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Her Guilty Secret
Clare Connelly


She's the good girl…He’s guilty as sin!Hotshot defence attorney and visiting professor Connor Hughes is so hot it’s criminal! And while idealistic law student Olivia Amorelli might not agree with his practices, she just can’t stop fantasising about ripping Connor’s clothes off. But she’s always been a good girl, and an affair with her teacher is strictly forbidden—until Connor tempts Olivia to let him corrupt her…!







She’s the good girl...

He’s guilty as sin!

Hotshot defense attorney and visiting professor Connor Hughes is so hot it’s criminal! And while idealistic law student Olivia Amorelli might not agree with his practices, she just can’t stop fantasizing about ripping Connor’s clothes off. But she’s always been a good girl, and an affair with her teacher is strictly forbidden—until Connor tempts Olivia to let him corrupt her!


CLARE CONNELLY was raised in small-town Australia among a family of avid readers. She spent much of her childhood up a tree, Mills & Boon book in hand. Clare is married to her own real-life hero and they live in a bungalow near the sea with their two children. She is frequently found staring into space—a surefire sign that she’s in the world of her characters. She has a penchant for French food and ice-cold champagne, and Mills & Boon continue to be her favorite-ever books. Writing for Mills & Boon is a long-held dream. Clare can be contacted via clareconnelly.com (http://clareconnelly.com) or her Facebook page.


If you liked Her Guilty Secret, why not try

Stripped by Nicola Marsh

Sweet as Sin by J. Margot Critch

Getting Naughty by Avril Tremayne

And check out the next installment in

Clare Connelly’s Guilty as Sin duet,

His Innocent Seduction,

coming soon to Mills & Boon!

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).


Her Guilty Secret

Clare Connelly






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-08681-3

HER GUILTY SECRET

© 2019 Clare Connelly

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For Elle Woods and Legally Blonde,

without whom I might never have enrolled in a

law degree and had my own inappropriate crush

on a lecturer.


Contents

Cover (#u141c53c2-a0f3-5504-b49a-59adf37b752b)

Back Cover Text (#u1f90a4d1-2fa9-5ca3-abd7-91e0fabe5c9f)

About the Author (#ua469b76b-a9eb-5469-9958-6c35d108d5de)

Booklist (#u677ebf47-bc7d-5e2b-8d6a-a5e5f85be003)

Title Page (#ufb16ce33-4d8c-5927-bb13-88ca51a4f558)

Copyright (#u7bb2deeb-231b-5aaa-bf79-cad0490d6bf3)

Dedication (#u5f751095-5539-525c-a0fa-e3938e6a851b)

PROLOGUE (#ub8b691ae-55e6-582a-a619-55e673a8f585)

CHAPTER ONE (#uedd81179-8af2-5768-92b5-532830251b04)

CHAPTER TWO (#ue3f3056c-13fd-5709-a2a5-518ee7b88889)

CHAPTER THREE (#u3ad572d2-9c4c-5815-85a5-3899f75408e1)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




PROLOGUE (#uf780a859-fb6c-5244-a4d0-575897a46485)


SHE SITS IN the third row of students, as usual. Her enormous eyes stare at me with the kind of intensity that makes my blood pound and my cock hard. She stares at me with eyes that are mentally stripping my body of clothes, imagining what’s underneath.

I should know.

It’s how I want to look at her, but I can’t because she is forbidden to me.

Olivia.

Olivia Amorelli.

Even her name is a turn-on.

She’s wearing the pale green dress again, the one she wore last week. It comes to her knees and has tiny white swallows detailed in the fabric. There are buttons down the front, and I have spent way too long fantasising about pulling them apart using only my teeth, stripping her, slowly. Unwrapping her like a Christmas gift, a present just for me.

What the hell is happening to me?

I don’t think I’ve ever fantasised about a woman like this, and never one like Olivia. She is all that is sweet and innocent. She is my opposite in every way. I have made a career defending the indefensible. I am renowned—notorious?—for my defence of the unscrupulous. Men like Donovan. Thoughts of that particular case needle my sides and I push them away, not wanting to think of that man now. Not wanting to think about the fact he is free because of me. But he is. Free, because of me. I can’t ignore it.

Where I am darkness, Olivia Amorelli is not. In the few weeks I’ve been her professor, I’ve discovered she thinks differently to me. She is purity and passion, sweet and good. Her smile practically glows with sunbeams.

What would it be like to have someone like her in my bed? In my life?

Would that be enough to lay this demon to rest? If someone like Olivia could want me, could forgive me my sins, would I make my peace with what I’ve done?

All sins are deserving of forgiveness, Connor. Father O’Sullivan said that to me a lot after my parents’ murder. He believed my hatred for the terrorists responsible for their deaths would consume me one day, and perhaps he was right. Therefore, confess your sins to one another and pray for one another, that you may be healed. The quote from James spins around my head often; I hear it in Father O’Sullivan’s hoarse, throaty whisper, cracked by that gentle smile of his.

I came to pray for my parents’ murderers, to understand that in forgiveness lay my own refuge from grief and despair. It worked, for a time. I don’t think anyone is praying for me right now. I don’t think I deserve it, either.

I run my eyes over the room, pretending to scan the other students when it’s really just a ruse to return my focus to her. She’s toying with her blonde hair, flicking the ends of her ponytail between her fingers. Her nails are red today, just like her lips, and I want them on my body more than I can say. Her nails, her lips. All of her.

It’s been four weeks. Four weeks of watching her and wanting her, knowing that I can’t act on it. The school’s guidelines prohibit it.

That wouldn’t usually stop me from taking what I want but, the thing is, she’d get suspended. Possibly expelled.

Just because I want to run my tongue down her body and taste every inch of her. Just because I want to see if her innocence can be drawn to my guilt; to see if she can absolve me with her body’s delights.

It would be selfish to indulge this. Selfish to make her wait after class just so I can be alone with her. Selfish to lift her dress up and take her against the whiteboard, making her cry out into this very classroom.

Fuck. I’m hard as granite. I stand, keeping my body behind the desk. ‘Right.’ I look right at her and she sits a little straighter, pressing her knees together beneath the table. My cock jerks. ‘Let’s get started, shall we?’




CHAPTER ONE (#uf780a859-fb6c-5244-a4d0-575897a46485)


CONNOR HUGHES MIGHT be one of the most successful defence barristers in the country, famous the world over for his inspired interpretation of the law to ensure justice is done, even when that means defending some of the most undeserving members of society.

He might be everyone else’s idea of some kind of hero.

But not mine.

People like him are everything that’s wrong with the law. Smooth tongue, smart, beguiling, charming. No wonder his win-to-loss ratio is one of the best in the business. How many criminals are wandering the streets because of his egomaniacal need to win? His obsession with being the best at what he does, even when what he does is exonerate those who should never again see the light of day?

