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Praise for Nicola Marsh
‘Fresh, funny, flirty and feel-good—who can resist one
of Nicola Marsh’s delectable category romances? With a
fabulously fun heroine, a sexy hero and lashings of witty
dialogue, Overtime in the Boss’s Bed is another keeper from the stellar pen of Nicola Marsh!’ —www.PinkHeartSociety.com on Overtime in the Boss’s Bed
‘Nicola Marsh heats up your winter nights with this
blazingly sensual tale of lost love, second chances and
old secrets! In Marriage: For Business or Pleasure? Nicola Marsh blends hot sensuality with tender romance, witty humour and nail-biting drama, which will keep readers eagerly turning the pages of this spellbinding contemporary romance!’ —www.PinkHeartSociety.com on Marriage: For Business or Pleasure?
‘This lovers-reunited tale is awash in passion,
sensuality and plenty of sparks. The terrific characters
immediately capture your attention,
and from there the pages go flying by.’
—RT Book Reviews on
Marriage: For Business or Pleasure?
‘Sterling characters, an exotic setting and crackling
sexual tension make for a great read.’
—RT Book Reviews on
A Trip with the Tycoon
About the Author
About Nicola Marsh
NICOLA MARSH has always had a passion for writing and reading. As a youngster she devoured books when she should have been sleeping, and later kept a diary whose content could be an epic in itself! These days, when she’s not enjoying life with her husband and son in her home city of Melbourne, she’s at her computer, creating the romances she loves in her dream job.
Visit Nicola’s website at www.nicolamarsh.com for the latest news of her books.
Also by Nicola Marsh
Girl in a Vintage Dress
Deserted Island, Dreamy Ex!
Wild Nights with her Wicked Boss
Overtime in the Boss’s Bed
Three Times a Bridesmaid …
Marriage: For Business or Pleasure?
A Trip With the Tycoon
Two Weeks in the Magnate’s Bed
Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
Interview with
the Daredevil
Nicola Marsh
MILLS & BOON
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With thanks to the brilliant staff at Palazzo Versace,
who were smiling and enthusiastic and helpful
while I researched this book. I’ll be back!
CHAPTER ONE
AVA BECKETT sighed with pleasure as she slid into the warm water, lazily breast-stroking to the edge of the infinity pool where she propped on her forearms, staring out at the lights of Melbourne glittering twenty-seven floors below.
She’d stayed at luxurious hotels around the world but there was something decadently edgy and funky about Melbourne’s newest, the Crown Metropol.
Sighing at the self-indulgence of having the pool all to herself, she let go of the side and floated on her back, eyes closed.
How often had she done this? Done absolutely nothing? Try never. Being the prime minister’s daughter had been bad enough, being a diplomat’s wife harder. Every minute of every day scheduled to a second: what she wore, what she did, what she ate and when. Stifling. Suffocating. Strangling.
Opening her eyes, she focused on the water’s reflection shimmering across the roof, happy to do nothing but float. That or pinch herself to see if all this was real, for she still had a hard time believing she was free.
Finally.
Her relationship with Leon had lasted ten years, their lacklustre marriage two, yet the public fallout from their divorce over the last month had been what shattered her most. Every scandalous, invented word plastered across newspapers and magazines making her life hell.
So she’d escaped. Ditched Canberra for Melbourne, abbreviated her surname to Beck and checked into a new hotel in blessed anonymity.
She needed this break to recover from having her name vilified by muck-raking journalists hell-bent on selling copy rather than the truth, needed some private time to savour her freedom without looking over her shoulder for fear of a long-range lens intruding on a moment that could be misconstrued.
She’d been photographed swimming, grocery shopping and heading into a zumba class, three perfectly innocuous, everyday pastimes not allowed by recently divorced women apparently. They’d cast her as frivolous, callous, cold-blooded; and that had been the nice reporters.
She knew why they’d latched onto her after the divorce while leaving Leon unscathed, but it didn’t make it any easier. Shying away from answering questions, preferring to maintain a poised front and take a back seat to her famous father and extroverted husband over the years had been misconstrued as aloofness and arrogance whereas Leon’s easy smiles and garrulousness made him the media’s darling.
She’d been hounded and chased and bruised by the smear campaign over her divorce and she was done.
