Lover in Law Read Online Free PDF Page B

lean and chic in his sharp suit. His firm, no messing handshake and the slightly unnerving directness of his eye contact tell me this is a powerful man, used to being in control, to getting what he wants.  Women, if you believe everything you read, are mostly what he’s after. He’s allegedly prolific, having dated royalty, celebrity and crossbreed Clara Tinker-Robinson. He’s got a gaggle of twenty-something groupies happy to hit the casting couch.   I can see what the fuss is about. He has an alluring, captivating charm, but for me, as potential prey, he sends out alarm bells.
     
    Adam, it turns out, had recently met him. They’d been in negotiations regarding a series on famous cars. As someone with a genuine interest in flash motors, Scott Richardson seemed the perfect man to front the show. Adam had groaned when I told him what had happened. Said they probably wouldn’t be able to use him for the programme now. Adam said he’d quite liked him, that he’d been surprisingly down to earth. Adam and I normally perceive people similarly, but not in this instance. It’s too soon for a complete character assassination, but there’s something about him I just can’t put my finger on, despite the slick smoothness and charisma. I disengage from the tight grip of his hand and motion for him to take a seat. However I feel about this man, my job is to defend him, pure and simple.   
     
    “I don’t like wasting time and I don’t like lies,” he says, as soon as we’ve sat down. “So tell me, straight down the line, could I go to prison for this?”
     
    His directness catches me off guard. I’d been about to offer liquid refreshments.
     
    “Are you guilty?”
     
    He locks his eyes onto mine and holds them.
     
    “No,” he says, trying to stare me out.
     
    I nearly always have an inner gut feeling as to whether a client is telling the truth, but in this case I don’t. It’s not that I DON’T believe him, it’s just that there’s so much poise, such a hard veneer. He’s the coolest of customers.  I pick up Scott’s dossier, show it to him and then gently toss it back on my desk. I clear my throat, shift my body to ramrod straight, meet him bang in the eye with my gaze. 
     
    “I’ve read this through several times now, but I want to hear from you exactly what happened, Mr Richardson.”       
     
    “Scott,” he corrects, then starts to explain.
     
    ***
     
    Scott Richardson, it transpires, has been having a yearlong affair with an older married woman called Elizabeth Simons, daytime controller at the network. She’s moneyed, successful and very beautiful. To quote, she’s got Grace Kelly’s regality, Jaqueline Bisset’s sexuality. They almost always see each other in Scott’s Notting Hill flat, but on the night in question, the husband in question (a man called Rupert) was meant to be away on business, so Elizabeth invited him to her marital home. They were in bed when Rupert made an unexpected appearance. Scott wasted no time in throwing his clothes on, ran out the house, got in his silver Jag XJ. But Rupert was quick to follow, chasing him in his black Mercedes convertible down a tight-winding single-lane B-road with a 30 mph limit. To quote Scott again, it was surreal, like playing an arcade video game. Rupert was driving like a lunatic and kept ramming into Scott’s bumper at what must have been about 70 mph.  Scott put his foot on the accelerator, trying to get away, but Rupert overtook. He must have been going about 120 mph because Scott remembers seeing his speedometer needle flicking around 100 mph. Anyway, after Rupert had overtaken him he lost control of his Merc and swerved off the road onto the grass verge, crashing into a tree about ten meters further down. Scott stopped, called an ambulance and cooperated fully with the police.
     
    “So yes,” Scott finishes. “I was driving dangerously and yes, I did blow the speed limit, but only because I was trying to get