Yeah. He’s everything that’s wrong with the law.

But that doesn’t change how much I want him. It doesn’t change the fact that when our eyes meet I feel like I’ve been injected with live voltage. It doesn’t change the fact that he looks at me a little longer than he should, that there’s an invisible current electrifying the air between us all the time.

I stare at him as he writes something on the whiteboard. I don’t see the words, though. I see his fingers. Long, lean, darkly tanned like the rest of his body would be. At least, it is in my imaginings. Tanned to match his swarthy face, his stubbled, square jaw and bright green eyes that have captivated me, and stolen my breath, from the first moment I saw him, standing like this at the front of the classroom, speaking to all one hundred of us, but reaching into my body and stirring everything up, swishing me around in a way that was instantly new and addictive.

Frankly, I’m glad I don’t like him. I’m glad I don’t like the work he does. I’m probably the only person in here who doesn’t admire his meteoric trajectory to the top of the field. Sure, he started his own firm at twenty-six and grew it into one of the UK’s largest within five years. Sure, he’s worked on some of the most high-profile cases. But what good is being smart if you don’t use those powers for good?

My derision of his professional accomplishments is so important to remember, because it’s the only thing standing between me and a crazed impulse to act on the desire that has taken over my body. Desire that makes my thighs tremble and my breasts ache. Desire that has turned Connor Hughes into the star of all my dirtiest dreams—dreams that I have no control over, because they fill my mind when I’m asleep and I can’t control that, can I?

‘Who wants to tell me why the chain of evidence is so important?’ He runs his eyes over the class and I wonder if he’s forgotten we’re in our final year, not first.

It’s his ‘thing’, though. On the first day in class, he spelled it out for us. I’m going to act like you know nothing, because in the real world you don’t. I’m going to teach you how to follow the law and win cases.

And he is very good at winning cases—cases that should have been open and shut.

‘Miss Amorelli?’

Holy hell.

It’s the first time he’s called on me directly. His tongue rolls over my name as though he’s kissing it down my body. My shiver is involuntary.

Our eyes lock and the atmosphere charges with the force of a hurricane. Lightning dances between us, thunder rolls. His expression is a challenge and, despite the simplicity of the question, my mouth is dryer than desert sand. I feel like I’ve chewed on a box of chalk. I can’t find my tongue.

‘The chain of evidence,’ he prompts, lifting one brow with a hint of sarcastic mockery that makes me want to reach for his shirt and bunch it in my fist.

‘Obviously,’ I say, quietly, so that he leans forward a little, to catch my softly spoken word, ‘to ensure the authenticity of the evidence.’

‘Wrong.’

My eyes flare wide and I feel heat in my cheeks. I don’t like being told I’m wrong. I’m not wrong. ‘Why?’

His eyes lock onto mine. It’s just the two of us here now. Us and our major electrical storm, humming and buzzing through the room. ‘It doesn’t matter if the evidence has been tampered with.’

‘Of course it does,’ I say with a shake of my head.

‘No.’ His smile is the last word in sexual heat. My insides flip around, bubbling and aching, distracting me momentarily from what we’re discussing. ‘It matters what you can suggest. Facts are less important than the doubt you can cast.’

My eyes narrow. He’s hit upon my biggest problem with his application of the law. Connor Hughes, while undoubtedly a genius, earned his name and his fortune wielding that mega-watt intelligence to get bad guys out of prison sentences that they definitely deserve. ‘Facts don’t matter?’

He comes around to the front of the desk and props his ass on its edge, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He’s wearing a suit, but he’s taken off the jacket and pushed his sleeves halfway up his forearms. God, they’re nice arms. Tanned and leanly muscled. There’s a small tattoo on his inner wrist. A cross, but a Celtic-looking one. It is incongruous for a man like this, who must surely be Godless. He also doesn’t suit a suit.

I mean, he wears it like it was made for him, but there’s such a savagery to him. I could see him in a loincloth, beating his chest... The thought heats my cheeks and almost makes me smile.

‘Facts don’t matter,’ he says with a nod. The class laughs. I don’t.

‘Why not?’ I’m challenging him. I’m pissed off and my voice shows it by quivering a little.

‘Facts are subjective, in law.’ His response is really deep and husky. Airy, and full of weight.

‘Facts can’t be subjective.’ I glare at him as though he’s lost the plot. ‘That’s oxymoronic.’

‘Why?’

‘Because facts just are!’

‘Says who?’ His eyes are locked onto mine and the intensity of his scrutiny is doing funny things to my pulse. I suspect I’d find it easier to concentrate on what he’s saying if I wasn’t imagining him as a modern-day Tarzan, lifting me up and carrying me to his treetop den of debauchery. ‘Says who?’ he pushes insistently.

‘Says everyone.’

He looks around the class. ‘There are forty-eight students in here. True or false.’

I narrow my eyes then spin in my chair, with every intention of counting.

‘No,’ he says firmly, and his commanding tone sends a shiver down my spine. I imagine him being commanding in other ways, other places, and my gut churns with delicious desire. ‘Without looking.’

I turn back slowly in my chair, crossing my legs beneath the small wooden desk. Holy shit. Did I just imagine the way his eyes dropped down to my bare legs? I uncross them to test the theory but his gaze remains steady, and now there’s just the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. My heart throbs.

‘I don’t know.’

‘There are forty-eight students enrolled. Is anyone absent?’

‘I don’t know.’ I sound frustrated because I am.

‘That’s reasonable doubt.’

I roll my eyes. ‘It’s not my job to keep an attendance record. If it were, I’d know how many of us are here.’

‘What about the witness who swears he saw two men entering a bakery at two in the morning? It’s not his job to notice who goes where. How do you know he remembers accurately?’

I expel a soft breath. ‘I guess you have to trust him.’

‘You have to trust him?’ His smile is curt. ‘I don’t. I don’t trust anyone’s recollection beyond reasonable doubt.’

His eyes lock onto mine once more and then shift slightly lower, to the front of my dress, where a pretty row of white buttons dots downwards. He stares at them for a good three seconds. Long enough for my insides to begin quivering and heat to slick between my legs.

Then he moves on, as though he hasn’t almost brought me to orgasm simply by flicking a glance at my dress.

‘We’re looking at how facts are represented in court.’ The class has his attention now and I try to level out my breathing. ‘How you can pull apart a prosecutor’s case, piece by piece. Nothing is too small for your attention. You check every detail. Why was there a fifteen-minute delay between a police officer arriving at the station and items being logged? What happened in those fifteen minutes? Did he stop to talk to someone in the corridor? Did he take a piss? Where’d he put the evidence while he was zipping up? Could someone else have touched it? Even for a moment?’

Indignation spurts like a wave of angry heat in my belly. My jaw drops, and I know my cheeks are flushing pink. I hate everything about what Connor has just said. I hate that he’s teaching it to a whole room of us.