Time to take control of her life and moving to Melbourne ensured that; if she stayed under the radar.
A soft splash nearby created a gentle wave but the slight disturbance tossing her off kilter didn’t bother her. In fact, a tidal wave probably wouldn’t shake this surreal feeling of liberating independence.
Bumping against the side of the pool, she rolled over to swim a few laps and promptly crashed into someone, their heads colliding in a sickening clash.
Seeing stars, she submerged, grateful for a strong pair of hands around her waist hauling her upwards.
‘You okay?’
Mortified as she coughed and spluttered before finding her voice, she nodded, swiping hair out of her eyes.
‘Yeah, fine,’ she croaked at the same instant she caught sight of her rescuer—and promptly choked again.
Maybe she’d bumped her head too hard for she could’ve sworn her rescuer, the guy still holding her, was George Clooney.
‘Must have a hard head,’ he said, his lips curving into a devastating smile that had her chest constricting, making her breathless as she wondered whether she’d swallowed water.
That had to be the reason behind her breathlessness.
Flustered, she pointed to his head. ‘Could say the same about yours.’
‘Touché.’
His smile faded as concern darkened his brown eyes to ebony.
‘Are you really okay? I could ring for an ice pack? Or walk you back to your room?’
Incredulous, Ava shook her head, instantly regretting it as a sharp pain jabbed her skull where she’d connected with his.
‘Tell me this wasn’t some lame pickup.’
Confusion creased his brow and she breathed a sigh of relief before he laughed, a deep, full chuckle that rippled over her skin like warm treacle.
‘Let me assure you, I can think of smoother ways to ask a beautiful woman out than taking her to Casualty.’
‘The bump wasn’t that bad,’ she said, probing her skull and wincing when her fingertips brushed the lump, and he immediately reached up.
‘Let me.’
Amazingly, she did, stilling as he slid his fingers into her hair, savouring the electric thrill that shot through her at his gentleness.
She held her breath as his fingertips slid over the bump, considerate, exploring and as she lifted her gaze to meet his something inexplicable happened.
Her body buzzed to life.
In a big way.
Must’ve been some bump, she thought as she belatedly realised their intimate position: his hand spanning her waist, holding her close, his other sliding around the back of her head, cupping it, their bodies wet and slick and almost touching.
She hadn’t been this close to a guy in a long time and she almost squirmed like a puppy having its tummy rubbed.
‘Feels nasty. Maybe you should rest on one of the lounges for a while?’
She managed a mute nod, trying not to whimper with pleasure as his fingers slid out of her hair, brushing it back out of her face.
There was something sweetly sensual in the slow sweep of his hand as it smoothed her hair behind her ears, giving her an unimpeded view of a hard, tanned chest that must’ve seen dumb-bells on a daily basis.
By the smattering of dark hair he wasn’t one of those waxed gym junkies, and she immediately wondered why she’d noticed or cared.
‘Let me give you a hand.’
Annoyed she’d been blatantly staring, she raised her gaze to his and if he weren’t steadying her with one hand around her waist she would’ve gone under, for what she saw in those dark chocolate eyes wasn’t the concern of a stranger.
Uh-uh, what she saw in those mesmerising depths mirrored the same, irrational hunger making her want to do crazy things. Things like wrapping her legs around his waist, like sliding her hands all over that muscular chest, like encouraging him to hoist her onto the edge of the pool and kiss her senseless.
‘Come on.’ He cleared his throat but not before his huskiness told her he’d probably read every embarrassing thought she’d just had.
She’d been taught from a young age to shield her thoughts, to ensure her face gave away nothing. Her dad had drummed it home about the dangers of lurking paparazzi, of long-range scopes on high-tech cameras, so she’d spent her life hiding her feelings behind a carefully constructed mask of impassivity. A mask that had well and truly slipped in the joy of floating in this pool after her hellish month, and in the joy of fantasising after landing in this guy’s arms.
‘How’s your head?’
‘I’ll live.’ He winked as they reached the stairs and she could’ve sworn her heart tripped up the steps ahead of her. ‘Besides, if I suddenly go into cardiac arrest you can give me mouth-to-mouth.’
Not used to flirting but dying to get back in the game, she pretended to study his heart, which basically gave her another excuse to ogle that impressive chest.
