Читать книгу Her Guilty Secret - Clare Connelly - Страница 10

CONNOR HUGHES MIGHT be one of the most successful defence barristers in the country, famous the world over for his inspired interpretation of the law to ensure justice is done, even when that means defending some of the most undeserving members of society.

He might be everyone else’s idea of some kind of hero.

But not mine.

People like him are everything that’s wrong with the law. Smooth tongue, smart, beguiling, charming. No wonder his win-to-loss ratio is one of the best in the business. How many criminals are wandering the streets because of his egomaniacal need to win? His obsession with being the best at what he does, even when what he does is exonerate those who should never again see the light of day?

Yeah. He’s everything that’s wrong with the law.

But that doesn’t change how much I want him. It doesn’t change the fact that when our eyes meet I feel like I’ve been injected with live voltage. It doesn’t change the fact that he looks at me a little longer than he should, that there’s an invisible current electrifying the air between us all the time.

I stare at him as he writes something on the whiteboard. I don’t see the words, though. I see his fingers. Long, lean, darkly tanned like the rest of his body would be. At least, it is in my imaginings. Tanned to match his swarthy face, his stubbled, square jaw and bright green eyes that have captivated me, and stolen my breath, from the first moment I saw him, standing like this at the front of the classroom, speaking to all one hundred of us, but reaching into my body and stirring everything up, swishing me around in a way that was instantly new and addictive.

Frankly, I’m glad I don’t like him. I’m glad I don’t like the work he does. I’m probably the only person in here who doesn’t admire his meteoric trajectory to the top of the field. Sure, he started his own firm at twenty-six and grew it into one of the UK’s largest within five years. Sure, he’s worked on some of the most high-profile cases. But what good is being smart if you don’t use those powers for good?

My derision of his professional accomplishments is so important to remember, because it’s the only thing standing between me and a crazed impulse to act on the desire that has taken over my body. Desire that makes my thighs tremble and my breasts ache. Desire that has turned Connor Hughes into the star of all my dirtiest dreams—dreams that I have no control over, because they fill my mind when I’m asleep and I can’t control that, can I?

‘Who wants to tell me why the chain of evidence is so important?’ He runs his eyes over the class and I wonder if he’s forgotten we’re in our final year, not first.

It’s his ‘thing’, though. On the first day in class, he spelled it out for us. I’m going to act like you know nothing, because in the real world you don’t. I’m going to teach you how to follow the law and win cases.

And he is very good at winning cases—cases that should have been open and shut.

‘Miss Amorelli?’

Holy hell.

It’s the first time he’s called on me directly. His tongue rolls over my name as though he’s kissing it down my body. My shiver is involuntary.

Our eyes lock and the atmosphere charges with the force of a hurricane. Lightning dances between us, thunder rolls. His expression is a challenge and, despite the simplicity of the question, my mouth is dryer than desert sand. I feel like I’ve chewed on a box of chalk. I can’t find my tongue.

‘The chain of evidence,’ he prompts, lifting one brow with a hint of sarcastic mockery that makes me want to reach for his shirt and bunch it in my fist.

‘Obviously,’ I say, quietly, so that he leans forward a little, to catch my softly spoken word, ‘to ensure the authenticity of the evidence.’

‘Wrong.’

My eyes flare wide and I feel heat in my cheeks. I don’t like being told I’m wrong. I’m not wrong. ‘Why?’

His eyes lock onto mine. It’s just the two of us here now. Us and our major electrical storm, humming and buzzing through the room. ‘It doesn’t matter if the evidence has been tampered with.’

‘Of course it does,’ I say with a shake of my head.

‘No.’ His smile is the last word in sexual heat. My insides flip around, bubbling and aching, distracting me momentarily from what we’re discussing. ‘It matters what you can suggest. Facts are less important than the doubt you can cast.’

My eyes narrow. He’s hit upon my biggest problem with his application of the law. Connor Hughes, while undoubtedly a genius, earned his name and his fortune wielding that mega-watt intelligence to get bad guys out of prison sentences that they definitely deserve. ‘Facts don’t matter?’

He comes around to the front of the desk and props his ass on its edge, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He’s wearing a suit, but he’s taken off the jacket and pushed his sleeves halfway up his forearms. God, they’re nice arms. Tanned and leanly muscled. There’s a small tattoo on his inner wrist. A cross, but a Celtic-looking one. It is incongruous for a man like this, who must surely be Godless. He also doesn’t suit a suit.

I mean, he wears it like it was made for him, but there’s such a savagery to him. I could see him in a loincloth, beating his chest... The thought heats my cheeks and almost makes me smile.

‘Facts don’t matter,’ he says with a nod. The class laughs. I don’t.

‘Why not?’ I’m challenging him. I’m pissed off and my voice shows it by quivering a little.

‘Facts are subjective, in law.’ His response is really deep and husky. Airy, and full of weight.

