‘Not as good as you. Bloody oath. That Donovan verdict was a bit of a win, eh?’
Donovan is the last thing I want to talk about. It threatens to drag me back to earth, and I am so far above it, floating high above all of this.
‘Yeah.’ I offer a curt dismissal. ‘What are you working on now?’
‘Contracts,’ he says with a grimace, like he’s ashamed. ‘Mainly military.’
I nod. Olivia looks up—is she looking for me? Her eyes connect with mine for the briefest moment and then move on. My body surges with adrenalin and need. It is after ten. When will this thing end? And will she come home with me?
* * *
‘Well, Miss Amorelli...’ His voice is like honey, sliding over my body. Images of what we did flash through my mind. His hands at my hips, pushing me forward, his cock at my arse, him driving into me. God, we haven’t even kissed.
‘Yes, sir?’ I bat my lashes up at him, aware that we are surrounded by people but that the crowd offers a unique kind of cover.
‘You seem to be the only student not planning to apply to my firm.’
I lift my brows. ‘Does that bother you?’
‘It interests me,’ he corrects, shifting a little, moving his body closer to me. His masculine fragrance grips me and makes me tremble a little.
‘I don’t want to work for you.’
His laugh is sharp. ‘You wouldn’t work for me. You’d work for someone who works for someone who works for someone who works for me.’
His arrogance should be off-putting but it isn’t. His power is mind-blowingly sexy, particularly because it’s a power he’s created all on his own. At least, I think he has. I feel my face crinkle into a frown as I realise how little I know about him.
‘You’d be really far below me,’ he adds huskily and my heart trips in my chest.
‘Heavy-handed double entendres aside, I’m not interested in criminal defence.’
His smile makes my heart race. ‘You’ve put crim down as your focus,’ he reminds me, and just the fact he has that tiny piece of biographical 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.’