He doubles down, leaning forward slightly to underscore his point, and when he speaks his voice is loaded with intensity.

‘That’s reasonable doubt. That’s uncertainty. The law is never black and white, no matter how much you might want it to be, Miss Amorelli.’ My stomach lurches, and it’s with desire now, not indignation. How can he send me from one emotion to the other in no time flat? No matter how much you might want it to be, Miss Amorelli. I want his tongue around more than my name. It’s his Irish accent and the way it lilts across the syllables, making it sound musical and illicit, somehow. ‘Not in the real world. It’s about a thousand shades of grey. It’s about making a jury doubt. About making a judge wonder.’

‘That’s disgusting.’ I say it quietly, with my head bent forward, so I don’t know if he hears. I don’t care. My face is flushed bright red.

I’ve seen what Connor’s thinking does to people. I’ve seen what it did to my dad, a senior detective who had a case thrown out because someone like Connor was able to discredit his work. I saw the way it pulled my dad apart—the knowledge that he’d let the victim down by not being above reproach. And it had all been bogus. A big, fat lie that had practically killed my dad.

I grind my teeth and glare at him. Anger, apparently, is what I need. It trumps desire.

Good. I’ll just have to stay angry for the next month or so.

* * *

‘Miss Amorelli.’

I’m almost at the door when he calls my name. It would be so easy to pretend I haven’t heard. I’m almost out—so close—albeit on legs that are a little shaky. It’s the end of the day and I just want to get home and have a cold shower and take myself to bed. And fantasise about this arrogant, sexy beast of a man.

But he’s right here and he’s said my name.

I’m not exactly in the business of ignoring my professors. I’m someone who does everything that’s asked of me. Besides, I’d be lying to myself if I pretended I wasn’t intrigued. The hurricane around us swells, cracks; a shiver runs the length of my spine in anticipation.

He’s my lecturer. My teacher. So prohibited from me, from the things I want. But, oh, how I want them.

And therein lies the problem. I don’t do illicit. I don’t do naughty.

Ever.

But Connor makes me want all the naughty, all the time.

‘Yes?’ I ask, the word throbbing with expectation despite my efforts to quell my racing pulse.

‘Shut the door,’ he murmurs without looking up from the paper he’s reading.

It’s close to being an order, and I don’t particularly like his tone. I bite back on the desire to remind him to say ‘please’, settling for a noise of disapproval and impatience instead.

I move back to the door and then click it into place.

‘Should I lock it, sir?’ I ask, knowing on some instinctive level that I’m playing with fire by addressing him in this manner, and not caring.

He looks at me then. Green eyes as vivid as the sunlit ocean impale me, making movement difficult. I stay near the door because I fear what I’m capable of. I fear that the temptation to succumb to this overpowering sense of desire and attraction will be too strong. I need the strength of the door—a tether to the real world—at my back.

‘That won’t be necessary.’ He stands and I am again reminded of his size. The sheer breadth of his frame, his muscled body. Does he work out? When would he have the time? Surely his job—his real job, not this university gig—is too demanding?

My eyes flick around the room.

We are alone.

Me and Connor Hughes.

The realisation brings the desert sands back to my mouth. It is dry and chalky and my breath is like overheated vapour. A single droplet of perspiration slinks down my spine. I feel it because my body is hyper-aware of every single sensation.

‘You disagree with my assessment.’ He comes to stand directly in front of me. Just slightly too close—not too close in a bad way, just too close for clarity of mind. His face is only inches from mine. Up close I can see that he has a few freckles across the bridge of his nose, and his lashes are longer and darker than I’d appreciated from the safety of the third row.

‘Your assessment?’ I ask. I told you, he’s too close for any clarity of thought.

‘About the chain of evidence.’

‘Oh.’ Crap. I don’t know. I can’t think straight with him right there! I know I have opinions on this but where the hell are they right now? I suck in a breath—big mistake—the air tastes of him. My body rejoices, and instantly wants more. ‘I...’

‘Yes?’ His eyes roam my face and I feel like he can see so much more than I want him to. I feel like he can look at me and peel away all the layers of who I am to see what I used to be. I feel exposed, and I can’t even say with certainty whether I hate that or not. Because I also feel...fascinated and fascinating, and addicted to that sensation.

‘I’m sorry.’ I dredge up my best smile. ‘I’m not sure what you’re talking about.’

He is unrelenting and for a moment I catch an insight of what it would be like to be in the witness stand, being questioned by this man. ‘You felt my take on the chain of evidence to be...disgusting?’

So he heard. Heat stains my cheeks, warming me up like a paraffin lamp. I might be a little overwhelmed by his nearness but I’m not dumb and I stand by what I feel. ‘I think...’ I take a step back and collide with the door. It’s still there, tethering me, reassuring me. Reminding me who I am and why I can’t be so completely caught up in this swirling storm of need. ‘I think it’s disgusting to discredit hardworking police officers in order to get criminals back on the street.’

His laugh is a gruff sound. ‘Hardworking police officers should be above reproach, don’t you think?’

‘Yes. And I think most are. But I also think it’s very easy to confuse someone on the witness stand. To make them seem uncertain about events that they do actually remember clearly.’

‘As a defence barrister, that’s not my problem.’

‘Justice isn’t your problem?’

His eyes narrow. God, he’s hot. My body is squirming and I fantasise about pushing away from the door and closing the distance between us. I fantasise about wrapping my legs around his waist. I’m not very tall and I’ve always been slender, and Connor Hughes is a man mountain. He would easily be able to hold me around his waist, fisting his hands in my hair, pushing my dress up.

Oh, God. I need my brain to be helping me now, not throwing up wildly suggestive images. Just... Stop imagining things!

‘Justice is best served by everyone doing their job to the utmost of their ability.’ He takes a step closer and I’m breathing so hard and fast that my breasts are straining against my dress. His eyes drop to the buttons and my nipples harden into two tight nubs. They have formed a little team, my breasts; they are imploring him to touch them. I look down, my eyes finding his hands. Big hands. Strong and commanding. He would easily be able to hold my breasts in his palms, fingering my flesh.

A moan tingles on my tongue and it is only with a supreme effort that I manage to bite it back.

‘You’re smart,’ he says, his fingers curling around the door handle so that I’m effectively trapped by him. I make no effort to move, though I could easily step to the side. I don’t want to. He’s within leg-wrapping range and I ache to push up. I want to touch him. I need to touch him. Just a little bit. Somewhere. It’s an obsession burning through my blood, as I bet it is his.

Oh, Connor Hughes, you are going to get me into trouble.

‘I know.’

‘But you’re idealistic.’

‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’ The words come out all husky, and I bite down on my lower lip, staring at his at the same time. I’m silently begging him for something. I don’t know what. I need so much from him that my body is vibrating at a whole new frequency.

