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When it would be a complete waste of time, Paris thought despondently. Her nightmare of the last three years had been that she might chance to meet the man she’d been so in love with, have to face him again and see the contempt in his eyes. Now it looked as if she was not only going to see him, but would have to spend an indefinite period in his proximity.
With a sigh, Paris said dully, ‘If you’ll promise to find me somewhere else as soon as possible, then, all right, I’ll come. Where are we going?’
‘I’m afraid we’re not allowed to tell you that.’
She gave him a look that spoke volumes. ‘I am going to wash my hair,’ she said forcefully. ‘And then I’m going to have something to eat, unpack, and make several phone calls. Then I’ll get ready to go. Is that all right by you?’ Her hands were on her hips and the last sentence was said in a dangerous tone that dared him to argue.
The inspector, having got his own way by forceful coercion, could have been magnanimous, but all he said was, ‘So long as you can do all that within the next two hours, yes.’
They took her in a car and drove for quite some way, but then, to Paris’s surprise, the car stopped and they hurried her into a station and onto a train where she was to share a sleeping compartment with a policewoman. The blinds were pulled down across the windows on both sides and she couldn’t see out. The door was locked and the light turned low.
Paris’s thoughts were far too full for her to want to sit and chat with the policewoman, so she said that she was tired, took off her shoes and coat and climbed into the upper bunk, firmly closing her eyes.
Her heart was filled with a dread so deep that it was almost like a physical fear. How would she bear it if Will openly showed his hatred of her? Even now, after so long, it was still sometimes hard to understand how it had all gone so wrong—so horribly, humiliatingly wrong. Maybe it was because of the circumstances in which they’d met: at a murder trial, of all things. But there had been such radiant happiness, too, at the beginning…
The train journeyed on through the night, swaying, clanking along the rails, the rushing air loud outside, and Paris’s mind went back to the very beginning, when she had been sitting at breakfast with Emma, one morning in late spring.
‘Jury service!’ Paris gazed at the letter in her hand in consternation. ‘But I can’t possibly do it. I don’t have the time.’
‘When are you supposed to go?’ Emma, her flatmate, reached over and took the letter from her. ‘The seventh. That’s only three weeks away. And at the Old Bailey, too; that’s where they have the longest cases, isn’t it?’
Paris’s frown deepened into gloom. ‘I know—and I’m supposed to be going to the conference in Brussels that week.’
‘Perhaps you can get out of it,’ Emma suggested languidly as she handed the letter back. ‘Tell them you’re going on holiday or something.’
Paris hesitated. ‘Wouldn’t that be against the law? Couldn’t you be fined or something if you were found out?’
Emma gave an astonished laugh. ‘For heaven’s sake! Who’s going to find out? People do it all the time.’
‘Well, I can try, I suppose,’ Paris said, still rather dubious, but she reflected that Emma, who was more than ten years older and worked for the same company, usually knew what she was talking about.
Later that morning, as soon as she arrived at her office at the cable network company for which she worked as a sales representative, Paris called the clerk of the court’s office and asked to be released from doing the jury service. He asked for proof that she had booked a holiday, and when she lamely admitted that she had none he refused point-blank to let her off.
‘Isn’t it possible to postpone it indefinitely?’ she begged.
‘No, madam, it is not,’ the man said shortly.
So there was no getting out of it. Paris had to go and see her boss, who arranged for Emma to attend the Brussels conference in her place. Paris was furious at her bad luck; she’d had this job for less than a year since leaving university and was putting everything she had into it. Representing the company at conferences, going abroad to promote their network strategies, being always available to visit potential clients constituted a big part of the job.
Paris had passed the training course with flying colours, was one of the brightest young reps, and knew that a good career lay ahead of her. Which she certainly intended to achieve. She was ambitious and wanted to get to the top just as soon as she possibly could. But there were always others with the same ambitions, the same aims. Having to sit through some criminal case for weeks on end, or even months, she thought with a groan, wouldn’t do her career any good at all.