Tapping her bottom lip, she pretended to ponder. ‘Isn’t mouth-to-mouth only given if you stop breathing?’
‘In that case, that happened about five minutes ago.’
She couldn’t help it; she blushed.
Marrying a family friend straight out of university hadn’t exactly endowed her with femme fatale skills. Her relationship with Leon had been comfortable and familiar, devoid of sparks or flirtation. She’d never learned how but she had a feeling if she hung around this pool much longer she’d be given a crash course by an expert.
‘I think I can take it from here.’
She took a step and stumbled, making a mockery of her attempt at asserted independence and only serving to have him touch her again when his arm shot out and locked around her waist.
‘Easy, you may have a slight concussion.’
There was nothing slight about it; it was the only explanation behind her letting him lead her to one of the double bed chaises and insisting she lie down—with him beside her.
Increasingly self-conscious of her wet high-cut navy one-piece and pebbling skin, she tried to sit up and reach for her robe but he was one step ahead of her.
‘Here.’
He held it up and as she slid her arms into the hotel’s thick, plush dove-grey robe she shivered, not from the cold but from the unexpected tenderness from a stranger as he belted it just right.
‘Better?’
She nodded, easing back onto the pillows at the insistence of his gentle hands.
‘You can go now.’
Her words sounded harsh, especially after how kind he’d been but she needed space, needed him to not lie next to her, needed him to be rude and obnoxious rather than easy-going and likeable.
For lying here next to a sexy, kind stranger beside a deserted infinity pool on the top floor of a chic hotel reeked of adventure and daring and romance, three things that couldn’t be more alien.
‘Wish I could, but I can’t.’
He rolled onto his side and propped on his elbow, looking like a poster boy for jump-starting women’s libidos: long, lean, tanned, muscular and dripping wet, with a pair of mid-thigh board shorts moulding to … She gulped and dragged her gaze upwards, meeting the twinkling in his eyes only marginally better.
‘It’s my duty to see you’re okay. Concussions are serious business.’ He tapped his head. ‘Trust me, I know, I’ve had enough of them.’
Intrigued, she wriggled into the pillows, sat up a little higher.
‘Occupational hazard?’
His mouth kicked into a wicked smile that made her belly flip.
‘You could say that.’
Well aware chatting would only encourage him to stay rather than leave she had a momentary battle with her inner well-trained marionette, the one that had told her to sit up straighter and keep her opinions to herself.
In the face of his devastating smile and those liquid chocolate eyes, the battle was over before it began.
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m in extreme sports.’
‘In?’
He laughed at her obvious confusion. ‘I’m CEO of the governing body for extreme sports worldwide. Heard of action sport? Adventure sport?’
Action? Adventure? Two things that couldn’t be further from the sedate, sheltered, proper life she’d led.
‘You mean stuff like bungee jumping?’
‘And the rest.’
His face lit up and she admired his enthusiasm for his work. She’d never had it, the boring number crunching at the merchant bank less than inspiring. Quitting her job not long after quitting her marriage had been another faux pas according to the vigilante press.
‘Tell me about your job.’
‘Sure you’re interested?’
She nodded, increasingly intrigued. Action, adventure, extreme, encapsulated a lifestyle she could only dream about. What would it be like to live life on the edge? To take risks? To never have to worry about what other people thought of you?
She’d never known but for this brief, surreal interlude with a guy she’d never see again she could live vicariously for a while.
‘Yeah, tell me about the dangerous speeds and hair-raising heights and stunts you do for a living.’
‘So you do know about extreme sports.’
Her hand wavered. ‘A little.’
When he raised an eyebrow, she shrugged. ‘I may have caught a few events in a competition on television last summer.’
‘Go on, admit it, you were dying to hang-glide and wake-board.’
His animation snatched her breath and she unconsciously leaned forward.
‘Considering I like both feet firmly on the ground, that would be a resounding no, but it was cool watching competitors battle environmental challenges while competing against each other.’
‘Wind, snow, water, mountains, you name it, we do it.’
‘So you’re basically an adrenalin junkie?’
She made it sound as though he killed cockroaches for a living but he didn’t mind, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening; by the creases her rescuer spent a lot of time laughing.
‘You bet. Nothing like a shot of endorphins to get the blood pumping.’