‘It’s something you’ll learn to live without.’ His lips twist in a tight smile and I’m terrified he’s about to put an end to this. Without kissing me. Without touching me.

He’s my lecturer! What kind of crazy planet am I living on that I want these things?

‘Idealism? I’d rather keep it,’ I say. His eyes drop to my lips and he moves just a fraction closer, so that his thighs brush against me.

‘You can try.’ The words are—oh, so briefly—flavoured by bleakness. It flares every bit of interest within me, spinning dozens of questions. Why does he sound like that? Before I can form one of the questions into words he turns the door handle and I have no choice but to move. Only he doesn’t, so when I step from the door I bump straight into him; our bodies collide.

It is the briefest, quickest connection but it sears me, from the tips of my toes to every last hair on my head.

It all happens so quickly. He puts a steadying hand on my hip. It’s clinical and it isn’t, because it’s him and it’s me and there’s fire and electricity in every single touch. He pushes the door wider still, and then steps back, a normal distance between us now. Showing that he isn’t just a ‘close talker’. He knows how to stand without being in someone’s space.

He wanted to be in my space.

Shit.

This is definitely going to be a problem.

* * *

‘You in?’

I have a royal flush. Of course I’m in. I slide a fifty-pound note into the centre of the table without looking up. The faculty poker night reminds me of my university days—only we play for real money now, not the rings of lager tins.

Shut the door.

Should I lock it, sir?

Fuck. Hearing her call me sir has unleashed just about every dirty fantasy I’ve ever had. Her on her knees, sucking my cock, calling me ‘sir’. Lying back in my bed, begging me to fuck her, hard. Sir. Touching herself, her eyes locked on mine. May I come now, sir?

Sir.

I bite back a groan and toy with my empty beer bottle, running my finger around its base.

What the hell was I thinking?

On Day One at the London Law School I told myself I should steer clear of Olivia Amorelli. Warning bells had blared through me the second she’d walked into my classroom, wearing a long, pale blue dress that showed off her tan and her eyes and made my blood pressure shoot way up.

But it was more than that. Something about her called to me and I knew ignoring it, ignoring her, would be the smart thing to do. There was danger in the kind of desire I felt for her—its depths were unknown, never-ending, and I don’t do well without limits. I like to know where things are going to end up, and Olivia is a wild card.

So I chose to pretend I wasn’t halfway to infatuated by everything about her.

And I was doing okay. Ignoring her and her outfits and her long blonde hair, and the way she blinks and chews on a pen when she’s concentrating.

Yeah, I was ignoring her just fine. Until today.

Today, when I called on her, she sat up, arguing with me, making my blood pressure shoot through the roof. Olivia’s stunning. There’s no denying that. But she’s not my usual type. Even though I know she’s twenty-five, she’s tiny and youthful and goes around in jeans and white sneakers. She’s got long blonde hair that I picture running down her naked back and her eyes are full of storm clouds.

When she argued with me today, I damned well wanted to dismiss the class and take her then. And I think she wanted it, too. Which is why I need to be even more careful.

Because I want her and she wants me and we see each other four times a week as it is.

The London Law School is one of the most prestigious schools in the country, if not the world. It has a much sought-after exchange programme with Harvard Law and the fees are astronomical. Olivia is in her last year and she’s academically brilliant. She’s worked hard to make it this far. If she holds it together, she’ll graduate with a swathe of offers from places to undertake her training contract. But even just flirting with a professor is the kind of thing that would get her in trouble here, let alone doing what I want her to do to me.

She is completely forbidden...and damn it all to hell if that doesn’t make me want her even more.

I’m not very good at being told ‘no’.

Even when I know it’s for the best.

I should have let her walk out of the damned classroom. Instead, I called her back. I stood over her, so close I could feel her soft breath on my throat, warm and sweet. I heard her breathing; I wanted to make her breathe faster. Harder. And all for me.

I’m not a spiritual guy but I believe in the powers of opposites and opposition. I think she could both redeem me and challenge me, and I need both. But what about her needs?

What would a guy like me do to her? I crave her sweetness but wouldn’t I only mark her with my darkness? Isn’t that more likely? The Donovan case sits heavy in my throat, the judgement the stuff of nightmares, my victory incontrovertible proof that I am too good at what I do. That I play to win, no matter the cost.

Where once a win was a win and the verdict would have puffed me up, it dances on the edges of my mind now like an incoming surge of the ocean, an impending surge of doom.

‘I’ll pay it. Show me what you got, Connor.’

I lift my eyes to Gary Austin, one of the well-known professors from the Contracts department, and bare my teeth in acknowledgement.

I lay my cards down and stand to grab a beer at the same time.

The four other guys make a collective noise of disappointment as my royal flush obviously beats whatever they’re holding. I play to win. Always.

I pull a bottle from the fridge and crack the top off it, throwing half back in one easy movement.

Olivia’s in class with me tomorrow.

I wonder what she’ll be wearing?




CHAPTER TWO (#uf780a859-fb6c-5244-a4d0-575897a46485)


‘I’VE GOT CLASS until four,’ I murmur into my phone, my eyes glued to the door, waiting for the moment Connor will arrive so I can go back to pretending I don’t notice him.

‘Darling—’ my mum uses her most persuasive voice ‘—it’s a late lunch. Things will just be starting by the time you get there.’

Frustration zips through my belly. ‘I doubt that.’

‘You can’t just not show up.’

I would laugh except this isn’t remotely amusing. ‘I never agreed to go.’

She’s quiet and I know her lips are compressed. ‘Pietro’s counting on you.’

And there it is. The reason my mum has been nagging me about going to my cousin’s girlfriend’s birthday lunch for the past two weeks.

Because my saintly ex-boyfriend will be there—the man my parents are determined for me to take back. To forgive the fact we made no sense together, the fact we had nothing in common, the fact sex was perfunctory and our conversation, for the most part, dull.

Don’t get me wrong—I loved Pietro. But I realised, over time, that it was the kind of love one feels for a friend or, ick, a brother. Not a lover.

I sigh, because saying ‘no’ to my mother isn’t easy. Especially when I know her meddling comes with the best of intentions.

‘Where is it?’ I bite down on my lip right as the door opens and Connor steps in, his stride strong and confident. I stare at him for a couple of seconds and marshal my expression into a look of nonchalant unconcern. It’s a waste of energy. He doesn’t even look my way.

‘Alta Pasta, just off St Christopher’s Place. Do you know it?’

She sounds relieved; she’s taken my acquiescence as a given.

I’ve never argued with my mum and dad, but I can’t stand the way they’re trying to urge me into a sensible relationship, just because they’ll feel better knowing I’ve settled down.

It makes me want to do the opposite.

Unconsciously, my eyes land on Connor and a frown crosses my face.

