sniffed. ‘I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand.’
‘Someone like me?’
‘Someone who thinks everything is either black or white. Someone who requires tangible proof before they’ll believe anything.’
‘It’s called dealing in the real world,’ he jibed.
‘But sometimes the real world isn’t always as it seems.’
Tristan made a scoffing sound. ‘I thought I told you I didn’t want to hear any of your protestations of innocence.’
Lily’s eyes narrowed at his bored tone, and she breathed in deeply through her nose.
Never let ‘em know you care, Honeybee.
She exhaled slowly. This would all be a lot easier if he’d just talk to her, instead of snapping off pithy comments here and there.
‘And, as pleasant as this conversation is,’ he continued, ‘I have work to do. So I’d prefer you finish your tea and sandwiches over on the sofa.’ He sat down and turned to his computer, dismissing her like some servant girl.
Oh, she’d just bet he’d prefer that. And she would have happily done so if he’d been a little nicer, but now…
‘Actually, accusations and criticisms do not add up to a conversation. And would it really hurt you to be a little more civil?’ she demanded, throwing the whole idea of polite and aloof out of one of his ultra-clean windows.
‘To what end?’
He didn’t bother looking up from his computer screen and that incensed her. ‘To…to…I don’t know. Just to be nice.’
‘I don’t do nice.’
Lily nearly laughed.
As if she hadn’t worked that one out for herself! ‘You know, for someone whose job it is to communicate with others you’re not very good at it.’
That got his attention. ‘My job is about justice, not communication. And you better be careful because I’m really good at it.’
Lily shook her head. The man needed to learn some home truths. ‘You might be hot stuff in the courtroom, Lord Garrett, but personally you’re an avoider. You’d rather shut me up than try to have a constructive conversation with me.’
‘That’s because I don’t want to have a conversation with you—constructive or otherwise.’
Lily raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s a fine way to solve a problem.’
‘I don’t have…No—wait.’ He tapped his pen impatiently on his desk. ‘I do have a problem. She’s blonde, five-foot-ten and won’t stop jabbering on at me as if I care.’
Lily’s mouth gaped, and she stuck her tongue against the back of her front teeth to prevent herself from telling him just what she thought of his rude comments and hurtful attitude.
‘You really think you’ve got me all sussed out, don’t you, Tristan?’ Her voice was husky with raw emotion. ‘I’m just some no-good dumb celebrity who takes drugs and uses the casting couch to get her roles as far as you’re concerned.’
‘Well, not if you’re screwing the dolly boy. I can’t imagine he can win you too many roles.’ He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms behind his head.
Arrogant jerk.
Lily narrowed her eyes and stabbed her finger in his direction. ‘You might have some two-bit report on your desk, but let me tell you—you know nothing about me. Absolutely nothing.’
‘I know all I need to know,’ he confirmed.
Lily shook her head. She was wasting her breath trying to talk to him. He’d made up his mind about her a long time ago and there was nothing she could do to sway it. In fact, when the police found out who the real drug smuggler was he’d probably accuse her of sleeping with the whole police force to get the result.
She gave a slight shake of her head. When she’d left England six years ago she’d instigated a policy never to rise to people’s bad opinion of her again, but for some reason she couldn’t seem to help herself with Tristan. For some reason his condescending attitude hurt more than everybody else’s put together—and she hated that.
Lily folded her arms across her chest and decided to give up all attempts to change his opinion. Let him think what he wanted.
‘You know it’s a good thing you’re not my lawyer because I’d fire you.’
‘Fire me?’ He gave a harsh burst of laughter. ‘Sweetheart, I wouldn’t touch this case if it came gold-plated.’ He sat straighter and looked down his aristocratic nose at her. ‘Because I know what you are, Honey Blossom Lily Wild—or have you conveniently forgotten what happened at Jordana’s eighteenth?’
Lily stiffened at the ominously quiet question. Here was the basis of his true hatred of her. The presumed ruination of his little sister because of her association with big, bad Lily Wild. He’d judged her on circumstantial evidence at least twice before, and she hated that he had never once given her the benefit of the doubt.
‘You know—you know,’ she spat, ignoring the inner voice that told her to calm down. ‘I could make a movie about what you don’t know, you ignorant jerk, and it would be an instant classic.’
‘Ignorant jerk?’
That seemed to rile him, and it startled her when his chair shot back, nearly tipping over with the force of his movement. He circled his desk, a predatory intent in every silent step, and Lily’s heart bumped behind her ribs. She didn’t think he’d hurt her, but still, the instinct to run was nearly overwhelming.
He stopped just in front of her, his hands balled on his hips, his green eyes ablaze with suppressed emotion.
‘Let’s see,’ he snarled, leaning over her and caging her in with his hands on the armrests of her chair. ‘You tried to hide a joint under my sister’s mattress when you were fourteen, you took her to sleazy parties in the city—underage—you caused an outrageous scandal the night of her eighteenth, snorting cocaine from the glass front of my father’s seven-hundred-year-old Giotto painting, and today you cart a truckload of charlie and disco biscuits into Heathrow.’ He leaned in closer. The pronounced muscles in his forearms bunched. ‘Tell me, Honey, how am I doing so far with what I don’t know about you?’
Lily felt the back of the chair hard against her spine and ran her tongue over her dry lips. She could explain every one of those things—but he wasn’t looking for an explanation, and frankly she was getting so sick of his rudeness she almost wanted him to dig a hole so she could bury him in it.
She remained tight-lipped, and his mocking expression said it all.
‘What? No comment all of a sudden? No further explanation as to why I walked into my father’s study and found a group of wasted idiots—my sister being one of them—and you leaning over the desk holding a rolled fifty-pound note, with some Armani-clad idiot standing