He crooked a finger and she leaned closer. ‘Throw in a kick of dopamine and serotonin and you’re on a high almost as good as …’
His pupils widened as he trailed off, giving her fair indication what he’d been about to say.
The safe thing to do would be to change the subject. But she’d done safe her entire life and hadn’t it only been a day ago when she’d arrived in Melbourne that she’d vowed to loosen up? To start living a little?
Yeah, she’d had a gutful of safe.
‘As good as?’
She held her breath as a flicker of lust lit a spark to his eyes, a flash of caramel in all that gorgeous brown.
‘Sex.’
He didn’t blink, didn’t look away and she could’ve sworn the invisible thread binding them tugged.
The flirt’s response would be ‘that good, huh?’ but she’d used up her limited chutzpah supply in the last few seconds.
Besides, the thought of sex being anything other than routine and lacklustre was as foreign to her as this guy and his extreme sports.
‘What else do you do besides skydive and snowboard and cliff diving?’
He chuckled at her sidestep. ‘You really want to hear about nine air sports, eighteen land sports and fifteen water sports?’
‘Maybe not.’ Impressed by his mile-wide daredevil streak, she shook her head. ‘You seriously do all that stuff?’
‘Yeah, all that and more.’
He paused, his gaze momentarily flicking to her lips. ‘Much more.’
And just like that the thread binding them tugged harder, like an intangible, irresistible force dragging her towards him.
‘Are you impressed?’
‘I think you’re crazy,’ she blurted, wondering if she could’ve picked anyone more different to while away a few minutes.
‘So I’ve been told,’ he said, not in the least offended by her outburst. ‘What do you do for kicks?’
In that moment the drudgery of her life flashed before her eyes: being the daughter of the prime minister, the private school, the chauffeurs, the bodyguards, the etiquette and deportment lessons, the expected marriage, being a politician’s wife, the civilised divorce no matter what lies the press printed.
All of it, every constrained, uptight second of it rose up to suffocate her, as it had her entire life.
But she wouldn’t put up with it. Not any more. She needed to wipe those memories, needed to start creating new ones.
Starting now.
‘What do I do for kicks?’
Buoyed by his talk of adrenalin and a soul-deep craving to let loose, she lay her hands on his shoulders and tugged him towards her, murmuring, ‘This,’ a second before her lips touched his.
CHAPTER TWO
THE moment Ava’s lips touched the sexy stranger’s she deliberately blotted out every sane reason why she shouldn’t be doing this and simply allowed herself to feel.
His warmth was the first thing she noticed, the heat from his lips moulding hers, melting, mesmerising, as she moved her mouth experimentally against his.
In response his hand slid into her hair, cradling the back of her head but this time there was nothing remotely gentle or therapeutic in his touch.
Uh-uh, this time his fingers splayed and pulled her towards him while his skilled mouth coaxed hers into opening.
As his tongue touched hers starbursts exploded in her head as she belatedly wondered if she had sustained a concussion.
Surely that could be the only explanation for this dazed, stunned confusion clouding her usually immaculate rationale and making her want to kiss a guy she barely knew for ever.
Yeah, he was that good and when the pressure of his lips eased she wanted to scream ‘no-o-o!’
For this was when her reliable logic would kick in, the logic that had helped her breeze through tense seating arrangements at foreign embassies, the logic that had prompted her to give up her writing dream and undertake a sensible economics degree, the logic that had insisted marrying a family friend would be a solid basis for a sound marriage.
Screw logic.
‘Can I blame that on concussion?’
The lips she’d just ravaged kicked up at the corners. ‘That depends.’
‘On?’
‘How bad it is.’
With a fake wince, she pointed to her head and pretended to swoon. ‘It’s beyond bad.’
‘In that case, I insist I walk you to your room.’
His gaze dropped to her mouth for a moment. ‘Just in case you impulsively kiss every stranger you come into contact with.’
Just like that, her bubble of illusion popped. For that was what she’d done. Kissed a stranger, some random guy, she’d met in a hotel.
Sheesh. What had she been thinking? It was one thing to abandon boring logic, another to lose sight of the facts completely.
‘Hey, I was kidding.’
He touched her arm and a spark of something zapped her, reminding her of the reason she’d ignored logic in the first place.
‘Though introducing ourselves should take care of the stranger problem?’
He smiled and her chest constricted. Smooth, sweet-talking charmers shouldn’t have a lethal smile too.