I want to do completely the opposite. I want to find someone manifestly unsuitable. Completely wrong. And I want to have some fun. Not a relationship, nothing like what Pietro and I shared.

And, in that moment, which I’m not proud of, I want to be with someone who would infuriate my parents...

‘I’ll see if I can make it.’

‘You’re a good girl, Olivia.’

It’s just an expression, something she says often, but it raises my hackles to the point of bursting. A good girl? I am a good girl. I always have been. Even when my friend Clara and I went travelling, I was the one taking care of her, booking our hostels, putting glasses of water beside her bed and condoms in her purse.

Apparently I don’t know how to be anything other than a good, sensible girl.

‘Are we interrupting your social life, Miss Amorelli?’

Colour blooms in my face. I feel it spread and curse my propensity to flush when I’m embarrassed.

Everyone is looking at me. I glare at Connor and then pointedly lift my eyes to the clock above his head. There’s still a minute to go until the lecture technically starts.

Nonetheless, my inner Goody-Two-Shoes, who really isn’t very ‘inner’ at all, stands to attention.

‘Mum? I have to go.’

I disconnect the call and slide my phone to the desk.

Heat spreads from my face to my neck as Connor continues to stare at me. For barely a millisecond, his eyes lower, glancing somewhere in the region of my cleavage, and then he turns away, moving to the whiteboard.

He begins to speak, addressing the whole class, and I flick my notebook open and take the lid off my pen, but I’m only pretending to listen. I write out a few things, word for word, as he says them, but they’re random and unimportant. I can’t focus. My brain is fogged.

I can honestly say I’ve never looked at a guy and felt myself spontaneously combust in a cloud of sexual heat.

This, with Connor, is completely different.

It scares the hell out of me, if I’m honest, only because he’s as completely off-limits to me as if he were my best friend’s fiancé.

He turns around and smiles. Everyone laughs.

I don’t.

I stare at him and his eyes zip to mine. The world, the earth, the universe—everything freezes. We are powerless to fight it, this moment. We simply stare at one another and silence falls; we are encumbered by a desire that is impossible to acknowledge. Impossible to resist.

‘Okay.’ He seems to rally himself with more ease than I could muster for a million quid. ‘Group assignments are due at the end of today. Anyone not able to complete theirs?’ He drags his eyes away—at least I hope he’s having to drag them away. I can’t. I continue to stare at him. He’s wearing a navy blue suit, a pale blue shirt and brown shoes. No tie, and the shirt’s open at the neck. He has a nice neck. Thick and strong. I imagine running my tongue along it and then look at the clock, jerking my eyes away forcibly.

The class is almost over.

I’m almost done.

‘That’s it. Read the two cases and summarise judgements before Thursday.’

There’s a commotion as everyone stands but Connor holds his hands up, silencing us once more. ‘And the Law School Ball on Friday night is not optional. Dean Walters has asked me to remind you to come, dress up and be on your best behaviour.’ He pulls a face that is half mocking, full hot. ‘But seriously, you guys, this is an incredible opportunity to meet real-world professionals and socialise with representatives of some of the top-tier firms in the country. So be prepared to make a good impression and it might lead to an interview for those of you planning to undertake your training contracts.’

I try to imagine Connor Hughes ever going to one of these balls with the intention of sucking up, and fail. Even as a student, I bet he was as arrogant as they came. You don’t learn that kind of attitude; it’s innate.

A hand somewhere to my left shoots up in the air.

‘Yes, Miss Cave?’

‘What if we already know where we want to apply?’

Connor shrugged. ‘So? Apply.’

‘Okay. Can I email you direct?’

Everyone laughs, Connor included. ‘Sure.’

But I don’t laugh.

Something uncomfortable slides through me, twisting my organs. Is Benita Cave flirting with Connor?

Is he flirting back?

More heat spreads through my cheeks. I’m so distracted by this unpleasant notion that I barely notice people are leaving until the class is almost empty and I’m this close to being alone with Connor once more.

Shit.

I pack up quickly, squishing my book into my bag and tossing it over my shoulder. I jam my phone into the back pocket of my jeans as I stand and straighten my simple white singlet top so that it sits properly over my waistband.

‘You know—’ Connor’s voice is soft and even though other students are still milling around I know he’s addressing me ‘—it’s not a great idea to be chatting on your phone during class.’

My ears are hot.

‘I wasn’t on the phone during class,’ I point out, changing trajectory and moving towards the desk.

‘I beg to differ.’

‘With respect, sir, it was before class.’

His eyes narrow, and seem to change colour. ‘I was here, wasn’t I? Thus the class had begun.’

I’m tempted to argue with him—I want to argue with him. But Connor Hughes is obviously used to people doing exactly what he wants, when he wants. Plus, he’s my lecturer and I know I can’t say what I’m thinking. Because I’m a good girl.

I press my fingertips into the edge of his desk. Breath is burning through me and my chest heaves with the effort. We stare at each other for a long time. Or maybe it’s just seconds. I don’t know. Time seems to stand still. It’s heavy around me, like wading through just-poured concrete.

‘Shut the door, Miss Amorelli.’

Oh, God. Here we are again. The tension stretches between us, pulling so hard, so tight, that I think it might actually snap me in half.

But a thrill of adrenalin is surging in my veins simultaneously. I want this. I need it. To be alone with him, even for a few stolen minutes, even knowing nothing can happen. I storm towards the door as though I’m pissed off and not excited. I push it shut and whip around to face him.

He’s sitting at the desk, a bemused expression on his handsome-as-sin face.

‘Yes?’ I press back against the door, all but willing him to come and hold his body to mine.

He stands slowly, unfurling his frame and prowling across the room. He comes close, but not close enough.

His smile is sardonic and utterly sexy. ‘I meant with you on the other side of it.’

I ignore the flash of embarrassment, pushing it deep down inside myself. ‘Am I supposed to be a mind-reader?’

‘I don’t know what you’re supposed to be.’ There is resignation in that sentence.

His eyes drop to my breasts, heating me up, making me tingle all over. My nipples thrust forward of their own volition and his lips twist in a smile that is both mocking and approving, all at once.

This is so wrong.

And still I don’t move. Suddenly, I’m desperate for him to touch me, or for me to touch him. Everything seems to come screeching to a halt—I am angry with my parents for their machinations, for the way they want to control my personal life. I’m angry at Pietro for being a pawn in their games. And, most of all, I’m angry at Connor Hughes for being sexy AF even when I hate the work he does—defending criminals who should be locked up with the keys thrown away.

‘You should go, Olivia.’ He steps back as though he can put an end to this. As though he can walk away from this insane gravitational pull.

But I’m sick of being told what to do. I’m sick of being a good girl. Just once, I want to do something for myself, something completely wrong.

‘And what if I don’t go?’

There’s a look of desperation in his expression, as though we’re sinking in quicksand, and his voice is gravel when he speaks. ‘You should.’