Angrily reluctant to serve as she was, Paris had to admit to a feeling of awe when she arrived at the Central Criminal Court—the Old Bailey as the building was commonly known—in the heart of the City of London. The courtroom was so old, the polished wooden benches and the judge’s throne-like seat high on a dais so reminiscent of all the trial films she’d ever seen that she couldn’t help but feel the solemnity and power of the place. Looking at the dock, she thought of all the-people who had been tried there—murderers, rapists; she gave a shiver, her anger momentarily chastened.
Her fellow jurors seemed to have similar feelings. Earlier, they’d had to stand one by one and give their name and age and take the oath. Paris hated that, considering her age to be her own business. When it was her turn, her voice had a strong note of defiance as she said, ‘Paris Reid. I’m twenty-two.’
A couple of the younger barristers smiled, as did one of the male jurors, she noticed. He was sitting on the end of the row and hadn’t yet been called—a dark-haired man with a strong jaw and clean-cut features adding up to a good-looking face. He was the last to take the oath and did so in a firm voice.
‘William Alexander Brydon. Twenty-nine. I swear by Almighty God that I will faithfully try the defendant and true verdict give according to the evidence.’
The oath, which Paris had hardly taken in, sounded very impressive when spoken in his deep, attractive tone, making her realise again the solemnity of the court. The judge must have been impressed too, because when he asked them to choose a foreman from amongst themselves he looked straight at William Brydon. But before the latter could speak a middle-aged woman stood up purposefully and volunteered herself, which pleased Paris; she was all for women sticking up for their rights. The judge merely raised his eyebrows slightly.
The case they were to hear was one of aggravated assault and murder. The prisoner, a man in his early forties named Noel Ramsay, was accused of beating up several people, one of whom—a man who had tried to steal Ramsay’s girlfriend—had later died. The man in the dock was smartly dressed, had a boyishly good-looking face and a figure that was only just beginning to run to fat.
Paris found it difficult to imagine him hurting anyone. Perhaps it was the engaging, crinkly-eyed smile that he flashed at them all, the look of surprised innocence in his eyes, as if he still couldn’t believe that he was there, that it was all happening to him.
That first morning it seemed to be all technical stuff. They broke for lunch, most of which time Paris spent on the phone, first to her office, trying to keep up with everything that was happening, and then to customers. She had just a few minutes left in which to grab a couple of bites from a sandwich before it was time to go back into the courtroom.
The jurors automatically sat in the same places as before. That afternoon they listened to a pathologist and had to look at photographs that made Paris’s stomach turn over. If she hadn’t really been aware of the seriousness of the case before, she certainly was after that.
At the end of the day. Paris rushed out of the building and drove to her office in a town to the north of London. There she spent three hours at her desk before driving home to a scratch supper and bed. She was young and healthy and could keep up the hectic pace for a while, but during the second week she began to feel the pressure. To add to everything the unpredictable English weather decided to have an early heatwave.
Paris overslept one morning and arrived just as the jurors were filing into their places. She gave a hasty apology to the clerk of the court, a man moved up for her, and she slipped in at the end of the row. Because she’d been so busy she had hardly talked to her fellow jurors and it took her a minute before she remembered that her neighbour’s name was William Brydon. He gave her an amused smile which she met with a small shrug.
The evidence that morning was again technical. There was no air-conditioning in the court and it was very hot. The barristers were sweltering under their white wigs and several members of the jury took off their jackets.
Paris tried to concentrate but found her eyes drooping. She straightened in her seat, licked dry lips and wished she could have a drink. The police witness droned onsomething about makes of cars that the accused had owned and sold. William Brydon’s shoulder was invitingly close. Paris’s head rested gently on it and she fell asleep.
‘She seems to have fainted, my lord.’
The words, spoken loudly close by in a man’s voice, woke her.
Paris blinked, came to guiltily, and would have jerked upright, but William Brydon was gently slapping at her cheeks, leaning over her so that she was hidden from everyone else. ‘You fainted,’ he murmured so that only she could hear. ‘You don’t want them to restart the whole trial, do you?’ he added insistently.
