Looking at his latest client, Reed thought back over the past year and remembered the innumerable articles and pictures flashed across the tabloids. Carson Duke and his wife, Tia Brennan, had graced the covers of magazines and the pages of newspapers, and the two had been favorites on the celebrity websites. They’d had a whirlwind romance that had ended in a fairy-tale wedding on a Hawaiian cliff overlooking the Pacific.
Stories proclaiming the nearly magical connection between the two, holding them up as examples of what “real” love looked like, had been printed, pored over and discussed all across the world. Yet here Carson sat, a little more than a year later, hiring Reed to represent him in a divorce that promised to be as high-profile as the marriage had been.
“Let’s get down to business then,” Reed said and looked at the man across from him. Just like in his movies, Carson Duke looked tough, determined and had the cool, hard gaze of a seasoned warrior. Not surprising, since the star had been a US Marine before turning to Hollywood. “First tell me what your wife thinks about all of this.”
Carson sighed, shoved one hand through his hair and then blurted out, “It was her idea. Things have been rough between us for a while now.” It looked as though every word he spoke tasted bitter. “She—we—decided that it would be better, for both of us, if we just end the marriage and walk away now, before things get ugly.”
“Uh-huh.” Duke sounded reasonable, but so many of Reed’s clients did when they were first entering the muddy swamp of litigation. Couples determined to remain “friendly” eventually succumbed to name-calling and vicious diatribes. Reed wasn’t looking forward to watching Carson and his wife go down that path. “I need to know—are you seeing someone else? Is another woman at the bottom of all this? I will find out sooner or later, so it would be better for all of us if you tell me now so there are no surprises.”
Carson stiffened, but Reed held up a hand to silence what would no doubt be a tirade of insult and outrage. All of his clients tended to paint themselves as the injured party, and if Reed wasn’t careful, he could be blindsided by a scorned lover testifying for the opposition. Better to have as much information as possible from the jump. “These are questions I have to ask. If you’re smart, you’ll answer.”
Carson stewed in his chair for a second or two, looked as though he’d like to punch something, then surged to his feet in one smooth motion.
“No,” he snapped, and paced across the room to stop at one of the wide windows overlooking the sweep of ocean stretching out into the distance. He stared through the glass for several long seconds, as if trying to calm down, then turned his head to look directly at Reed. “No. I didn’t cheat. Neither did Tia.”
Reed’s eyebrows arched. First time he’d heard a client defend a spouse. “You’re sure about her?”
“Absolutely.” Carson shook his head and looked back through the glass at the sunlight dancing on the ocean’s surface. “This isn’t about cheating or lying or any other damn thing.”
Intriguing. The old irreconcilable differences plea was usually just an excuse to keep secrets private. There were always reasons for a divorce, and in Reed’s experience, cheating was right at the top of the list.
“Then why are you here?” Reed asked, leaning back in his black leather desk chair.
“Because we’re not happy anymore.” Carson laid one hand on the glass. “It started out great,” he continued as if to himself. “Tia and I met and it was like...magic. You know?”
“No,” Reed said, smiling. “But I’ll take your word for it.”
Carson shook his head. “We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. From that first moment, there was something powerful between us.” He smiled, and shot Reed another quick glance. “It was more than sex, though. We used to talk all night, laughing, planning, talking about moving out of Hollywood, having kids. But the last few months, between work and other demands on both of us...hell. We hardly see each other anymore. So why be married?”
Pitiful excuse to sentence yourself to divorce court, but then, Reed silently acknowledged, he’d heard worse. He’d once represented a man who claimed he needed a divorce because his wife kept hiding cookies from him. Reed had almost advised him to buy his own damn cookies, but had figured it was none of his business. Because the cookies weren’t the real reason. They were simply the excuse. The man wanted a divorce; Reed would get it for him. That was his job. He wasn’t a marriage counselor, after all.
“All right then,” Reed said briskly. “I’ll get the paperwork started. Tia won’t be contesting the divorce?”
“No.” Carson shoved both hands into his pockets. “Like I said. Her idea.”
“That’ll make it easier,” Reed told him.
Wryly, Carson whispered, “I suppose that’s a good thing.”
“It is.” Reed watched his client and felt a stir of sympathy. He wasn’t a cold man. He knew that people came to him when their worlds were dissolving. In order to maintain a professional distance, he sometimes came off as harsh when all he was trying to do was to be a rock for his clients. To be the one stable point in a suddenly rocking world. And as he studied Carson Duke, he knew the man didn’t need pity, he needed someone to guide him through unfamiliar waters. “Trust me,” Reed said. “You don’t want a long, drawn-out battle described daily in the tabloids.”
Carson shuddered at the idea. “I can’t even take the trash out at my house without some photographer leaning out of a tree for a picture. You know, on the drive down here from Malibu, I was telling myself that it’d be a hell of a lot easier on most of us if your office was in LA—but getting away from most of the paparazzi is worth the drive.”
Over the years, Reed had told himself the same thing about relocating to Los Angeles many times, but damned if he could convince himself to move. A quick glance around his office only reinforced that feeling. The building itself was old—built in 1890—though thankfully it had been spared the Victorian gingerbread so popular at the time. He’d bought the building, had it completely remodeled and now, it was just as he wanted it. Character on the outside, sleek and elegant on the inside, plus the office was only a fifteen-minute drive from his home.
Besides, Reed preferred Orange County. Liked the fact that Newport Beach sprawled out in front of his two-story building crouched on the Pacific Coast Highway and he had the majestic sweep of ocean behind him. Sure, in the summer the streets were crowded with tourists—but he’d have the same problem in LA without the beautiful setting. Newport Beach was more laid-back than LA, but upscale enough to convince clients they were with the right attorney. Besides, if he had to drive the 405 freeway every night to get from his office to his home at the Saint Regis hotel in Laguna Beach, he’d be spending more than two hours a night just sitting in traffic. If clients wanted the best, then they’d better be ready to do the drive.
“I’ll have the papers drawn up and messengered to you in a few days.”
“No need,” the other man said. “I’m taking a few days. Staying at the Saint Regis Monarch. I’ve got a suite there.”
Since Reed lived in a massive suite at the exclusive, five-star resort, he knew the hotel would give Carson the distance he wanted from Hollywood and the scoop-hungry photographers who would be hunting him once news of an impending divorce hit the media. And it would hit, no matter how they tried to keep it quiet. If Carson or Tia’s people didn’t release the news, then someone along the chain of information would. There were always leaks no matter how hard you tried to keep things confidential. It