It’s four o’clock. Thoughts of the birthday lunch fragment my mood, but it annoys me. I’m impatient at the expectation that I’ll simply do what my mother asks.

I take a step forward and he squares his shoulders but doesn’t retreat.

‘I had a dream about you last night,’ I murmur, the words slipping from between my lips, unbidden.

His eyes blink closed for a moment and he draws in a breath. ‘Did you?’

‘Uh huh.’ I step close enough that my breasts are pressing against his chest.

‘Careful.’ His words whisper against my hair and a frisson of awareness dances all the way down my back.

I lift my face, angling my eyes to meet his. ‘Of what?’

‘Of playing with fire.’

‘Is that what I’m doing?’

His Adam’s apple jerks as he swallows. ‘Yes.’

I am; he’s right. And it feels so good. I am not a good girl—at least, not just a good girl.

‘Don’t you want to know what my dream was about?’

His eyes are lightly mocking. ‘I think I can guess.’

My lips twist into a small smile. ‘I dreamed,’ I say huskily, ‘that you touched me here.’ I lift a hand to my breast, running my fingertips over nipples that are taut. He makes a groaning noise but keeps watching, his eyes glued to the progress of my fingertips.

‘And here.’ I run my fingers higher, to the pulse point at the base of my throat. ‘And here.’ I touch my lips.

‘Anywhere else?’ The words are gruff, strained.

I nod, slowly.

‘Here.’ I run my fingertip down my body, pressing against the zip of my jeans. We’re so close that I can’t do so without brushing against his cock—it’s rock-hard. Power rocks me to my core.

‘And you don’t think it’s inappropriate to dream of your teacher?’

Adrenalin heats my blood and flavours my mouth. ‘Sure it is.’ I bite down on my lower lip. ‘I’m not sure I care, though.’

His groan is so soft that I only hear it because I’m standing right here, pressed against him.

‘Show me.’

I blink.

‘Show me what you dreamed I did to you.’

I nod, slowly, and drop my hand back to my jeans, this time undoing the button and lowering the zip.

And, as I touch myself, his cock is right there, too. My fingers push against my wet, hot clit and he stays close, so that every movement also rubs his dick.

I’m so close. I’ve been dreaming about him for a month, wanting him, needing this, so that now I’m there I have no ability to hold on and stretch this out. I come hard, against my fingers, but when I would cry out with pleasure he lifts a hand to my mouth, pressing his palm against my lips to silence me. I bite down on his flesh—gently.

He laughs, and pushes his dick further forward, so that if it weren’t for the barrier of his clothes he’d be touching me. My body pulses.

Sagging, spent, I withdraw my hand, and he catches me around the wrist.

‘Now let me show you what I’ve been dreaming of doing.’

I hold my breath but, instead of lifting me over his shoulder and taking me somewhere more private, he simply lifts my fingers to his lips. He takes them deep inside his mouth and my knees buckle under the overwhelming sensual awareness. He wraps an arm around my waist, vice-like, and continues to suck my fingers until I’m whimpering.

Then, slowly, he pulls my wrist, removing my finger from his mouth, and he unclamps my waist. He steps back, watching me with glittering eyes. ‘Careful, Miss Amorelli. If you play with fire, you’re going to get burned.’

* * *

I had two lectures to get through after Olivia.

Two lectures that I somehow managed to bullshit my way through—I couldn’t tell you, for a million pounds, what the fuck I talked about. I guess I more or less stuck to the course notes, but holy shit.

I see only her face before me.

Her face, scrunched with pleasure, feel her nipples hard against my chest.

I hear only her rushed breathing, her low moans. I hear the exhalation of breath as she tipped over the edge, sucking her lower lip between her teeth and squeezing her eyes closed.

I smell only her.

I taste only her.

Hell, I taste her and it is like taking an addict to a crack den. She tasted so good; how am I meant to leave it at that? How am I meant to stand in front of her without a tent in my pants?

One taste of Olivia is never going to be enough.

I watch the last student file out of my class and then load up the LLS lecturer app on my iPad. I’m only here for the term—and just because I was feeling almost suffocated by my need to get away from Dublin and my firm. I didn’t want all the gadgets that came with this temporary lecturing gig.

I was happy to stand up in front of the class and spitball about law and trial experience, interviewing clients, prepping witnesses, you know, the real stuff these students will need to know to be effective in the real world.

But the university has weird rules about this stuff. All the teaching staff need to have the same equipment—it comes as standard. Something about what the students deserve.

So I have the app and for the first time since taking up this honorary lectureship I open it and flick into my student files.

They’re in alphabetical order by surname, so she’s right near the top. I send a guilty look towards the door—then feel like an A-grade idiot.

I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m just checking a student’s schedule.

She’s finished for the day—no hope of seeing her again now. I resist the impulse to scribble down her phone number and address. I’ve already crossed so many lines I’m like a freaking acrobat. I don’t think I need to add another transgression to my list.

She’s got a tutorial tomorrow at ten.

I can wait until then.

Just.

* * *

Olivia doesn’t show.

I wait outside the classroom feeling like a stalker, pretending I’m busy checking something on my phone when every twenty seconds my eyes are obsessively scanning the corridor for the sight of long blonde hair and enormous blue eyes.

Ten minutes after the hour, I accept the fact she isn’t coming.

It’s probably a good thing. I don’t know what the hell I want to say to her, anyway... Hey. I really liked watching you touch yourself. Round two later today?

I wince.

I can’t let it happen again.

I don’t think I can stop it from happening again.

There’s an inevitability that is pulling me to her. And I think I know why.

It’s the Donovan case. I wasn’t expected to win; the press coverage was immense. I’m not comfortable with plaudits in the media. I do what I do not to defend criminals but to defend the law. I have the utmost respect for the law and I do what many won’t.

But I’m tired of it. Dirtied by it. And I need a break. Just a small break, to remember what I love about the simple application of the law. That’s why I’m here. Teaching, talking about the principles of our legal system, about what makes it robust. The passion and energy—the pursuit of importance and goodness—that drew me to this job in the first place.

I could hardly breathe in Dublin. I couldn’t handle the new business the win had attracted. Every crim who has money wants me to defend them—like I’m some kind of magic genie who can wave a wand and keep them out of jail.

I needed a break after Donovan. I needed to unwind. I’ll be better able to practise after I’ve taken some time off.

But, instead of relaxing me, I’m suddenly wound tighter than a spring. Did I actually watch Olivia Amorelli get herself off in the middle of a recently vacated classroom?

What if someone had come in and seen us?

I have to tell her in no uncertain terms that we can’t let that happen again.

We’re both adults. We know what’s at stake. We should be able to negotiate a ceasefire in the war of desire, right?




