Rachel without ever saying anything precisely negative. The receptionist had made an effort to avoid calling her Mrs. Neuman. Or even Ms. Neuman. Furthermore, she was refusing to escort Rachel to Lucas’s office.
Rachel approached Lucas’s closed office door, rapping on it smartly and entering the room without awaiting a specific invitation. She saw Lucas at his desk, sitting on the other side of a haze of cigar smoke. He leaped to his feet, apparently not prepared for her entrance, the receptionist’s statement notwithstanding.
Lucas felt as if he’d been punched. Air simply wasn’t moving in and out of his lungs the way it should have been. Mechanically he touched the cigar to his lips one last time before blindly plopping it into his ashtray. He stood, knowing he was surely gawking like a teenager. And not very happy about it.
God, she is beautiful. The words seemed to ring inside his head.
He stared at her, knowing he was staring, unable to stop. It felt good to see her, which Lucas didn’t consider to be a good thing at all. He shouldn’t respond to her in a positive way. Still—seeing her, having her there in front of him—it stunned him. It had been so long. He had stopped thinking about her…and about the lack of her. Now, though, Lucas found himself stuck on the thought. She’s beautiful, simply beautiful.
Of course, Rachel had always been lovely—not that she’d ever seemed aware of it. But she’d grown up in the past five years, too, so that the woman before him now was exactly the culmination of the potential she’d shown before. She still wore her rich, dark hair long, the mahogany highlights glinting even in the artificial light of Lucas’s office. Her amber eyes still shimmered, still seemed to look into his soul. Her skin still glowed apricot. Her mouth, always rose-petal soft and tipped up at the corners as if just ready to smile—none of it had changed.
And yet all of it was different. She seemed pale beneath the apricot; gray smudges vaguely visible below her eyes. Those eyes brimmed with shadows Lucas had never seen before, her mouth held tension in the corners along with the ready smile. Despite her very evident curves, she seemed thinner than he might have expected. She seemed tired—weary, even.
Something isn’t right, he realized suddenly, startled that he could detect such signals from Rachel after all this time. He wasn’t especially glad to know he was in tune with her that way. He needed to maintain some distance, even some animosity, he thought, if he was going to leave her with the desired image of himself—that of a man in control, self-assured, unshaken by the arrival of his estranged wife. Even though that image was the complete opposite of how he felt. Still, he was skilled at presenting a front that hid his feelings.
He did it in business all the time, when necessary. Like now.
“Hello, Lucas.” Rachel smiled tentatively, sitting down on the couch without reaching to shake his hand. “A bit smoggy in here,” she commented, eyeing the cigar smoke hovering over their heads, momentarily desperate for small talk.
Lucas continued to stare, annoyance at his inability to control the situation—and his reaction to Rachel’s presence—threatening to dwarf whatever other emotions he felt.
“Never mind, Lucas,” she said, rattled by the glare he directed her way, seeking to defuse his reaction to her observation. Attempting to ignore also the erratic beat of
