by Bay, Louise
He nodded. “And it’s the least I can do.” His voice was like crème brûlée—silky smooth with a hint of gravel. Yum. I’d lick the bowl if I had a dishful of him.
For a second, I forgot I was teetering on the brink of disaster.
“Come on,” he said, striding toward the exit.
We didn’t speak on the escalators up to the surface. He stood in front of me, his brow furrowed, as if he was thinking through a complex problem. I didn’t like to interrupt him, but it seemed odd not to talk to him.
“So, are you on your way to work?” I asked as we exited the turnstiles.
“I am,” he said.
His words were clipped and formal. He was hardly full of conversation. I was pretty sure he’d be happy if there was only silence between us. That only made me want to know more about him.
“I have an interview. For a job,” I said, hoping it might encourage him to tell me more about himself. What did he do for a living? Was he a diamond trader? A professional polo player? Maybe he was royalty? He had a regal air about him. “I want to make a good impression. My sister would say I am unreliable, but I’m never late. I hate lateness. It’s the worst—so arrogant.” I was babbling. He was making me nervous. Men never made me nervous.
“Arrogant?” he asked, his brow still furrowed as I struggled to keep up with his pace as we headed left down the street.
Before I had a chance to answer, his phone began to ring. “Knightley,” he answered.
His name was Knightley? Fuck me. A British guy with a sexy, romantic name, who might possibly be the best-looking man I’d ever laid eyes on, was rescuing me from near disaster. It wasn’t just Darcy’s country house that was like something out of a Jane Austen novel.
He glanced over his shoulder at me and held the phone against his shoulder. “I have to take this, but we should be there in just a few minutes.”
“No problem,” I said. I didn’t give a crap if he was on the phone. I was still going to make my interview, and if he wasn’t looking at me, it meant I could stare at him. I glanced across and took in his high, tight ass. Jesus, would he mind if I lifted his jacket a little to make sure it was as good as it looked? I liked a man with a nice ass almost as much as I liked a man with big hands and a strong mouth. They were all important accoutrements to being good in bed. And those eyes, the way he looked at me? I shivered.
We crossed over the sidewalk, went through a gap in the buildings, and suddenly we’d disappeared into the back of a closet—wardrobe—and come out the other side. Five seconds ago we’d been surrounded by traffic, noise, and a thousand people, but here, birds sang and Dickensian buildings sat around a large square with trees everywhere.
“Where are we?” I asked, looking around.
My handsome stranger glanced back at me and then pointed toward the entrance of a park as he continued his conversation.
This didn’t even seem like London. It was more like a Disney version I might discover in Florida. We crossed a cobbled street that had no cars on it, despite it being the middle of rush hour, and headed into a park surrounded by black railings. The grass was neatly mown, and a few people sat on benches enjoying their coffee or reading the newspaper. Where were we? I knew from my walks over the last two weeks that London had its share of beautiful parks. I’d visited Hyde Park and St James’ Park and some of the squares had buildings on all four sides, facing a small garden. But this? It was like a square on steroids. Eventually, we came to the exit and I saw a sign for Lincoln’s Inn Fields. I’d have to Google that when I got home. If I got home—had those kids ever left Narnia? Somehow, I’d have to find my way back.
A shrill chime of a bell caught my attention but before I could figure out where it was coming from Knightley’s arm was around my shoulder, pulling me out of the way of an oncoming cyclist and toward him. For the second time this morning, my hands pressed up to his chest out of instinct as I tried not to fall over. His touch felt protective and strong like before on the tube and I just wanted to sink against his body and breathe him in. He was saving me from disaster at every turn—on the tube, walking me to my interview, and then with this bike. The bike passed, and I looked up to find Knightley’s eyes boring into mine.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He didn’t reply but he didn’t move or look away either. For a moment I thought he might kiss me. I sensed that he wanted to, and I would have kissed him right back. But he didn’t, and we just stayed there for a couple of moments. Still. Staring at each other as if this look we were sharing was even more intimate than a kiss.
Eventually, his attention caught by whoever was speaking to him on the end of the phone that was still clamped to his ear, he glanced away, and I slid my hands down and away from his chest.
We continued our journey, passing through another gap in the buildings, and I expected to rejoin the hustle and bustle of London. Instead I was surrounded by extreme cuteness. Green patches of lawn and more old buildings in different-colored brick with tin-paned windows. It was like a toy town. We made a sharp right and without even saying goodbye, Knightley pressed cancel on his phone and shoved it in his pocket. “We’re here. Let me know how things work out with your mobile.”
I wanted him to say something else. Ask me to dinner. Kiss me. Something. I wasn’t ready for him to walk away just yet. In New York, men were everywhere, but no stranger had ever captivated me like this one. It was as if when I’d stepped onto the tube I’d swallowed some kind of potion that made me completely attracted to this Knightley guy. And he wasn’t even my type.
I didn’t ask guys on dates. I’d never had to. About to watch him walk away, I wished I’d had more practice. “I will. Thank you.”