‘Facts can’t be subjective.’ I glare at him as though he’s lost the plot. ‘That’s oxymoronic.’

‘Why?’

‘Because facts just are!’

‘Says who?’ His eyes are locked onto mine and the intensity of his scrutiny is doing funny things to my pulse. I suspect I’d find it easier to concentrate on what he’s saying if I wasn’t imagining him as a modern-day Tarzan, lifting me up and carrying me to his treetop den of debauchery. ‘Says who?’ he pushes insistently.

‘Says everyone.’

He looks around the class. ‘There are forty-eight students in here. True or false.’

I narrow my eyes then spin in my chair, with every intention of counting.

‘No,’ he says firmly, and his commanding tone sends a shiver down my spine. I imagine him being commanding in other ways, other places, and my gut churns with delicious desire. ‘Without looking.’

I turn back slowly in my chair, crossing my legs beneath the small wooden desk. Holy shit. Did I just imagine the way his eyes dropped down to my bare legs? I uncross them to test the theory but his gaze remains steady, and now there’s just the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. My heart throbs.

‘I don’t know.’

‘There are forty-eight students enrolled. Is anyone absent?’

‘I don’t know.’ I sound frustrated because I am.

‘That’s reasonable doubt.’

I roll my eyes. ‘It’s not my job to keep an attendance record. If it were, I’d know how many of us are here.’

‘What about the witness who swears he saw two men entering a bakery at two in the morning? It’s not his job to notice who goes where. How do you know he remembers accurately?’

I expel a soft breath. ‘I guess you have to trust him.’

‘You have to trust him?’ His smile is curt. ‘I don’t. I don’t trust anyone’s recollection beyond reasonable doubt.’

His eyes lock onto mine once more and then shift slightly lower, to the front of my dress, where a pretty row of white buttons dots downwards. He stares at them for a good three seconds. Long enough for my insides to begin quivering and heat to slick between my legs.

Then he moves on, as though he hasn’t almost brought me to orgasm simply by flicking a glance at my dress.

‘We’re looking at how facts are represented in court.’ The class has his attention now and I try to level out my breathing. ‘How you can pull apart a prosecutor’s case, piece by piece. Nothing is too small for your attention. You check every detail. Why was there a fifteen-minute delay between a police officer arriving at the station and items being logged? What happened in those fifteen minutes? Did he stop to talk to someone in the corridor? Did he take a piss? Where’d he put the evidence while he was zipping up? Could someone else have touched it? Even for a moment?’

Indignation spurts like a wave of angry heat in my belly. My jaw drops, and I know my cheeks are flushing pink. I hate everything about what Connor has just said. I hate that he’s teaching it to a whole room of us.

He doubles down, leaning forward slightly to underscore his point, and when he speaks his voice is loaded with intensity.

‘That’s reasonable doubt. That’s uncertainty. The law is never black and white, no matter how much you might want it to be, Miss Amorelli.’ My stomach lurches, and it’s with desire now, not indignation. How can he send me from one emotion to the other in no time flat? No matter how much you might want it to be, Miss Amorelli. I want his tongue around more than my name. It’s his Irish accent and the way it lilts across the syllables, making it sound musical and illicit, somehow. ‘Not in the real world. It’s about a thousand shades of grey. It’s about making a jury doubt. About making a judge wonder.’

‘That’s disgusting.’ I say it quietly, with my head bent forward, so I don’t know if he hears. I don’t care. My face is flushed bright red.

I’ve seen what Connor’s thinking does to people. I’ve seen what it did to my dad, a senior detective who had a case thrown out because someone like Connor was able to discredit his work. I saw the way it pulled my dad apart—the knowledge that he’d let the victim down by not being above reproach. And it had all been bogus. A big, fat lie that had practically killed my dad.

I grind my teeth and glare at him. Anger, apparently, is what I need. It trumps desire.

Good. I’ll just have to stay angry for the next month or so.

* * *

‘Miss Amorelli.’

I’m almost at the door when he calls my name. It would be so easy to pretend I haven’t heard. I’m almost out—so close—albeit on legs that are a little shaky. It’s the end of the day and I just want to get home and have a cold shower and take myself to bed. And fantasise about this arrogant, sexy beast of a man.

But he’s right here and he’s said my name.

I’m not exactly in the business of ignoring my professors. I’m someone who does everything that’s asked of me. Besides, I’d be lying to myself if I pretended I wasn’t intrigued. The hurricane around us swells, cracks; a shiver runs the length of my spine in anticipation.

He’s my lecturer. My teacher. So prohibited from me, from the things I want. But, oh, how I want them.

And therein lies the problem. I don’t do illicit. I don’t do naughty.

Ever.

But Connor makes me want all the naughty, all the time.

‘Yes?’ I ask, the word throbbing with expectation despite my efforts to quell my racing pulse.

