Her Guilty Secret

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

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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