Realising what he was doing, Paris gratefully fell in with the act. She gave a realistic moan and let him put her head down between her knees—none too gently, she noticed. The clerk and the woman foreman of the jury came over, the latter with some smelling salts which she insisted on holding under Paris’s nose, making her sneeze.
‘Perhaps if she could have some fresh air?’ William Brydon suggested.
‘We’ll adjourn the court for lunch,’ the judge decided.
Putting a strong arm round her, her neighbour escorted her out of the court, down the long corridor and out into the street. Not far away there was a small green oasis of trees surrounding the remains of a ruined church. When they reached its screening shade he immediately withdrew his arm. ‘A heavy date last night?’ he asked sardonically.
‘No, I was working,’ she retorted indignantly.
‘After a day here? Are you self-employed or something?’
‘No, I work for a cable network company. I’m a sales rep.’
Again his mouth, the lower lip fuller than the other, twisted with irony. ‘Can’t they manage without you?’
Paris’s face hardened. ‘I want to make sure they don’t find out that they can,’ she said shortly, adding, in a voice as scathing as his had been, ‘You obviously don’t have to worry about your job—if you have one.’
He looked amused. ‘Oh, I have one. I’m a financial consultant, here in the City.’
Paris said moodily, ‘Right now I should be in Brussels, representing my company at a medical conference, trying to persuade television and telephone companies to use our networks. It was to be my first time alone. And instead I’m stuck with this case. It’s all so slow. And it could go on for weeks.’
‘It might at that,’ he agreed. ‘So we’ll just have to make the best of it, won’t we?’
There was something in his voice, a note that immediately made her realise he was aware of her as a woman. Glancing quickly up at him, Paris saw that he was looking her over, from her short red-gold hair, down her slim figure, to her legs beneath the fashionably short skirt. ‘Seen enough?’ she said with a tilt of her chin, but not at all displeased.
He grinned. ‘For now. My name’s Will, by the way. Will Brydon.’
She smiled and shook the hand he held out to her. ‘Mine’s Paris Reid.’
‘Yes, I know. An unusual name.’
‘My parents went to Paris for a holiday; I was the result.’ They began to stroll under the shade of the trees and she said, ‘Thanks for helping me back there. I suppose I would have got into terrible trouble if they’d found out I’d fallen asleep. It’s rather like being back at school with the teacher watching you all the time.’
They came to an ice-cream cart and Will bought her a cornet—one with a chocolate flake stuck into it. Paris ate it delicately, trailing her tongue along the chocolate, scooping a little of the ice cream and raising it to her mouth.
Will slowed as he openly watched her. ‘You know,’ he said with a sigh, ‘you have the sexiest way of eating an ice.’
She laughed, her face lighting up. Glancing at him, she liked what she saw. His eyes were grey, clear and intelligent, under dark brows, the left one of which had a slight quirk, as if he raised it more than the other. His bone structure was good, his cheekbones high above the clean jawline, and there was a humorous look to his mouth.
He was tall, too—a definite plus in Paris’s eyes because she was tall herself. Walking with him, she had to look up at him, which put him at about six feet two or three, she guessed. Perhaps it was his height that gave him such physical self-assurance, but there was an irresistible magnetism about him, as if he was full of energy that he could hardly contain.
‘Don’t you find having to do this jury service a bind?’ she asked him.
‘In some ways, of course, but I find the whole process of the law fascinating to watch; there’s so much history behind it all. It’s something that I’ll probably have to do only once in a lifetime so I want to do it to the best of my ability. And I suppose we should be grateful that we don’t live in a police state where there is no jury system.’
Paris wrinkled her nose at him. ‘That sounds terribly po-faced. Is that really what you think?’
Will laughed. ‘I think it’s a damn nuisance, but I may as well get it over and done with.’
‘That’s better. I’m not looking forward to having to reach a verdict, are you? Suppose we don’t all agree and have to stay in a hotel or something for days.’ She looked at him from under her lashes. ‘Your wife—or partnerwould probably hate that.’
