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eyebrow raised as he looks at me confrontationally.

“Up for . . . what exactly?” I purr. Stop it, Maeve! Take that flirtatious tone out of your voice immediately.

Mark looks surprised. Shit. He hadn't been flirting. I fucked up. I must be cool. Businesslike. I do not get involved with men I work with anymore, and I certainly do not get involved with men who belong to other people.

“What were you thinking?” he says slowly, and now I am confused, because I can't work out from his tone whether he's flirting, or whether he has no idea of the inference behind my words.

“Nothing,” I say succinctly, before leaning toward him and murmuring quietly in his ear. “Just wondering whether you and I, given our responsible positions, ought to be getting drunk with the team.”

Mark laughs as Shelley arrives with, sure enough, a bottle of tequila, a plate of limes, and a bowl of salt. Mark pours his tequila and knocks it back, no lemon or salt required. “You know what I think?” He wipes his mouth and pours another. “I think that after the day I've had I deserve to get drunk. In fact I deserve to get royally pissed.” He then pours another glass and this time pushes it over to me. “And I also think that you need to let your hair down and have some fun,” and he looks deep into my eyes and I pick up that glass and throw it down my throat as quickly as I can.

Stella is watching us. I can feel her eyes burning every time I look away, and I try to position my body so I can't actually see her face when I am talking to Mark, but it is hard.

I am trying desperately not to flirt with Mark, to treat him as a distant work colleague, but there seems to be an intimacy between us, and I could swear it's not my imagination, nor because we are having a heated discussion about the Royal Family, and Mark and I are the only pro-royalists round the table.

Actually, pro might be pushing it. But I'm certainly not anti as all my interns appear to be, accusing them of being paid far too much money and of being outdated with no role in society other than as figures of fun.

“But you can't possibly hate the Queen Mum,” Mark says, at one point. “She's just a sweet old lady.”

“Do we detect a hint of sentimentality beneath that tough lawyer veneer?” Nat leans forward with a smile that, thanks to the amount of booze, is very definitely more of a leer.

“Beneath this tough lawyer veneer beats a heart of gold,” Mark says, smiling.

“I bet you say that to all the girls.” Nat's flirting, and I feel a flash of irritation which I quickly suppress. I am very aware of Mark sitting next to me. His arm accidentally brushes mine, and my arm suddenly feels heavy, immobile, and I want to move it but somehow I can't. All I can do is sit and feel the light blond hairs on his arm brush my skin, and try to look away because the sensation is all-consuming, and if I look at our arms touching, I'm not sure I'll be able to make it through this evening. It will be too overwhelming.

By the way, this feeling is not new to me. Love? You must be joking. This feeling—my heightened senses, the fact that I am aware of every movement he makes, every tap of the finger, every blink of the eye—is lust. Good old unadulterated lust. God, I love this feeling. And I had forgotten exactly how good it felt.

But I do not mess with married men. I do not mess with married men. I do not mess with married men.

But he's not married . . . does that count?

Could I get away with it? He is, after all, unhappy, and I don't, after all, have any illusions about happy ever afters, so is it worth the risk?

I tune out of the conversation, putting my lust to one side as I consider the risk. I have been working at London Daytime Television for one week. So far I am very happy here. Could see myself working here for a very long time. Hell, as far as I'm concerned, I can picture the workmen taking down the plaque on the door that says “Mike Jones” and replacing it with one that says “Maeve Robertson.”

I could climb the ladder to