‘Roman. Extreme sports fanatic.’
He held out his hand. ‘And part-time poolside paramedic.’
She laughed, the carefree cadence foreign to her ears. When was the last time she’d laughed, really laughed, just for the heck of it?
Not while living in Canberra under Daddy’s watchful eye while he’d stood at Australia’s helm, not during her sedate two-year marriage and certainly not during her divorce last month, a divorce that had been publicly scrutinised while her name had been dragged through the mud for no other reason than she was Ava Beckett, reported society royalty, who’d supposedly got what was coming to her.
It felt good, great in fact, and by those attractive crinkles at the corners of his eyes Roman had spent a hell of a lot more time than she had laughing.
She placed her hand in his. ‘Ava. Recent quitter of boring financier job. Clumsy oaf and danger to others poolside.’
His fingers closed over hers, his grip firm and solid, and another little shiver of awareness slithered through her.
‘Well, then, with your clumsiness and my paramedic skills, we’re a match made in heaven.’
He squeezed her hand and released it when she grimaced.
‘Tell me those lines don’t usually work for you.’
He leaned closer and she bit her lip at the sudden onslaught of masculinity temptingly within reach. ‘You tell me?’
Sotto voce, combined with a wink, had her laughing again.
‘So when you’re not rescuing clumsy damsels in distress and jumping off bridges with an elastic rope tied to your ankles, where do you live?’
For the first time since she’d met him a shadow shifted in the rich depths of his eyes before he blinked and the resident twinkle was back.
‘I’m based in London at the moment.’
She caught a hint of hesitancy, a slight stiffening in his shoulders before his smile caught her off guard again, dazzling in its sexiness.
‘Boring financier job, huh? Lucky you quit.’
‘Yeah, real lucky.’
She wanted to act blasé, as if she could walk out on a solid job and live a carefree life traipsing around the planet. Instead, she did what had been ingrained from a young age: told the truth.
‘Actually, I have no idea what I’m going to do next.’
‘Easy. What’s your dream job?’
His eyes crinkled in amusement, making her want to smile along with him. Nothing fazed him. Then again, the guy jumped off tall buildings for a living—losing a job would be small fry.
‘Dream job?’
She’d given up on dreams a long time ago, around the time her life fell under the control of others.
‘Yeah, what are you passionate about? Number crunching in another capacity?’
‘Hell no!’
He laughed at her vehemence. ‘If not numbers, maybe words? What about using your numbers experience and using words to get your expertise across, maybe something like statistics lecturer or maths teacher?’
‘Couldn’t think of anything worse.’
Standing up in a room full of strangers watching her every move? No way. Too reminiscent of her past.
He tapped his bottom lip, thinking, while she focused on that lip. ‘Words … hey, what about writing?’
Her heart skipped a beat at his suggestion. Writing had once been a dream, a dream ripped asunder by the practicalities and expectations of being the prime minister’s daughter. She hadn’t written a word since Year Twelve English Lit, had turned her back on scrawling in her daily journals around the same time.
Ironically, when she’d been the brunt of the media’s smear campaign recently she’d wish she could report the facts and not the drivel printed. It had sparked a vague idea about writing again, perhaps using her experience to freelance, to be an interviewer famed for her integrity rather than headline grabbing.
Maybe it’d be fun to try again, but could she make a living from it? And who would hire her, an ex-financier who’d been publicly flayed for no other crime than bearing the Beckett name?
‘Take here, for instance, you’d have loads to write about.’
He snapped his fingers. ‘Let’s see. Melbourne’s newest hip hotel has a resident poolside attendant that incapacitates guests then resuscitates them with a little mouth-to-mouth—’
‘I kissed you,’ she blurted, mortified when his gaze flicked to her lips before meeting hers again, filled with heat and longing that took her breath away.
‘Yes, you did, and I can’t tell you how impressed I am.’
Enjoying his lighthearted flirtation more than she could’ve imagined, she screwed up her eyes, pretending to think.
‘With my technique? My impulsiveness? My—’
‘All of it.’
This time his gaze started at her lips and swept over her and, while he couldn’t see much beneath the voluminous grey robe, the smoulder told her he remembered every curve.
‘You know I don’t usually go around kissing strangers, right?’
