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Lily blanched. Lord, he was arrogant.
‘I didn’t do it,’ she enunciated, trying to keep her voice low.
‘Tell it to the judge, sweetheart, because I’m not interested in hearing your protestations of innocence.’
‘Don’t patronise me, Tristan. I’m not a child.’
‘Then stop acting like one.’
‘Damn you, I have rights.’
‘No, you had rights.’ His tone was soft, but merciless. ‘You gave up those rights the minute you waltzed through Heathrow carrying a bag full of narcotics. Your rights belong to me now, and when I say jump I expect you to ask how high.’
Lily froze. He had some nerve. ‘In your dreams,’ she scoffed, now just as angry as he was.
CHAPTER THREE
NO, TRISTAN thought disgustedly, when he dreamt of her she was not jumping up and down; she was usually naked, her lithe body spread out over his bed, and her soft mouth was begging him to take her. But this was no dream, and right now making love to her couldn’t be further from his mind.
Kissing that insolent curl from her luscious mouth—now, that was closer. But completely giving in to the insane desire that still uncomfortably rode his back—no. Not in this lifetime.
Not that he was at all surprised to find himself still attracted to her. Hell, she looked even better now than she had six years ago—if that was actually possible.
Even the bartender was having trouble keeping his distance—and not just because he’d probably recognised her face. Tristan doubted he’d be ogling any other actress with his tongue hanging out of his mouth, and there were many far more worthy of a second glance than this sexy little troublemaker.
No, the bartender was staring because Lily Wild looked like every man’s secret fantasy come to life—even with those dark smudges beneath those wide purple eyes. But she damned well wasn’t his. Not this time.
He should have just said no to Jordana, he realised distractedly. Should have made up a story about how it couldn’t be done.
But he had too much integrity to lie, and in the end a close friend who specialised in criminal law had pulled a rabbit from a hat and here they were. But only by the grace of some clapped-out piece of nineteenth-century legislation that he would recommend be amended at the next parliamentary sitting.
‘Did you hear me, Tristan?’ she prompted, her glorious eyes flashing with unconcealed irritation. ‘I won’t let you bully me like you did once before.’
Tristan cast her the withering glance that he usually reserved for the seediest of his courtroom opponents.
Oh, he’d heard her all right, but she had no choice in the matter, and the sooner she got that through her thick, beautiful skull the better.
‘Don’t push me, Lily,’ he grated warningly, and saw her teeth clench.
Her hands were fisted by her sides and he knew she probably wanted to thump him. Despite himself he admired her temerity. Most women in her position—hell, most men—would be grovelling or backing away, or both. Instead this li
ttle spitfire was arguing the toss, as if she might actually choose jail over him.
‘Then don’t push me!’ she returned hotly.
He looked at her and tried to remind himself that he was a first-rate lawyer who never let emotion govern his actions. ‘You signed the contract. Deal with it,’ he said curtly.
She slapped her hands on her hips, the movement dragging her oversized cardigan open and bringing his attention back to her full, unbound breasts. ‘I told you—I didn’t know what I was signing,’ she declared, as if that might actually make a difference.
Yeah, yeah—just as she didn’t know how the drugs ended up in her bag. He had yet to come across a criminal who actually admitted any form of guilt, and her vehement denial was boringly predictable.
He noticed that the two businessmen who earlier had been deep in conversation were now stealing surreptitious glances at her. Not that he couldn’t appreciate what they were looking at: tousled pearl-blond hair, soft, kissable lips, a mouthwatering silhouette, and legs that went all the way into next week.
They’d looked even longer coming down his parents’ staircase at Jo’s eighteenth party, in a tiny dress and designer heels. And just like that he was back at Hillesden Abbey, the family estate, at the precise moment she had approached him.
‘Hey, wanna dance?’ she’d invited, standing before him in a silver mini-dress that clung in all the right places, hip cocked, bee-stung pout covered in war paint.
He’d declined, of course. Just looking at her had stirred up a dark lust inside him that, at seventeen, she had been way too young to handle.