‘Shut the door,’ he murmurs without looking up from the paper he’s reading.

It’s close to being an order, and I don’t particularly like his tone. I bite back on the desire to remind him to say ‘please’, settling for a noise of disapproval and impatience instead.

I move back to the door and then click it into place.

‘Should I lock it, sir?’ I ask, knowing on some instinctive level that I’m playing with fire by addressing him in this manner, and not caring.

He looks at me then. Green eyes as vivid as the sunlit ocean impale me, making movement difficult. I stay near the door because I fear what I’m capable of. I fear that the temptation to succumb to this overpowering sense of desire and attraction will be too strong. I need the strength of the door—a tether to the real world—at my back.

‘That won’t be necessary.’ He stands and I am again reminded of his size. The sheer breadth of his frame, his muscled body. Does he work out? When would he have the time? Surely his job—his real job, not this university gig—is too demanding?

My eyes flick around the room.

We are alone.

Me and Connor Hughes.

The realisation brings the desert sands back to my mouth. It is dry and chalky and my breath is like overheated vapour. A single droplet of perspiration slinks down my spine. I feel it because my body is hyper-aware of every single sensation.

‘You disagree with my assessment.’ He comes to stand directly in front of me. Just slightly too close—not too close in a bad way, just too close for clarity of mind. His face is only inches from mine. Up close I can see that he has a few freckles across the bridge of his nose, and his lashes are longer and darker than I’d appreciated from the safety of the third row.

‘Your assessment?’ I ask. I told you, he’s too close for any clarity of thought.

‘About the chain of evidence.’

‘Oh.’ Crap. I don’t know. I can’t think straight with him right there! I know I have opinions on this but where the hell are they right now? I suck in a breath—big mistake—the air tastes of him. My body rejoices, and instantly wants more. ‘I...’

‘Yes?’ His eyes roam my face and I feel like he can see so much more than I want him to. I feel like he can look at me and peel away all the layers of who I am to see what I used to be. I feel exposed, and I can’t even say with certainty whether I hate that or not. Because I also feel...fascinated and fascinating, and addicted to that sensation.

‘I’m sorry.’ I dredge up my best smile. ‘I’m not sure what you’re talking about.’

He is unrelenting and for a moment I catch an insight of what it would be like to be in the witness stand, being questioned by this man. ‘You felt my take on the chain of evidence to be...disgusting?’

So he heard. Heat stains my cheeks, warming me up like a paraffin lamp. I might be a little overwhelmed by his nearness but I’m not dumb and I stand by what I feel. ‘I think...’ I take a step back and collide with the door. It’s still there, tethering me, reassuring me. Reminding me who I am and why I can’t be so completely caught up in this swirling storm of need. ‘I think it’s disgusting to discredit hardworking police officers in order to get criminals back on the street.’

His laugh is a gruff sound. ‘Hardworking police officers should be above reproach, don’t you think?’

‘Yes. And I think most are. But I also think it’s very easy to confuse someone on the witness stand. To make them seem uncertain about events that they do actually remember clearly.’

‘As a defence barrister, that’s not my problem.’

‘Justice isn’t your problem?’

His eyes narrow. God, he’s hot. My body is squirming and I fantasise about pushing away from the door and closing the distance between us. I fantasise about wrapping my legs around his waist. I’m not very tall and I’ve always been slender, and Connor Hughes is a man mountain. He would easily be able to hold me around his waist, fisting his hands in my hair, pushing my dress up.

Oh, God. I need my brain to be helping me now, not throwing up wildly suggestive images. Just... Stop imagining things!

‘Justice is best served by everyone doing their job to the utmost of their ability.’ He takes a step closer and I’m breathing so hard and fast that my breasts are straining against my dress. His eyes drop to the buttons and my nipples harden into two tight nubs. They have formed a little team, my breasts; they are imploring him to touch them. I look down, my eyes finding his hands. Big hands. Strong and commanding. He would easily be able to hold my breasts in his palms, fingering my flesh.

A moan tingles on my tongue and it is only with a supreme effort that I manage to bite it back.

‘You’re smart,’ he says, his fingers curling around the door handle so that I’m effectively trapped by him. I make no effort to move, though I could easily step to the side. I don’t want to. He’s within leg-wrapping range and I ache to push up. I want to touch him. I need to touch him. Just a little bit. Somewhere. It’s an obsession burning through my blood, as I bet it is his.

Oh, Connor Hughes, you are going to get me into trouble.

‘I know.’

‘But you’re idealistic.’

‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’ The words come out all husky, and I bite down on my lower lip, staring at his at the same time. I’m silently begging him for something. I don’t know what. I need so much from him that my body is vibrating at a whole new frequency.

‘It’s something you’ll learn to live without.’ His lips twist in a tight smile and I’m terrified he’s about to put an end to this. Without kissing me. Without touching me.

