been two weeks since the night in the hotel when he decoded the tattoo that scrawls across his flesh, inking out his secrets in ways that I am still unravelling.
For more than two weeks I have had his Celtic words tumbling through my mind, enchanting me and making me wonder at the forces that drive him. Is the tattoo not all the admission I have been needing—without even realising I did need it—that he wants to underscore his every point of difference to the elements he protects?
He isn’t like them. His chest told me so.
It’s been two weeks since I have been thinking about this.
We have met at the hotel six times in two weeks, been to his place once and my place once.
And now it’s a Friday night and, for the first time, we’re going out.
There is risk in this date.
A risk that makes my fingers tremble as they run over the silk of my dress, the slip a barely-there sheath, black, with spaghetti straps. It stops a couple of inches above my knees and I knew, as soon as I saw it, that it would drive Connor wild. I’ve teamed it with a killer pair of black stilettos. My hair is long down my back and I’ve put on an extra coat of mascara and lip gloss.
This is our first date, after all.
He’s chosen a wine bar in the West End. It’s far from all of our usual places. Far enough from university, far enough from my flat, his penthouse, from anyone we know. And, as if we needed any additional cover, it’s a members-only club, so I have to say my name when I reach the door.
A beautiful woman in a white blouse and jeans skims her eyes down a clipboard, not a hint of officiousness in her diligent checking off, and then she smiles brightly.
‘This way, Miss Amorelli.’
I love that he’s used my full name.
‘Your party isn’t here yet, but a booth at the back has been requested.’
Better and better. My stomach flips at this information. Instantly I imagine Connor’s hands on the dress, pushing it up my legs, discovering for himself that I’m naked beneath.
I follow the woman into the bar, which is busy, full of corporate types and a heady mix of perfume.
The booth she pauses beside is three away from the bar. There’s an overhead light, as you might have found in a Twenties speakeasy, and the seats are a fashionably worn, caramel-brown leather. There’s no smoke, obviously, but it feels like there should be, and trendy electro-funk music fills the space. I slide into the seat, oddly breathless, anticipation and the sense of how unusual this is making my body surge with strangeness.
I pull my phone out, skimming my emails, smiling at the latest posts in the group WhatsApp with my sisters. And then, minutes later, a sixth sense has me lifting my head, staring towards the door as I feel his approach. As I feel him coming. I don’t know how to describe it, except to say that it’s almost as though the air begins to crackle and hum when he is close, like his body sparks a magnetic awareness within me that’s as real and tangible as sound, sight, heat, cold.
My throat constricts, blood gushes through me and my nipples strain painfully against the smooth silk of my dress. I suddenly don’t want to be in public with Connor. I don’t want to be on a date with him.
And, it would appear, I’m not.
My breath snags for a whole other reason when I see the man walking with Connor. I recognise him instantly, of course. I’ve done my research on all the key players at the CPS and Dashiell Alexander is a Senior Crown Prosecutor of serious renown.
He smiles at something Connor has said. I have about forty seconds before they’re at the table.
My mind is flooding with pertinent recollections. How much does this dress look like lingerie? I dip my head forward and subtly tug at the straps, lifting it higher around my neck, and simultaneously pull my hair over one shoulder, which I always think makes me look somehow studious.
Meet me at The Rhinestone Club tonight at eight.
I have a surprise for you.
Okay, to me, the note he left on the hotel pillow at some point during the night when he crept back to his apartment screamed romantic date.
But to Connor Hughes apparently it was an entreaty to join him for a business meeting. With a man I really seriously admire. A man I hoped would be my boss one day.
And I’m wearing a sexy nightie.
Oh, God.
When I was younger, I studied speech and drama. My teacher was an ex–BBC newsreader, a glamorous woman with impeccable diction and a smile that could light up a room. She used to tell me that the secret to success in life was to bluff one’s way with convincing bravado.
I have no idea why Connor has arranged a meeting with Senior Crown Prosecutor Dashiell Alexander, nor why he didn’t have the courtesy to warn me so that I might prepare, and I’m wearing a dress that is perfect for a romantic assignation with my forbidden, secret lover, but not for this!
But what choice do I have? I stand up, grateful for small mercies when my height means the table top hides the fact the dress has now risen up my thighs because I’ve hoisted it to a safe distance over my breasts.
I think of Mrs Eldrickson and her advice to blag my way through life and force a huge smile to my face.
‘Mr Alexander,’ I say, ignoring Connor, though I glimpse the speculative look on his face as I extend my hand to SCP Alexander.
‘Please, just Dash is fine.’
Dash? What the hell?
‘Dash and I go way back,’ Connor says, his tone efficient. ‘I’m not in the business of losing potential criminal defence solicitors to the other side, but you seem to have your mind made up already that my firm’s not for you.’
‘Definitely,’ I say through gritted teeth, holding only Dash’s gaze. I return to my seat and clasp my hands under my chin, knowing it hides any lingering glimpse of cleavage. My hair does the rest.
Be calm, be calm. Blag it.
‘I had a date tonight,’ I blurt out. ‘But when Mr Hughes mentioned you were free to meet with me, I came straight over.’ I hope the lie will cover the fact that I look like I’m dressed for a sexy cocktail party rather than a job interview, which is sort of what this feels like.
Dash nods. ‘Very good of you. I understand you want to do your training through the CPS?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ve applied every year for vocational experience, actually,’ I say. Connor slides into the seat beside me and our knees brush beneath the table. I pull mine away. ‘I know admissions are incredibly competitive and I get why. But I’m really holding out for a placement after I graduate.’
‘Connor tells me your academic results are exceptional.’
Pride runs through me. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Dash,
