Her Guilty Secret

by Clare Connelly

  ‘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 ch
ose 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?

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘I’VE GOT CLASS until four,’ I murmur into my phone, my eyes glued to the door, waiting for the moment Connor will arrive so I can go back to pretending I don’t notice him.

  ‘Darling—’ my mum uses her most persuasive voice ‘—it’s a late lunch. Things will just be starting by the time you get there.’

  Frustration zips through my belly. ‘I doubt that.’

  ‘You can’t just not show up.’

  I would laugh except this isn’t remotely amusing. ‘I never agreed to go.’

  She’s quiet and I know her lips are compressed. ‘Pietro’s counting on you.’

  And there it is. The reason my mum has been nagging me about going to my cousin’s girlfriend’s birthday lunch for the past two weeks.

  Because my saintly ex-boyfriend will be there—the man my parents are determined for me to take back. To forgive the fact we made no sense together, the fact we had nothing in common, the fact sex was perfunctory and our conversation, for the most part, dull.

  Don’t get me wrong—I loved Pietro. But I realised, over time, that it was the kind of love one feels for a friend or, ick, a brother. Not a lover.

  I sigh, because saying ‘no’ to my mother isn’t easy. Especially when I know her meddling comes with the best of intentions.

  ‘Where is it?’ I bite down on my lip right as the door opens and Connor steps in, his stride strong and confident. I stare at him for a couple of seconds and marshal my expression into a look of nonchalant unconcern. It’s a waste of energy. He doesn’t even look my way.

  ‘Alta Pasta, just off St Christopher’s Place. Do you know it?’

  She sounds relieved; she’s taken my acquiescence as a given.

  I’ve never argued with my mum and dad, but I can’t stand the way they’re trying to urge me into a sensible relationship, just because they’ll feel better knowing I’ve settled down.

  It makes me want to do the opposite.

  Unconsciously, my eyes land on Connor and a frown crosses my face.

  I want to do completely the opposite. I want to find someone manifestly unsuitable. Completely wrong. And I want to have some fun. Not a relationship, nothing like what Pietro and I shared.

  And, in that moment, which I’m not proud of, I want to be with someone who would infuriate my parents...

  ‘I’ll see if I can make it.’

  ‘You’re a good girl, Olivia.’

  It’s just an expression, something she says often, but it raises my hackles to the point of bursting. A good girl? I am a good girl. I always have been. Even when my friend Clara and I went travelling, I was the one taking care of her, booking our hostels, putting glasses of water beside her bed and condoms in her purse.

  Apparently I don’t know how to be anything other than a good, sensible girl.

  ‘Are we interrupting your social life, Miss Amorelli?’

  Colour blooms in my face. I feel it spread and curse my propensity to flush when I’m embarrassed.

  Everyone is looking at me. I glare at Connor and then pointedly lift my eyes to the clock above his head. There’s still a minute to go until the lecture technically starts.

  Nonetheless, my inner Goody-Two-Shoes, who really isn’t very ‘inner’ at all, stands to attention.

  ‘Mum? I have to go.’

  I disconnect the call and slide my phone to the desk.

  Heat spreads from my face to my neck as Connor continues to stare at me. For barely a millisecond, his eyes lower, glancing somewhere in the region of my cleavage, and then he turns away, moving to the whiteboard.

  He begins to speak, addressing the whole class, and I flick my notebook open and take the lid off my pen, but I’m only pretending to listen. I write out a few things, word for word, as he says them, but they’re random and unimportant. I can’t focus. My brain is fogged.

  I can honestly say I’ve never looked at a guy and felt myself spontaneously combust in a cloud of sexual heat.

  This, with Connor, is completely different.

  It scares the hell out of me, if I’m honest, only because he’s as completely off-limits to me as if he were my best friend’s fiancé.

  He turns around and smiles. Everyone laughs.

  I don’t.

  I stare at him and his eyes zip to mine. The world, the earth, the universe—everything freezes. We are powerless to fight it, this moment. We simply stare at one another and silence falls; we are encumbered by a desire that is impossible to acknowledge. Impossible to resist.

  ‘Okay.’ He seems to rally himself with more ease than I could muster for a million quid. ‘Group assignments are due at the end of today. Anyone not able to complete theirs?’ He drag
s his eyes away—at least I hope he’s having to drag them away. I can’t. I continue to stare at him. He’s wearing a navy blue suit, a pale blue shirt and brown shoes. No tie, and the shirt’s open at the neck. He has a nice neck. Thick and strong. I imagine running my tongue along it and then look at the clock, jerking my eyes away forcibly.

  The class is almost over.

  I’m almost done.

  ‘That’s it. Read the two cases and summarise judgements before Thursday.’

  There’s a commotion as everyone stands but Connor holds his hands up, silencing us once more. ‘And the Law School Ball on Friday night is not optional. Dean Walters has asked me to remind you to come, dress up and be on your best behaviour.’ He pulls a face that is half mocking, full hot. ‘But seriously, you guys, this is an incredible opportunity to meet real-world professionals and socialise with representatives of some of the top-tier firms in the country. So be prepared to make a good impression and it might lead to an interview for those of you planning to undertake your training contracts.’

  I try to imagine Connor Hughes ever going to one of these balls with the intention of sucking up, and fail. Even as a student, I bet he was as arrogant as they came. You don’t learn that kind of attitude; it’s innate.

  A hand somewhere to my left shoots up in the air.

  ‘Yes, Miss Cave?’

  ‘What if we already know where we want to apply?’

  Connor shrugged. ‘So? Apply.’

  ‘Okay. Can I email you direct?’

  Everyone laughs, Connor included. ‘Sure.’

  But I don’t laugh.

  Something uncomfortable slides through me, twisting my organs. Is Benita Cave flirting with Connor?

  Is he flirting back?

  More heat spreads through my cheeks. I’m so distracted by this unpleasant notion that I barely notice people are leaving until the class is almost empty and I’m this close to being alone with Connor once more.

  Shit.

  I pack up quickly, squishing my book into my bag and tossing it over my shoulder. I jam my phone into the back pocket of my jeans as I stand and straighten my simple white singlet top so that it sits properly over my waistband.