He’s my lecturer! What kind of crazy planet am I living on that I want these things?

‘Idealism? I’d rather keep it,’ I say. His eyes drop to my lips and he moves just a fraction closer, so that his thighs brush against me.

‘You can try.’ The words are—oh, so briefly—flavoured by bleakness. It flares every bit of interest within me, spinning dozens of questions. Why does he sound like that? Before I can form one of the questions into words he turns the door handle and I have no choice but to move. Only he doesn’t, so when I step from the door I bump straight into him; our bodies collide.

It is the briefest, quickest connection but it sears me, from the tips of my toes to every last hair on my head.

It all happens so quickly. He puts a steadying hand on my hip. It’s clinical and it isn’t, because it’s him and it’s me and there’s fire and electricity in every single touch. He pushes the door wider still, and then steps back, a normal distance between us now. Showing that he isn’t just a ‘close talker’. He knows how to stand without being in someone’s space.

He wanted to be in my space.

Shit.

This is definitely going to be a problem.

* * *

‘You in?’

I have a royal flush. Of course I’m in. I slide a fifty-pound note into the centre of the table without looking up. The faculty poker night reminds me of my university days—only we play for real money now, not the rings of lager tins.

Shut the door.

Should I lock it, sir?

Fuck. Hearing her call me sir has unleashed just about every dirty fantasy I’ve ever had. Her on her knees, sucking my cock, calling me ‘sir’. Lying back in my bed, begging me to fuck her, hard. Sir. Touching herself, her eyes locked on mine. May I come now, sir?

Sir.

I bite back a groan and toy with my empty beer bottle, running my finger around its base.

What the hell was I thinking?

On Day One at the London Law School I told myself I should steer clear of Olivia Amorelli. Warning bells had blared through me the second she’d walked into my classroom, wearing a long, pale blue dress that showed off her tan and her eyes and made my blood pressure shoot way up.

But it was more than that. Something about her called to me and I knew ignoring it, ignoring her, would be the smart thing to do. There was danger in the kind of desire I felt for her—its depths were unknown, never-ending, and I don’t do well without limits. I like to know where things are going to end up, and Olivia is a wild card.

So I chose to pretend I wasn’t halfway to infatuated by everything about her.

And I was doing okay. Ignoring her and her outfits and her long blonde hair, and the way she blinks and chews on a pen when she’s concentrating.

Yeah, I was ignoring her just fine. Until today.

Today, when I called on her, she sat up, arguing with me, making my blood pressure shoot through the roof. Olivia’s stunning. There’s no denying that. But she’s not my usual type. Even though I know she’s twenty-five, she’s tiny and youthful and goes around in jeans and white sneakers. She’s got long blonde hair that I picture running down her naked back and her eyes are full of storm clouds.

When she argued with me today, I damned well wanted to dismiss the class and take her then. And I think she wanted it, too. Which is why I need to be even more careful.

Because I want her and she wants me and we see each other four times a week as it is.

The London Law School is one of the most prestigious schools in the country, if not the world. It has a much sought-after exchange programme with Harvard Law and the fees are astronomical. Olivia is in her last year and she’s academically brilliant. She’s worked hard to make it this far. If she holds it together, she’ll graduate with a swathe of offers from places to undertake her training contract. But even just flirting with a professor is the kind of thing that would get her in trouble here, let alone doing what I want her to do to me.

She is completely forbidden...and damn it all to hell if that doesn’t make me want her even more.

I’m not very good at being told ‘no’.

Even when I know it’s for the best.

I should have let her walk out of the damned classroom. Instead, I called her back. I stood over her, so close I could feel her soft breath on my throat, warm and sweet. I heard her breathing; I wanted to make her breathe faster. Harder. And all for me.

I’m not a spiritual guy but I believe in the powers of opposites and opposition. I think she could both redeem me and challenge me, and I need both. But what about her needs?

What would a guy like me do to her? I crave her sweetness but wouldn’t I only mark her with my darkness? Isn’t that more likely? The Donovan case sits heavy in my throat, the judgement the stuff of nightmares, my victory incontrovertible proof that I am too good at what I do. That I play to win, no matter the cost.

Where once a win was a win and the verdict would have puffed me up, it dances on the edges of my mind now like an incoming surge of the ocean, an impending surge of doom.

‘I’ll pay it. Show me what you got, Connor.’

I lift my eyes to Gary Austin, one of the well-known professors from the Contracts department, and bare my teeth in acknowledgement.

I lay my cards down and stand to grab a beer at the same time.

The four other guys make a collective noise of disappointment as my royal flush obviously beats whatever they’re holding. I play to win. Always.

I pull a bottle from the fridge and crack the top off it, throwing half back in one easy movement.

Olivia’s in class with me tomorrow.

I wonder what she’ll be wearing?