Will’s lips curled in amusement. ‘Fortunately I have neither, so there’s no problem. But maybe you do?’
Paris shook her head. ‘No, I’m single and unattached.’ She added, ‘At the moment,’ to let him know that she wasn’t hard up for boyfriends.
‘Well, I’m glad that I’ve met you “at the moment”,’ Will remarked, and they both laughed. His eyes on her, he said, ‘Maybe you’d better sit next to me when we go back in the court-room. Just to make sure you don’t go to sleep again, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Paris agreed demurely. And as they walked back to the court they both knew that this could be the start of a very interesting friendship.
Emma came back from Brussels and told her off for trying to fit in her job with the trial. ‘You can’t possibly go on like this,’ she remonstrated. ‘Look, give me your customer list and I’ll look after them for you until you’re back at the office,’ she offered.
‘Oh, Emma, would you? It is rather getting me down,’ Paris said gratefully.
Emma’s kindness made Paris once again think herself extremely lucky that the older woman had taken a liking to her and more or less taken her under her wing. Her own parents had split up many years ago and both had remarried, but Paris didn’t really feel at home with either of them, although they both always made her welcome and tried to include her in their new families.
When she’d first joined the company she’d lived in a bedsit quite nearby, but then Emma had become friendly with her and finally asked her if she’d like to share her flat. ‘It’s in the suburbs of London, mind,’ Emma warned her. ‘You’d have to drive into the office every day.’
But Paris hadn’t minded that at all; the company had given her a car and the thought of living in London excited her.
At first, because of the difference in their ages, she’d been surprised that Emma had been so friendly, but she’d also been flattered by it too. Emma had quite a senior position in the sales department; it was her job to oversee and train the new recruits and to stand in when an emergency occurred, as in the case of the Brussels conference.
Because she was mostly based at head office, Emma was no longer entitled to a company car, and it didn’t take Paris long to work out that one of the reasons why Emma had offered to let her share the flat was so that she could get a lift to and from work every day. But Paris was so grateful to her that she didn’t mind in the least. And she was grateful to her again, now, for taking on her workload, especially now that she’d met Will and realised how pleasantly her lunch-hours could be if spent in his company instead of on the phone.
The heatwave continued and she and Will got into the habit of taking their sandwiches out to the old churchyard, where they sat on the grass beneath the trees to eat and talk. They talked as strangers do, telling each other about themselves, their likes and dislikes, asking questions, getting to know one another, until they weren’t strangers any longer.
Instead of being reluctant to go to the court, Paris became eager to get there. She took care with her appearance and felt a thrill of pleasure when Will’s grey eyes went over her admiringly. And he was so good-looking himself that she enjoyed being seen with him, liked walking along with him beside her, so tall and broad that he made her feel delicately feminine in comparison. From having lunch together, it took very little time before Will asked her to stay behind in town one evening and have dinner with him.
They went to see a film first, and afterwards had dinner at Topo Gigio— ‘The best Italian restaurant in Soho,’ Will declared. He seemed very familiar with London—had lived there all his life, he told her, except for his years at university.
Paris envied him that; she had fallen in love with the city, with its pace and constant change, with its shops, cinemas and theatres. In London you got everything first—the new films and new fashions—and met people who were as ambitious as she was herself, and men who were eager to take out a pretty girl like Paris.
So there had been a lot of dates, but Will was the first man—the first real man, not someone of her own agethat Paris felt strongly attracted to.
After that first dinner date he insisted on taking her home in a cab, which must have cost the earth, and kept it waiting when he walked her to her door where he leant her against the wall, put his hands on her shoulders, and bent to kiss her. He merely touched her lips gently with his at first—small kisses that explored her mouth.
Paris, who wasn’t that experienced, had been brainwashed by a thousand films and books and some equally inexperienced boyfriends into thinking that passionate clinches and devouring kisses were the bee’s knees. But she found this light exploration, the soft, teasing kisses, both tantalising and sensuous. His breath was warm and she could smell the faint tang of aftershave that still clung to his skin.
