By: Emma Scott

Chapter One


He kisses me hard, insistently, a promise of more to come. A promise of everything. When he pulls away, I see desire burning hot and bright, warming his icy blue eyes. My heart soars. At long last! I pull him close, press myself against him, letting him know I’m his to do with as he pleases. He kisses me again, possessively, demanding, his hands everywhere, his body over mine, poised. I can feel the need radiate off him, mirroring my own. This time there would be no stopping, no hesitation.

This time there will be fire…

A phone rings, loud and clamoring.


He pulls away, taking all the heat with him, leaving me cold and trembling, aching with want. “Sorry, I have to get this…”

I jolted upright, as if someone had tossed a bucket of ice water down my back. My hand snaked out to silence the alarm clock that had invaded my dreams, and I sank back into the pillows, my heart pounding, my breath coming fast. The dream was gone but the aching need between my legs was wide-awake. Though I knew it was futile, I turned and reached for him.

Drew’s side of the bed was empty. Cold. As if he hadn’t slept there at all, though I knew he had. He’d come in from the downstairs office around two a.m., slipping into the bed as quietly as he could so as not to wake me. But I hadn’t slept. My closing argument had been banging around in my head as I sought to put the words in their perfect order, crafting it into a sword that would ram into the heart of the defense, slaying their case dead.

As I heard the whisper of sheets I had thought—briefly—of reaching for Drew, to slip into his arms and become lost in him, let pleasure glide us into a restful sleep for the few hours that remained until we both had to be up again. But he’d turned his back to me and was asleep almost immediately. I had the dream—as unsatisfying as reality—instead.

Now, I listened for the shower but the bedroom suite was silent. A faint mist hung in the air, heavy with the scents of Drew’s soap and cologne. I glanced at the clock that hadn’t even allowed me to have Drew in my dreams. Two minutes after six. He’s up earlier than usual. I remembered he had an important meeting that morning and he didn’t want to risk getting stuck in traffic.

And I had closing arguments for the most important case of my career. Why was I wasting my thoughts—and time—on a silly dream?

I threw the covers off and swung my legs over the side of the king-size bed, pausing a moment to mentally organize my day. Schedules, research, depositions, lunch with the Posse. But first and foremost, those closing arguments.

I took a deep, meditative inhale—the kind I had been taught in countless yoga classes—and let it out slowly. Munro vs. Hutchinson. I was a mere three hours away from giving the speech that would lock it down, put it away, and all but guarantee I would make partner at Lawson & Dooney.

The last vestiges of the dream slipped away, forgotten.


I showered quickly and stepped out into a misty bathroom en-suite that now smelled of my perfumed body wash and the French lotion Drew had bought me on a business trip to Paris the year before. As the bathroom defogged, I went to my walk-in closet, opposite Drew’s, and found the taupe-colored Armani suit I had chosen the night before: a pencil skirt and neat jacket over a mauve blouse. On the carpet beside, were the tweed and leather Ferragamo t-strap pumps I had selected to go with them.

I dressed quickly, applied my makeup with efficiency, and pinned my fiery red hair into a twist with practiced ease. I never wore it down; my mother once told me the color was too vibrant for the courtroom. I’d laughed it off at the time, but hadn’t worn it down since. No sense in taking foolish chances.

Multi-colored gemstone earrings—also chosen the night before—added a touch of color to my elegantly simple suit and brought out the blue of my eyes. A dab of Chanel No. 5 behind each ear, and I was done.

Downstairs, the kitchen—a gleaming expanse of white quartz and stainless steel—held the aromas of coffee, eggs, and Drew’s cologne. A note, hastily scribbled and left near the coffeemaker made me smile.

Off to the races. Knock’em dead today!

Your fiancé

My fiancé. I examined the three-carat emerald-cut diamond ring that adorned my left hand. The weight of it was still taking some time to get used to since Drew had slipped it over my finger two weeks ago, and so far it had proven to be a distraction at work. One judge had already commented on it during a preliminary hearing, having spotted the glittering stone all the way from the bench. I made a mental note to never, ever wear it in front of a jury—certainly not today. God knew, cases had been won or lost for less, and I’d be damned if I lost Munro vs. Hutchinson over a ring. Or a hairstyle.