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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 s
tirring 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.’