He opened his mouth as if he was going to say something but then frowned, clearly changing his mind. And with that he swept up some steps and through an open door. I checked the address on my printout. Number One New Square. The exact same address was painted in shiny black paint on the side of the building. I’d made it. My handsome stranger had disappeared into the very building where I was headed. Another sign. Maybe I’d get to see him again. Today was my day.
I took a deep breath and took the stairs, retracing the footsteps Knightley had just made.
Time to be fabulous.
Chapter Three
Alexander
My workout this morning had been punishing. The harder I worked, the harder I worked out. I was a big believer in that if I wasn’t physically fit, I couldn’t perform as well in my job. And I was willing to do whatever I had to do to be the best barrister I could be. As a result, I’d been up since five, worked out until six thirty, and then had a conference call with Dubai at seven. I hated days when I was late into the office, but this morning couldn’t be helped. My commute had been . . . unusual. The woman I’d knocked into while getting off the tube had been beautiful, and I couldn’t keep the image of her gazing up at me in the middle of Lincoln’s Inn Fields out of my brain. I needed to focus. And perhaps get laid when I got the time. But it wouldn’t be tonight. I’d be working. I had hundreds of witness statements to go through and my opening statement to draft.
In three days, I’d be in court, and that was my sole focus. There was no time to be wasted on fantasizing about women.
As I trawled through my emails, trying to pick out the important ones from the hundreds littering my inbox, someone knocked at my door. I resisted the temptation to growl. I hated being interrupted—I needed a sign for the door.
“Come in,” I barked.
The door swung open, and I could tell by the footsteps that the head clerk had swooped in. “Mr. Knightley.”
“Craig.” I didn’t take my focus off my laptop screen. Craig was an avuncular and charming man in his mid-fifties. He’d been in the business since he was fifteen and had clerked my father. If anyone could interrupt me, he could. And he knew it. Over the years, I’d tried to get him to call me Alex, but he insisted all the clerks and admin staff call the barristers by their
surnames. The bar could be a very old-fashioned place.
“I want to introduce you to your new assistant, Violet King.”
I paused, my fingers hovering over my keyboard. I knew nothing of this and would never have agreed to it—I worked alone. Slowly, I turned to find Craig in front of my desk, his eyebrows raised in expectation.
“My what?” I asked. A figure moved in beside him and I slid my gaze to the right. I found myself staring straight at the beautiful woman who’d invaded my thoughts since I’d arrived in chambers. What was going on? I looked away from her, sure that Craig would see my attraction to her if my eyes lingered over her for more than a split second.
My breath had caught in my throat when I’d seen her this morning on the platform. I’d watched, mesmerized, as she hurried toward me, arriving on the platform just before the train arrived. She had pale blue eyes, flushed cheeks, and long, black hair that I could imagine twisting my fingers through as I fucked her over my desk. Women rarely caught my attention, but she was not only beautiful. There was something exotic about her, something that made me want to know more. I’d been warmed by her heat throughout our journey this morning and was almost pleased when I got to walk her to chambers, although I’d felt like a teenager, unable to think of anything to say. I’d been grateful when a phone call had saved me from completely betraying my fascination with her. The way she’d looked up at me with those blue eyes, as she steadied herself against my chest on the tube and again in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. My pulse began to race—at the memory or at having her so close now. I couldn’t decide.
Here in my office, she was just as beautiful. Just as intriguing. It set me on edge. I didn’t like the unexpected. The last thing I needed was her assistance.
“She’s going to start straightaway, which is tremendous news.”
“And what, may I ask, will Miss King be assisting me with?” I’d never heard of a barrister having an assistant before. The admin staff and the clerks were all pooled between us, and most barristers were pretty self-sufficient. After all, we were all self-employed and in a set of chambers simply to share resources. We all paid a percentage of our income toward maintaining chambers, but we were fiercely independent. The independence and the lack of interaction with others were some of the things I liked about my job. Every now and then, Craig would invent some new effort to organize my billing or my office, but it never lasted long. He gave up when I didn’t give an inch.
“She’s going to help you with your billing. You know you should be bringing in triple what you are.”
Good head clerks guided barristers through their careers, and I knew Craig was looking out for me. The problem was I didn’t give a shit about the money. I made plenty, and my father’s death had made me a very wealthy man. What I cared about was the work. I didn’t like to waste time billing clients and then chasing them for payment once I had. When the clerks had tried to bring my billing up-to-date before, they’d required me to go through each file with them and tell them which needed billing. They weren’t really doing anything. It didn’t take long for my lack of cooperation and blunt responses to exhaust them; they had plenty of other things to do that were easier. But an assistant whose only job was to annoy me might present more of a challenge. Especially someone as beautiful as Violet King. Just a few minutes as strangers with her this morning had provided too much of a distraction already. I wasn’t sure how I’d keep my mind on the job if she was nearby all the time. My time was very limited. I needed to stay focused.
“You work harder than any barrister I’ve ever worked with, and you should be rewarded for that,” Craig said.
