I glance back at him as he looms over his desk. “Just a little,” I admit.

Tess

Argyles. He called me Argyles. That’s the same nickname he gave me the morning after we, we…

I slap my hand over my head. Oh, my God, I need to get out of this. I need to get out of this now!

My urgent steps slow as the reality of my situation becomes abundantly clear: I can’t give up my opportunity to work with Declan. I can’t refuse police surveillance. I can’t request another police officer this soon. And there’s no escaping Curran O’Brien.

But then there never was, was there?

I lean against the wall and start flipping through the notes I took on my iPad.

I groan. Who am I kidding? My mind isn’t on work, it’s on Curran, just like it was from the first moment I saw him.

As rush chair of Kappa Omega Kappa, notoriously known as KOK, Curran was loud, obnoxious, and perpetually surrounded by girls who found him oh so charming and laughed at everything that came out of his mouth. I roll my eyes, remembering their constant giggling and overt flirting.

Oh, Curran. You’re so cute.

Oh, Curran. You’re so funny.

Oh, Curran, you’re such a nice KOK.

I stare at my screen, recognizing that I was one of those girls taken by his wit, his smile, and his striking looks. But I never expected him to notice me. Not with all the pretty girls in my sorority cozying up to him, and not when my eating disorder had left me so painfully thin. God, I was so unhealthy then, my hair so fine I couldn’t grow it out, and nails so brittle I had to keep them short. Throw in my dorky wardrobe and an awkwardness I never fully outgrew and, well, I never thought Curran would look my way.

Yet eventually he did, making me feel like I mattered.

I remember that day so clearly. It was the end of finals week our junior year. As the president of the college, my father discovered my stellar grades had been ruined based on my performance in my journalism class. The research paper I’d turned in counted as 90 percent of my grade, and I’d erroneously written it without checking the references against more reputable sources. The prof had scored it a 70, given the lack of credibility. Although I’d worked hard on it, the heavy course load in my double majors in politics and pre-law that semester hadn’t allowed me the time I needed to cross-reference my material.

Father was furious, and not only verbally thrashed me until I cowered and collapsed in tears, but forced me to rewrite the entire paper by hand—all forty pages—so I’d learn “my lesson” about not being lazy and turning in sloppy work.

“My lesson” had been one of many throughout my life used to humiliate me and destroy my will. And it worked. After years of being mistreated and reduced to nothing, I surrendered and obeyed.

Just like I do now.

I left his office that day a shuddering mess, forcing a smile as I passed his peers—because I was the daughter of Donald Newart, university president, political figure, respected member of the community, and overall idol. I had to keep up appearances. Yet all I could think about was finding the strength to kill myself so I could finally break free of his hold.

But I never tried. Too weak. Just like he always claimed, and exactly how he kept me.

I push off the wall and walk slowly back to the law library. To this day, his words sting because he continues to verbally berate me, reminding me of my incompetence, and how I can’t survive without his help.

My father should be my hero. He should be my greatest champion. He should mean everything to me, but he doesn’t.

He’s the only blood relative I have, and the man who gave me life. Yet I can’t stop myself from hating him.

The problem is, sometimes I hate myself more.

I enter the law library and slump into my desk chair, feeling a sense of defeat so great, everyone around me seems to vanish. With almost robotic movements, I log on to my laptop and begin saving my documents to their appropriate files. And although I try to focus, I can’t shake the memory of that day.

My fingers fiddle with the pages of the deposition I’d been working on. I hit an all-time low following the degradation in Father’s office. But instead of allowing me to wallow in self-pity, my sorority sister convinced me to “have some KOK,” as she put it, and dragged me to Curran’s frat party.

Curran was one of the rare few who never seemed to care who my father was. He saw me sitting alone and holding an empty cup, and sat beside me. He could have ignored me like everyone else, flirted with the skimpily clad girls, and drank and roughhoused with his obnoxious friends. Instead he edged closer, despite how I tried to avert my gaze, and drew out a smile I didn’t know I had in me.

“You’re really pretty when you smile,” he told me there on the couch…and once more the next morning when we awoke naked together.

I cover my eyes and lean forward. Now he’s here, to guard me on a case I can’t walk away from, one that can grant me a life of independence from my father.

A sharp rap at the door forces me to glance up. Nausea punches through every cell of my body when I see him standing at the entrance. No. There’s truly no escaping Curran O’Brien.

He marches in slowly, his expression tight. “You ready, Tess?”

That’s the name I went by in college, back when I had friends, and someone like him to make me smile. I nod, hurrying to shove the necessary paperwork in my large purse. “Yes. One moment please, Officer.”

Officer. I cringe at the word. It’s what he is, though, so why do I feel so stupid calling him that? Because you wrapped your lips around his tremendous penis, I remind myself.

“Who’s this?”

My shoulders slump. Burton. Of course he’d have something to say. I should ignore him yet I don’t, feeling like I need to defend Curran’s presence. “He’s my—I mean, he’s here to help me with the Montenegro case,” I manage.

“Help you?” Burton says, his laugh reddening my cheeks. He eyes Curran up and down. “If you say so, Contessa.”

Curran’s attention bounces to me as every part of me bristles. Something in my expression causes him to scowl, yet instead of addressing me, his attention shifts back to Burton. “Not that it’s any of your business,” he snaps, “but I’m the cop assigned to watch Tess’s back. Who are you, the office idiot?”

I rise slowly. I remembered Curran the joker, but forgot all about Curran the brawler. Unlike me, Curran doesn’t fear confrontation and isn’t afraid to take a swing.

Burton leans back in his chair and crosses his arms as silence stretches across the room, arrogance splaying along his face. “I’ll let that slide, given I’m a well-respected attorney.”

“A well-respected attorney?” Curran repeats, appearing unimpressed and slightly bewildered.

“That’s right.”

“Hmmm,” Curran mumbles, looking around. “And you work here? In a library? Mom and Dad must be proud.”

My, and doesn’t Curran have everyone’s attention now?

“Unlike your situation, mine is temporary,” Burton sneers. “Just biding my time until the next DA’s spot opens up.”

This time, it’s Curran’s turn to grin. “And how long has this temporary gig been going on?”

The smile vanishes from Burton’s face. “That’s none of your business.”

Curran keeps his smile, but his voice gathers a sharp edge. “And it’s none of your business what I am to Tess, asshole.”

Curran’s not bowing under Burton’s self-proclaimed awesomeness, and Burton doesn’t appreciate it one bit. “I think DA Fenske would take offense to your choice of vocabulary, Officer.”