CHAPTER THREE (#uf780a859-fb6c-5244-a4d0-575897a46485)


I FEEL AMAZING in my dress. The Astra Vivien creation is something out of a fantasy, all pale beige silk, beaded heavily on the skirt so that it shimmers in the light. The sleeves fall in bells to below my wrists but at the back it dips low, down my spine, showing off a tan that is always golden but that darkens to mahogany over these glorious summer months.

The dress is classy and discreet and, oh, so beautiful—and all the more so because I found it in a charity shop down Kensington High Street. It was just sitting in the window, glittering and soft, begging me to buy it. So I did, and I feel like I can do anything and, vitally, face anyone with Astra on my side.

I am armed and ready to see Connor again. And, if I’m honest, that’s what I’m most nervous about tonight. Not the dozens of industry heavyweights who’ve come to the law school’s annual summer ball, looking to hand-pick their interns for next year. Sure—that’s thrilling, but it isn’t why I’m studying law.

The Crown Prosecution Service haven’t sent anyone that I know of, and that’s where I want to end up. Opposite men like Connor, all smooth-talking and aiding and abetting criminals. I want to stare them down and ensure real justice is served.

I straighten my spine as the doors of the lift ping open and step out into the swirl of dresses and suits. Piano music reaches my ears from far away, mixing with the din of conversation and the clinking sound of glasses. The Level 10 viewing terrace at Tate Modern is a blank canvas kind of space. Architecturally interesting walls that lean inwards yet don’t impede the sense of light and space, and the view is, as you would expect, sensational.

The room is alive with my colleagues and friends.

I step into the party, feeling great about the night ahead.

Feeling great in general.

Until I see him—and I see him instantly, despite the fact he’s in the middle of the press of guests. My blood hitches up a gear, rushing through me, loud and impatient, fast and desperate. He’s talking to Dean Walters and, heaven help me, he looks so good. Not Dean Walters.

Connor Hughes.

He’s wearing a tuxedo, of course, like every other man here. Except not like every other man here because he looks, on the one hand, as though the suit was bespoke, stitched to his body, and on the other as though he could burst out of it at any moment. There is a latent savagery to him that emanates in waves. It fascinates me.

I want him to savage me.

The thought comes out of nowhere and a little tremble of warning runs down my spine. The last time I had thoughts like that I acted on them. And I wouldn’t have stopped, if he hadn’t regained his sanity.

If you play with fire, you’re going to get burned.

His hair is close-cropped, almost shaved, and it’s a dark brown. I imagine what it would feel like to run my hands through it and my fingers itch by my sides.

A waiter passes with a tray of drinks and I swipe a flute of champagne with a tight smile, turning my attention away from Connor for only a moment. It’s a prop. I don’t drink at university functions. It’s a personal policy developed after seeing a few too many of my colleagues get wasted and make tits of themselves in front of the faculty. I don’t want to mix business—or study—with pleasure.

‘Well, this isn’t fair.’ Louise Patel smiles as she approaches, wearing a black cocktail dress that falls to her knees. She’s got a blinging necklace on—though I’d say the ‘diamonds’ are more high street than high cost—and her shining black hair has been braided around her head like a crown.

She chinks her champagne flute to mine once she’s close enough.

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s not enough to wipe the floor with us academically—now you’ve got to steal the show with that bloody dress as well?’

I grin. ‘It’s actually from a charity shop.’

She nods. ‘Obviously. Student budget, right?’

I nod. Between rent, utilities and groceries, money’s always tight. I’m just lucky my mum and dad are so supportive—even though it’s a stretch for them, they’ve always prioritised our education and I love them dearly for that. I intend to more than pay them back, one day.

‘Everyone here is going to want to talk to you, you know.’

We scan the room together, surveying the hundred-strong crowd. The pianist changes songs, moving to another jazz number, and it’s at that moment Connor looks up, his eyes—so like the ocean, so like the sun—piercing me with an ease that makes me wonder if he knew exactly where I was standing. Or does he have the same skill I possess, of being able to locate him with radar-like precision?

‘I’m not interested in mingling, really,’ I say with a shrug.

Louise shoots me a look of frustration. ‘Working for the CPS is all very noble but these guests are serious big-hitters. Why not at least talk to them? Earn yourself a tidy fortune and then go save the world?’

I smile across at her. ‘Because it would kill my soul, and you know it.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘I think the money Bernstein Brown pays would revive it.’

‘Not for years, though.’

‘No one pays anyone anything for years, really.’

‘It’s not about the money.’ I sip my champagne, my eyes flicking to Connor once more.

He’s staring at me.

As if no one else is here.

As if Dean Walters isn’t talking to him.

He’s staring at me and then, when I return his look, his eyes drop purposefully lower, just for a moment, but it’s all it takes. My body catches fire. I am spontaneously combusting, burning from the soles of my feet to the ends of my hair. I’m back in the lecture room, body pressed to his, touching myself, brushing my fingers against his arousal.

God.

He swivels his head so that I have a moment to admire his autocratic profile before he smiles, a proper smile that shows his even white teeth. Curious, I chase the direction of his reaction and my gut throbs when I see a woman cutting through the room.

I felt so good in my Astra dress. Until I saw her.

She is...stunning.

In bright red silk that is more negligee than gown, she is sex on a stick and somehow incredibly elegant at the same time. Her chestnut-brown hair is pulled into a messy chignon and her make-up is flawless—particularly her lips, which match the dress to a T.

He kisses her on the cheek but keeps a hand around her waist as he introduces her to Dean Walters.

‘He’s fascinating, isn’t he?’

Shit. How long have I been drooling over Connor, staring at him as though willing him to come and talk to me? It’s not like he and I are a thing—at all—but guilt flames in my cheeks. I need to do better. I have to pretend he’s nothing to me but a law professor I don’t particularly like.

‘Do you think?’ I turn to Louise, intentionally shifting my shoulder to Connor so that he’s no longer in my line of sight.

‘Everyone thinks. He’s incredible.’

‘Maybe.’

‘I’m going to apply to his firm.’

‘Seriously?’ My brows furrow closer together.

‘Yeah, of course. Unlike you—’ Louise grins ‘—I don’t disdain criminal law. In fact, I love it. The cases are so interesting.’

‘Yeah, and confronting...’

‘You’re going to have to deal with that in the CPS, you know.’

I lift my shoulders. ‘In the pursuit of truth, justice...’

‘Liberty.’ She laughs, and shakes her head. ‘You should apply, too.’

‘No.’ The word is firmer than I intended and I soften it with a smile. ‘I’m not interested in Hughes Brophy. And I don’t want to move to Dublin.’

‘You’re crazy! When I heard he was coming to teach this term it was the first thing that occurred to me. Along with everyone else in our year.’

‘Not me,’ I say emphatically.

‘I wonder why he decided to spend a term here?’ Louise ponders aloud and I desperately wish we could push the conversation to safer ground. To anything but Connor.

