I know everything he’s said is true, but I’ve always told myself that it’s not my remit. If I do my job well then I’ve done my bit to make my country a better place. His arguments do not shake my foundations at all. I clamp my mouth shut and refuse to be drawn into an issue that has nothing to do with his tax situation—or me.

‘Why so quiet, hmm? Is it because you already know that the same story is repeated with Google and Apple and every massive multinational? The obvious question that arises in any rational person’s mind would be why should I not make my tax disappear too?’

I jut my jaw out aggressively. ‘How about because it’s morally wrong? Or because you care for the people of this country? Because your taxes will keep schools and hospitals from closing their doors? Because you don’t have to do something wrong just because others are doing it?’

He shakes his head. ‘You know what you are, Ella?’

‘You’re obviously dying to tell me,’ I say dryly.

‘You’re someone’s attack dog. The question is whose? You’ve obviously been fooled into thinking you’re the attack dog for the poor and oppressed, but answer this: Every year you collect more and more taxes, so, how is it then that every year there’s less and less for public services?’

I scowl, but he’s touched a raw nerve.

He sees my second of hesitation and presses his advantage. ‘Did you know that since 2007 our government has committed to spending over a trillion pounds to bail out banks? What does it say about their priorities if they’re able to find the money to save the banks, bomb Afghanistan, bomb Iraq, bomb Libya, and now they’re wanting to start a fresh war in Syria, but cannot find the funds for schools and hospitals?’

I stare at him in dismay.

‘The truth is there are billions to be gained by going after the big boys, but no one’s doing it. On the day our government acts to squeeze these massive tax cheats you’re welcome to break my balls about the morality of my tax avoidance schemes and lecture me about your utopian ideals of wealth redistribution. Until then, give me a fucking break.’

I pick up my glass of wine and drain it. I put it back on the table slowly. It’s possible that without realizing it I’ve drunk far too much. My head feels foggy. In my incapacitated state, I’m unable to come up with a single suitable argument to support my cause. My heart knows that even though his argument seems logical, it’s not right. It can’t be.

He looks at me almost sadly. ‘You remind me of that old Led Zepplin classic, Stairway to Heaven. You’re the woman who believes that everything that glitters is gold and that you’re buying a stairway to heaven. But your stairway is whispering in the wind, Ella.’

SIX

The strings of a lute are alone

Though they quiver with the same music.

                            —Khalil Gibran

Unable to meet his eyes, I stare blankly at a waiter refilling my glass. When he straightens the bottle I’m shocked to realize that I’ve drunk more than half of it. That on top of the vodka and the champagne cocktail! No wonder he’s running rings around me with his flawed ‘I’ll pay if they pay’ reasoning.

He moves closer. ‘Are you drunk yet?’ he whispers.

Up close and suddenly he seems wild and full of dirty promises. I lean toward him like a moth to a flame. ‘Were you deliberately trying to get me drunk?’

‘Wouldn’t you if you were me?’

My mind chases its own tail. ‘Why do you want me to be drunk?’

‘Can you handle the truth?’ His eyes are hooded.

‘Of course.’

‘Because you’re the kind of inhibited woman who needs to be intoxicated before she can explore her deepest desires. This way, you don’t have to be responsible for your actions. “I was so drunk,” you can say to your best friend tomorrow morning.’

It’s a far cry from the truth—I’d sleep with him without even a whiff of alcohol—but I’ll be damned before I tell him that. ‘Very confident of yourself, aren’t you?’

‘I like playing with fire, Miss Savage.’

His phone must have vibrated in his pocket because he takes it out and looks at it. ‘Do you mind?’ he asks.

I shake my head.

‘Hey, Ma,’ he says, and listens while she tells him something. ‘She did?’ he says, and smiles, and it is a genuine smile. A soft, warm smile. I stare at him in surprise. I don’t want to know that he has a mother whom he obviously adores. And I realize I can’t go through with my plan of sleeping with him for one crazy night. I know having sex with him will open a door and what comes through I might not be able to control. He has the capacity to hurt me. I am too affected by him. I feel things that I have never felt before.

His eyes lift up, meet mine, and the smile freezes. ‘I’ve got to go, Ma, but I’ll pass by tomorrow. Give it to me then? OK. Bye.’ He puts his phone away.

I look him in the eye. ‘I can’t have sex with you.’

‘Why not?’ he asks huskily.

I lean back against the chair, the alcohol buzzing in my veins. There’s a pulsing in my temples. Telling him the real truth is out of the question. The half-truth is the only option. ‘Because you’re a crook.’

His eyes flash with real fury. All that urbane and polite stuff before was just a façade. This is the real Dominic Eden. The hothead who can be exploited by the right person. Maybe even me.

‘On what evidence are you basing your accusation?’ he asks coldly.

‘Instinct.’

‘That won’t hold up anywhere. Until you find some evidence to support your “instinct”, I suggest you refrain from making such wild accusations.’

‘I’ll find it,’ I say, knowing it is an empty threat. Tomorrow I walk away from him and this case forever. For now I’ll pretend that I’m the big, tough tax investigator.

‘I’m sure you’ll try.’

‘Don’t underestimate me.’ My voice actually sounds harsh.

He smiles: a megawatt smile. It takes my breath away, lights up the room and registers as another warning in my heated brain.

I let my eyes travel down to his brown throat. It’s not fair that a man should be this gorgeous. My eyes slide back upwards to those firm, kiss me slow lips, and up to his eyes. They are heavy-lidded. The eyelashes thick and stubby, the blue of his irises so intense they’re piercing. To my horror, my alcohol-fueled body responds. My nipples tighten and harden.

‘I need to go home,’ I choke.

He lifts his hand. A waiter brings the check in a leather book. He opens it, glances at it, and leaves a wad of notes between the leather.

I play my part. ‘Cash?’ I taunt.

‘Every fucking time.’ His eyes suck me in.

I resist the pull. ‘Why’s that?’

‘I like the smell of money.’

‘People with things to hide pay with cash.’

‘At the risk of repeating myself, people who don’t want their bank and every fucking government surveillance agency in the world to have access to their entire fucking lives do, too. You ready to go?’

I nod and stand, swaying slightly.

His brows knit. It makes him all dark and brooding. Like my favorite hero of all time, Heathcliff. ‘You all right?’ he asks.

‘Absolutely,’ I say, and, straightening my shoulders, precede him out of the restaurant. We go back down the stairs. A man is coming up and he stares at me with barefaced interest. As he passes us, Dom stops, puts his hands on either side of the man’s head, and turns his face so that it’s pointing straight ahead instead of at me. The man’s eyes bulge with shock and fear. He’s only a head shorter than Dom, but he looks like a scared rabbit in the jaws of a tiger.

I watch Dom pat the man’s cheek condescendingly before he turns to me and we carry on down the stairs. I glance back and the man is walking on up, his head stiffly held forward, too frightened to turn around and look at either of us. Fuck! That was like a scene from a Mafia movie.