It came to her that he was a very masculine kind of man, with a powerful aura of sensuality that excited her. He was the kind of man who knew what he wanted. And right now he wanted her.
Resting her hands against his chest, Paris closed her eyes. Opening her mouth, she felt him touch the tip of her tongue—a brief touch that she found incredibly erotic. She gave an involuntary sound of pleasure and Will’s hands tightened a little on her shoulders.
Raising her hand, she caressed the back of his neck, his hair silky under her fingers, and she felt him give a small sigh as his hand came down to her waist and drew her against him. His kiss deepened, taking all her mouth, but it was still gentle, and she responded willingly.
It was a while before Will straightened. Pushing back his thick dark hair, he looked down at her with the heaviness of desire in his eyes, but then he gave a crooked grin. ‘I think maybe I’d better go.’
‘Mmm. Your taxi is waiting.’
But he bent to kiss her again before he drew away for a second time and said, ‘See you in court.’
Then he waved and was gone, leaving Paris with an overwhelming feeling of physical excitement and a longing for him to kiss her again.
That kiss marked a new awareness of each other and was the start of an inevitable closeness between them. But just as Will had been in no hurry with that first kiss so they were in no hurry to become even closer, both of them recognising that this was something special and wanting to anticipate each phase of their relationship. Maybe Paris would have been more eager, but it was Will who set the pace, he who had the dominant role.
They didn’t go out every night; Will worked out at a gym two nights a week and also spent time in his own office, but they were together with increasing frequency.
The trial lasted over a month and was drawing to its close. Although they talked a lot to each other, they seldom discussed the trial. It was bad enough having to listen to all the terrible details during the day without thinking about it during their time alone together. They wanted to put it out of their minds, to escape from it. But at last, on a Thursday, it came to the judge’s summing-up, which lasted nearly a whole day. The judge was eminently fair, pointing out facts that they should remember, think about, but emphasising that they had heard everything and it was up to them to make up their minds now.
Leaving the court and going into the jury-room felt strange. They had used the room so many times before, but now they had come to make the decision, to give their verdict, to condemn a man to prison or to set him free. All twelve of them, without exception, felt the burden heavy on their shoulders.
They didn’t all agree on all the counts the first time, which meant that they all had to spend the night in a hotel, closed off from their homes and families—twelve special people with an enormous responsibility.
A table had been set aside for them in the hotel restaurant and they ate together, but afterwards they were free, within limits, to do as they liked. Four of them began to play cards, others went to their rooms, and some to the bar. Paris and Will were among the latter, but they sat in a corner, apart from the others, who gave them indulgent looks.
The kisses they had exchanged had got hotter over the past weeks, and both of them were experiencing deep frustration, which was heightened by sitting next to each other every day in court and having to pretend that there was nothing between them. Their hands, hidden by the bench in front of them, had often touched, their knees brushed and not always by accident, but they hadn’t dared to look directly at one another in case they gave themselves away to the beady-eyed judge. This secretiveness had added spice to their romance, but now it was coming to an end.
Nothing had been said, but both of them were awaiting the end of the court case with eager, excited anticipation. It was as if they had tacitly agreed that a man’s trial was an entirely wrong background against which to form a relationship, and that they couldn’t take their affair further until it was over, until they were free of it. And now that time was almost here.
‘Hopefully we’ll reach a verdict tomorrow and we won’t have to stay here over the weekend,’ Will remarked. His eyes, darkening a little, rested on her face. ‘So, if we’re free, will you come away with me for the weekend?’
‘Away?’ Paris felt her colour heighten. ‘Where—where to?’
Will gave a sudden, almost rueful grin. ‘I haven’t really thought that far. All I can think of is being with you,’ he admitted. ‘Where would you like to go?’
Her blush deepened at his admission, but Paris said, ‘I don’t know. In the country somewhere, I suppose. You said you could ride a horse; how about teaching me?’