That couldn’t be true. As Craig had clerked my father, he knew the hardest-working barrister there had ever been at the bar. I was always stunned to see the corridors empty when I was in chambers late at night. I’d assumed that all barristers worked as hard as my dad, and he was never home in the evenings. Often he didn’t make it home at all. A couple of times, my mother had brought us up to Lincoln’s Inn to drop off a clean shirt or take him to lunch. It had always felt like such an adventure—I knew my father was impressive and the work he was doing important because they were always the reasons I was given why he wasn’t at home, but seeing him in this environment proved it to me. The men in suits, the people scurrying around with armfuls of papers doing what he told them, the way everyone I met told me how talented my father was and how lucky I was to be his son—it created a craving in me and I’d known from eight years old that I wanted to be here in Lincoln’s Inn, just like him. I’d imagined we’d work side by side—maybe even share an office. He’d died before I’d been called to the bar. Our careers had never overlapped.
“You know I’m not concerned about the money,” I replied.
“Frankly, chambers will get a bad reputation for its clerking if things carry on, which hurts us all. We need to be seen as modern and dynamic to attract clients and up-and-coming barristers. All we’re asking is for you to let someone help you out.” He glanced around the room. There was paper everywhere. I liked to think it looked like a scale model of an Asian capital—tower blocks of paper heading toward the ceiling, blocking out the light. “And your filing and your archiving is completely out of control. It needs to get cleared up.”
“I’ll get to it,” I said, knowing full well that I never would.
Craig sighed. “Throw me a bone and give Violet a chance. She’s here for three months and is going to make your life easier. She’s a clever, robust American, so she should be able to put up with you.”
I didn’t respond. No one else in chambers would dare be so blunt with me. I knew the more junior clerks and admin staff feared me, which I rather enjoyed. I liked to be left alone to get on with my work, so it suited me that I wasn’t drawn into polite conversations or pestered with inane questions.
“I’m too busy to be explaining anything to anyone,” I said, turning back to my laptop, careful to avoid looking at Violet. I’d been close to kissing her this morning. She’d felt good in my arms when I’d pulled her out of the way of that rogue cyclist—as if she fit—and I hadn’t wanted to let her go. I could almost still feel her against my chest while sitting here just a meter away from her. Her smile had been so warm and open and for a second I forgot how late I was. Perhaps I’d imagined it. Unable to help myself, I glanced across at her again, and she was wearing that warm smile that seemed to direct heat throughout my body. Would her full lips be as soft to kiss as they looked? Would she fit against my body as I imagined she would?
I inhaled sharply and looked back at Craig.
“I warned you he would be difficult,” Craig said, presumably to my new assistant.
This must have been the job she was so keen to get to. How ironic that if I hadn’t shown her the way to chambers, she wouldn’t be here.
“Do what you can.” Craig sighed.
“No problem,” she replied.
I swallowed and turned back to my screen.
“I’ll introduce you to the rest of the team and then you can make a start,” Craig said. “Have a good day, Mr. Knightley.”
The door shut and I sat back in my chair. I’d always successfully resisted any attempts to organize me or to take over my billing.
Anyone else I would have just flatly refused, but I liked Craig—respected him—and I didn’t want his reputation to suffer because of me. It was true that my additional billings would reflect well on chambers and Craig personally. I also knew in the back of my mind that I wasn’t going to be able to take on bigger cases and advance my career working the way I was. There were only so many hours in the day, and I wasn’t doing much but working, sleeping, and going to the gym. So I needed to get more efficient if I was going to be the best at the bar. If only Craig hadn’t picked this woman. Something told me that she was trouble.
Chapter Four
Violet
So much for Knightley being some kind of hero from a Jane Austen novel. The picture Craig had painted in the interview wa
s of a very difficult man, but then when he’d mentioned the name Knightley, I was delighted. I knew the person who’d rescued me at the tube station couldn’t be the ogre he described. We had some kind of history together—there was some kind of connection between us. But no. When Craig had introduced us, Knightley barely even acknowledged me. It was as if we’d never met, as if I’d been invisible. Even if he was ridiculously handsome, and turned my insides to jelly, he was a jerk.
But I had to make this job work. The last thing I wanted to do was embarrass Darcy, and I needed the money. It was also my first non-waitressing job in a long time, and I needed to prove to myself that I could do something else, something more, even if it was administration.
“I warned you he was gruff,” Craig said as we trundled along the narrow, dimly lit corridor back to the clerks’ section of the building.
The place must have been a house at some point because the furniture and fixtures looked more at place in a Victorian costume drama than in twenty-first century London.
“It will take tenacity and a thick skin to make any progress with him, but you have no other duties or responsibilities. It’s all about Mr. Knightley. We need to get his billing up-to-date, shred, file, and archive his papers as I said to him. But really your job is to do anything that makes his life easier.”
I had a feeling my job here was going to be pointless. I’d spend the next three months trying to polish a turd, and probably get fired in the process. But for today, I was going to stay positive. At least at the end of the week, I’d have a paycheck. And I’d be in London.
Craig stopped before we reached his office and headed into a room with one small window at the back. “This is the clerking team.”
