knowledge does something funny to my gut.
‘So I have,’ I agree with a nod, adding for good measure, ‘Sir.’
‘You were a paralegal last year at Lancashire’s. You were in the criminal department. They spoke very highly of you.’
My heart trembles. ‘How do you know that?’
He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. ‘I’ve made enquiries about all of the students I’m interested in.’
My heart thumps. ‘Interested in?’
His smile is mocking and he lowers his voice to a whisper. ‘Professionally.’
My eyes flick around us. No one hears. We are alone in the swirling vortex of humanity.
‘Interested in having them apply to my firm,’ he clarifies.
That he’s hand-picked me as one of his students stirs the pride that sits in my chest. I want to do well with my degree and my career. I owe it to my parents, who have supported me in every endeavour, and put up with my wanderlust when I know they wished I’d stay put and settle down. I owe it to myself, too, and to the comparisons I’ve endured to my two surgeon sisters and my pilot brother.
Being personally picked by Connor Hughes of Hughes Brophy is the definition of prestige.
But it would destroy me to do the work he does. ‘That’s very flattering,’ I say with a tight dismissive smile. ‘But I’m not looking to join a criminal defence firm.’
‘Oh, don’t tell me,’ he murmurs, moving a little closer...closer in a way that is inherently dangerous because we are surrounded by people who really can’t find out that we’ve just had sex in a corridor around the corner.
‘Don’t tell you what?’
His hand brushes my hip. It’s barely anything. But a moan fills my throat. I slice him with angry eyes. This is not the place and yet, if he touches me again, I think I’ll forget that and beg him to kiss me.
‘I’ve applied for a training contract with the Crown Prosecution Service.’ I square my shoulders almost unknowingly, as if preparing for the barrage of criticism a man like him will level at me.
His eyes stare into mine for a long moment and then he nods thoughtfully. ‘I have a good friend over there. I can put in a good word.’
‘No.’ Surprise is quickly overturned by rejection. My denial is swift and emphatic, even as a small part of me is surprised by how quickly he’s taken my rejection of his firm. I look around to make sure no one has heard. ‘Definitely not.’
He tilts his head a little, studying me, analysing me, scrutinising me so that I feel naked in a whole new way. ‘Not only is the CPS somewhat of an old boys’ network, it’s incredibly competitive to get a placement there.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ I say crisply. ‘Besides, don’t you think, friend or not, that your name might be persona non grata at the moment?’
Something dark moves in his expression. An emotional response I hadn’t expected to my meaningless jibe. ‘Why do you say that, Miss Amorelli?’
I swallow. The sense that I’m touching on something he would prefer not to discuss hovers on the periphery of my mind. So too does adrenalin. It surges through me. I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge—my parents always said I inherited more than my fair share of the Latin temperament. And having seen what I can do to him has emboldened me.
Sparring with him, it seems, is our foreplay.
‘You rewrote long-established law with that verdict.’
I don’t need to mention the name. We both know what I’m talking about. The flash of darkness I thought I saw moments earlier is back, unmistakable this time, as it narrows his eyes and draws his lips downwards for a brief second.
‘The fact the law was long-established doesn’t make it impervious to change. Laws change as society does.’
‘If you have your way, we’ll live in a lawless society,’ I point out, wishing I had a drink to sip, just to stop my fingers—which are itching to wrap around his hips and pull him close—from doing anything so stupid.
‘You might not agree with the verdict,’ he says, his Irish accent delicious as his insistence grows, ‘but you can’t question my commitment to the law.’
It’s on the tip of my tongue to do just that, but I sense we’ve moved into an area that is more than just feisty flirtation. There are emotions at play I don’t understand. I deviate slightly from his comment.
‘I don’t understand how you got the forensic evidence excluded,’ I say with a shake of my head.
‘The evidence was bad.’ He crosses his arms over his chest.
‘No, it wasn’t. There were seven different types of hair and skin samples recovered. How could you have them all dismissed?’
He arches a brow, perhaps surprised by my knowledge of the case.
‘I kept up,’ I explain with a shrug.
‘Why?’
‘Your client—’ I can’t help the note of disgust that colours the word ‘—is a high-profile businessman who was accused of brutally murdering an eighteen-year-old. Everyone was watching.’
He nods. ‘You seem particularly interested.’
‘Yeah.’ And I link my fingers behind my back now, so keen is my need to touch him. ‘It’s the kind of case that locks my career aspirations firmly into place.’ I can’t help it. I sway a little closer. ‘If I’d been prosecuting that case, you wouldn’t have won.’
His look is one of surprise but I think I see admiration in the depths of his eyes, too. I wonder if he knows how much I mean it.
‘You’re on, Miss Amorelli.’
‘I’m...on?’
‘Yeah.’ The challenge in his eyes is palpable. ‘Come back to my place and prosecute me. Let me see what you’ve got.’
My heart kerthunks. My stomach rolls. My blood boils. ‘You mean...to your place tonight?’
He nods slowly. ‘I mean right now.’
I’m on a precipice. It’s madness. Utter madness. Then again, we’ve already crossed that line. We’re in the danger zone. Are there shades of specificity within it? Are there degrees of risk? Or is it just a big, blaring Stop sign we should heed—but won’t?
I DON’T WANT to talk about the Donovan case. I don’t even want to think of it. I’m not grateful to it on any level.
Except one.
Olivia