‘We’re not strangers any more.’
He caressed her cheek, his finger starting at her temple and slowly stroking downwards towards her jaw, lingering under her chin to tip it up and when she looked into his eyes her temperature spiked.
Raw passion, the type of passion she’d read about in romance novels she’d hidden beneath her mattress as a teenager, a passion she secretly craved yet had never experienced, a passion she didn’t believe in.
Until now.
For Roman didn’t have to touch her to make her weak-kneed and hot. He didn’t have to sweet-talk her or use lines or do anything other than look at her.
When those darker-than-chocolate eyes looked at her, really looked at her, every female cell in her body snapped to attention, a subliminal reaction she had no hope of controlling. Totally, irrationally crazy.
Increasingly flustered under his burning stare, she aimed for flippant.
‘You should be safe from my randomly-lip-locking-strangers affliction, now we’re properly introduced and all.’
‘Pity.’
His thumb brushed her lower lip before his hand dropped away along with her belly and she floundered for a safe change of topic. There were only so many flirty comments and loaded stares a novice could handle.
‘Are you here on business?’
‘Of sorts.’
‘Sounds cryptic.’
He shrugged, the action emphasising the tension in his shoulders. ‘Time for new challenges so here I am.’
‘Trying to find a higher mountain to jump off than the ones you’ve already conquered around the world?’
‘Something like that.’
His smile didn’t reach his eyes and she wondered why he was really here.
‘What about you?’
‘Me?’
‘Are you up for new challenges? The writing idea?’
He’d subtly moved the focus back onto her. Interesting, as most of the guys in the social circles she’d moved in loved to talk about themselves but Roman seemed strangely reticent to discuss anything beyond here and now.
‘Is it something you could go for?’
If he only knew. She’d loved writing as a kid, had penned her first full-blown dragon-and-princess fantasy at eight, had won a short story comp run by a Melbourne newspaper at eleven and got top marks in English every year at the private girls’ school she’d attended.
Then her father had been elected Prime Minister and a starry-eyed fifteen year old with dreams of being a journalist-cum-fiction-writer had been indoctrinated into the expectations of a PM’s daughter, sending her dreams along with the many vivid plots dancing in her mind straight down the toilet.
She’d followed a career path deemed more suitable, giving up her ‘impulsive, flaky writing’ to enter economics.
Oh, she’d done well, both at university and the merchant bank she’d worked for—not that she ever had an option for failure—but getting creative with figures wasn’t a patch on getting creative with words and as her resentment had steadily built so had her frustration.
It had spilled over into all areas of her life, including her marriage, and while Leon had been amicable to the split she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been the major cause of the inevitable breakdown of their relationship.
‘Yeah, writing for a living would be great.’
‘What kind?’
‘Probably freelance for a start.’
Give her a chance to free the muse and get the words flowing again, then see if anyone would truly employ her with zilch experience in the field.
‘You should do it.’
Buoyed by his enthusiasm, she squared her shoulders. ‘Maybe I will.’
‘Good for you.’
He winked and her heart stuttered and stalled. ‘Go ahead, paint a picture in words for me.’
‘Now?’
‘Yeah, no time like the present to get you started on your new career path.’
He leaned closer and she sucked in a breath of heady male tinged with chlorine. ‘Describe your favourite holiday destination.’
‘Lizard Island,’ she blurted, needing to deflect those hypnotic dark eyes before she did something foolish, such as kiss him again. Though if her two-word answer was all she could come up with description-wise, she’d better ditch the writing idea now.
‘Whitsunday Islands?’
She nodded. ‘Not as well known as Hayman or Hamilton. Coastline’s more rugged, beaches more isolated. Off the beaten track.’
‘Unspoilt beauty can be more appealing than commercialised tourist traps.’
She silently chalked up another brownie point to him, in total agreement. She’d spent enough time traipsing around the world’s hot spots with Leon: from Monte Carlo to New York, London to Tokyo, playing a diplomat’s wife to perfection. Dining at Michelin-starred establishments, staying at exclusive spa resorts, mingling with the upper echelons of society, living the high life.
She would’ve rather camped in the Pyrenees and eaten hawker food and gone without pedicures than have her every move watched and scrutinised by people who almost wanted her to slip up so they could spread gossip or leak it to the press. Just as they had during her divorce.
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