‘Not sure,’ I say, expressing my disinterest with the small rebuff.

Louise isn’t rebuffed. ‘I mean, after the Donovan verdict, it seems kind of weird to take his foot off the accelerator. He could have had his pick of cases.’

I can’t help it. I look over my shoulder, searching for his head. Dean Walters has left—it is now just the two of them, locked in a conversation that looks kind of serious.

The frisson of darkness I feel whispering across my spine is unmistakable.

I am jealous. Absurd, given that I can’t stand the man. But sexually, oh, sexually, yes. I want him. And I want him to want me.

And that gorgeous woman in the red dress is obviously going to be in his bed tonight.

Fuck.

That should feel liberating, because it firmly relegates the moment we shared into the distant past. Into a pile of irrelevancy.

But it doesn’t.

It makes me want to storm across the room and shove him to the ground, kissing him and mauling him with my bright red nails.

Yikes.

I turn to Louise. ‘Let’s get you circulating then.’

She pulls a face and shakes her head. ‘I’m not ready.’

But I’m not to be deterred. ‘I really like you, Lou, but I’m not going to give you a job offer at the end of the night.’ I wink. ‘Come on. Let’s go meet some of these industry pros we’re meant to be falling over ourselves to impress.’

It’s not hard. The school has done a great job of lining people up, so within thirty minutes we’ve spoken to two different senior partners from top-tier firms. I consider myself Lou’s wing woman in this exercise, having zero interest in working at any of these corporates.

But it’s still interesting.

These guys are going out of their way to sell us on their firms, without even knowing if we’re a good fit or not.

Nobody wants the next Connor Hughes to slip through their fingers, I guess, and they have no idea which of us might turn out to be that very rare diamond in the rough, that unusual genius with the application of the law.

We move on to a woman from a firm that’s huge in the States and has just opened a commercial litigation department here in London. She introduces herself with a broad American accent as Anne Sloan-Smith, saying each part of her name with bullet-like precision. ‘The benefit of working somewhere like Linton Meyer Davies is that we have the name, we have the money, we have the power.’ She leans closer and I like her instantly. I like any woman who can rise to the top of her field in an industry that remains frustratingly male-dominated. ‘But over here we’re just getting started. It’s like having the chance to come in at the ground level of something that’s destined to succeed—because LMD won’t let this expansion fail.’

She reaches into her bag and pulls out two business cards, handing one to Louise and one to me.

‘And it’s only commercial lit?’ Louise asks.

‘We’ve got a tiny probate team—just three people, and really we only brought the team over because we have one client who requires a lot of managing.’ She winks, and I presume she’s implying that this client has a lot of money, and probably a lot of children, and so needs various watertight trusts and wills in place. ‘For now, we’re commercial lit focused. But come on board and you never know. That’s the beauty of getting in with a start-up.’

‘Yeah.’ I can see Louise is already contemplating a change in trajectory. I hide my smile with a champagne flute.

‘Think about it,’ Anne presses and then looks past us, moving away.

‘Whoa.’ Louise is practically jumping out of her skin when she turns to face me. ‘How great is this?’

‘If you say so.’ My shrug is non-committal. ‘Shall we find someone else to sell you to?’

‘Yes!’

I laugh at her enthusiasm, and resist the impulse to look for Connor.

I have to be strong.

We speak to two more partners from two different firms and then, inevitably, finally, Connor moves in front of us, his eyes lingering on mine for a second longer than normal before encompassing Louise.

‘Ladies,’ he murmurs, and he might as well have said the word against my shoulder, for how I feel. It hums across my flesh, scattering goose bumps over me.

‘Mr Hughes.’ Louise is still buzzing from our last conversation. ‘Are you having a good night?’

I don’t say anything. The last time I saw him I had my hand down my pants. He was right, you know. Playing with fire is going to burn me. I have to be strong.

I tighten my lips and focus on a point over his shoulder. My body is stretched with tension and awareness.

‘It’s interesting,’ he says non-committally.

Louise is not deterred. ‘It sure is. This is amazing. I had no idea we’d get to meet so many incredible people.’

He looks to me once more. I don’t look back but I feel his gaze burning my face. ‘Anyone pique your interest?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Louise gushes and then seems to centre herself. ‘But Hughes Brophy is still my first choice.’

I see him nod in the periphery of my vision. ‘And you, Miss Amorelli?’

Great. I can’t very well continue to ignore him now. Not when he’s called me out by name. ‘I...’ I meet his eyes, keeping my expression neutral even as my stomach is churning with pent-up needs and forbidden wants ‘...need another drink.’

Louise laughs. ‘That’s still full.’

‘I want something else.’ I smile at her, not Connor. ‘Excuse me.’

I step past Connor, taking extra care not to touch him.

But he touches me. Just a light graze of his fingertips against my arse as I move behind him. So swift it could have been an accident, but I know it wasn’t.

This is a nightmare. And it’s a dream, too.

* * *

I listen to Olivia’s friend Louise but I angle my body so I can watch her. That dress should be illegal. And yet it’s perfectly fine; it’s not even super revealing compared to half of what the women in attendance are wearing.

But her back is one of the sexiest fucking things I’ve ever seen. Her skin is flawless gold, soft-looking, save for the little ridges of her spine that I ache to run my teeth over until she whimpers.

One look at Olivia Amorelli and I’m an animal.

I have been cradling the same Scotch all night. I throw it back now, and nod at something Louise has said. She’s obviously desperate to apply to Hughes Brophy. She’s friends with Olivia, which means she must be... I don’t know. What does it mean?

I can’t pursue Olivia and yet my eyes burn holes in her back as she rests her elbows against the bar.

‘Email me and I’ll set up a phone interview with HR,’ I say to Louise, my tone dismissive. I reach into my jacket to retrieve a card. ‘Excuse me.’

The bar is maybe ten people away from me. I focus on the wall at the back of the room and cut through the crowd, not looking left or right lest someone take it as an opportunity to speak to me.

As I get closer I see that she’s bent forward a little at the waist, her eyes focused on the bar staff as they zip around behind the counter.

I shouldn’t approach her.

She’s smarter than I am, keeping her distance as she is. But, for the love of all that is holy, if the way she walked off on me just now didn’t do something to my resolve.

I stand behind her as though I’m waiting for a drink, my body covering hers. My fingers find the sweet curve of her arse and dig into the flesh through the fabric of her dress. I feel her harsh intake of breath as it travels through her body and into me.

My smile is tight, like the rest of me. Tight and ready to explode.

She shifts a little, looking over her shoulder, her eyes colliding with mine for a moment before she turns back to the bar.

I have no idea what she’s going to do now. Smart money would be on her standing up straighter and moving away from me.

She doesn’t. She backs up a little further, so that my hand has more purchase on her perfectly shaped rear. There are people everywhere. This is dangerous. Stupid dangerous.




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