<b>Chapter </b><b>572 </b>
In the dimly–lit bathroom, Arnold cleared his throat so aggressively that the whiskey he had been nursing threatened to make a violenteback. Amongst his siblings, he was notoriously the lightest drinker and whiskey, in particr, was his nemesis.
Despite his efforts to expel the fiery liquid, his head spun with dizziness, and his throat scorched as though scraped by a de.
“Arnold, look at yourself, making a scene for nothing. She doesn’t even notice you, and here you are, agonizing over nothing.”
He sshed his face with cold water, running his fingers through his damp hair, slicking back the wet strands that hung over his forehead. Even in his disheveled state, his handsome features, now pale from the ordeal, shone under the soft lighting, alluring even at his most vulnerable.
“Jesus, I’m such an idiot.” he murmured, massaging his temples. The frustration inside him was a stubborn knot, refusing to unravel.
As he pushed open the door to leave, he stumbled into a warm and fragrant presence just outside.
“Ah!” Camille eximed, almost losing her bnce in her towering stilettos.
Although slightly buzzed, Arnold’s reflexes didn’t fail him. His arm sn*ked around her slender waist, pulling her close to prevent
her fall.
Their eyes met, breaths mingling, the heat from their bodies building a silent storm of sighs and unspoken words.
Arnold’s mind shed back to their first k*ss, born out of a desperate attempt to save a life, an encounter that had left him restless and longing.
Now, as he looked into her eyes, the same intense feelings surged through him, and he found himself unwilling to let go.
“Can you let go of me now?” Camille’s voice trembled, her palm instinctively pressing against his chest.
“Why are you ignoring me?” Arnold’s directness, perhaps fueled by the alcohol, cut through the air. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me, Ms. Camille? Or is your memory failing you?”
“How could I forget?” Camille’s fingers curled slightly against his chest, trying to ground herself. “You are Mr. Arnold Ashbourne, Evadne’s brother.”
“Then why ignore me?” he persisted.
“I was preupied.” Camille’s eyes darted away.
Arnold’s brows knitted together, anger ring. “Preupied? You know me as well as you know Evadne. How could you possibly be too preupied for me?”
“Prosecutor Arnold, it’s not like you have to greet everyone you know, right? It’s not a crime to ignore you.”
Camille struggled within his embrace. “Let go. I need to get back.”
His gaze darkened, his hold tightening. “Acquaintances? Do acquaintances k*ss each other as we did? Ms. Camille, I think you might be misunderstanding the term.”
“Kiss? When did we…<b>” </b>
Before Camille could process her shock, Arnold’s l*ps descended on hers, deepening the k*ss with a desperation that bordered on
devouring.
“Mmm.” A soft moan escaped her, and her resistance melted away.
Her hands iled weakly against his chest before sliding down in defeat. In a sh of rity<b>, </b>the full memory of their past encounter came rushing back <b>to </b>her.
As Arnold slowly pulled away<b>, </b><b>his </b>eyes opened to meet hers.
<b>“</b>Looks like <b>you </b>remember now<b>,</b>” he said with a teasing curve to his breathless voice. “Last time, you clung to me. Now, it’s my turn. We’re <b>even</b>.”
Even? Had he the audacity to suggest that after forcing a k*ss upon <b>her</b><b>? </b>
Camille’s cheeks flushed with indignation<b>, </b>and <b>she </b>didn’t care that he was her mentor’s brother. She wanted to <b>p </b>him, regardless of <b>the </b>consequences<b>, </b><b>but </b>her hand <b>merely </b>fluttered weakly<b>, </b>easily caught by Arnold.
He pressed her hand to his cheek, his eyes half–closed. “Don’t be angry<b>, </b>think of your health.”
A drop of water trailed <b>down </b>his temple<b>, </b>adding a sensual wetness <b>to </b>his striking features<b>, </b><b>his </b>eyes shimmering, “If you still crave my life–saving breaths, then by all means, continue.”
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“You!” Camille’s face burned with a mix of anger and embarrassment. Arnold was undeniably handsome, and even though he bore a resemnce to President Ashbourne, he was a world <b>apart </b>from his brooding brother.
Gathering her wits, Camille turned the tables, her hands climbing his broad shoulders as she asked with a teasing lilt, “Prosecutor Arnold, you’re so concerned about me, could <b>it </b>be that you like me?<b>” </b>
Like<b>? </b>
The word shone a light into Arnold’s hazy eyes. “Are you asking seriously?”
“You dare to answer<b>?</b>” she challenged, expecting him to back down.
In her mind, she didn’t belong in the world of the Ashbourne family, a dynasty of power and pride. Her international fame as a designer meant nothing with a mother used of murder and her less–than–noble origins.
“I like you,” Arnold confessed, cutting through her tumultuous thoughts.
“Wh–what<b>?</b><b>” </b>
<b>“</b>I like you. If I didn’t, would I care if you ignored me? Would I hold you, k*ss you?”
Arnold’s gaze burned with an intensity that matched the pounding of his heart.
He had <b>to </b>admit that the alcohol had been a catalyst, but he vehemently denied that it had the power to conjure feelings or sway his convictions. “Ms. Camille,” he said with an earnest rity that defied the influence of any spirits, “I am a man of integrity, not some wayward yboy swayed by mere lust. All the signs point to one undeniable truth–I like you. There’s no need for tests or trials; I’ve owned up to it.”
Camille was speechless.
A paragon of virtue, indeed–a prosecutor of justice.
Even his confession was so logical, so refreshingly pure.
“Moreover, I k*ssed you.” Arnold’s longshes lowered as he leaned in once more, edging closer to her rosy l*ps. “I don’t care if that was your first k*ss or not, but I feel that I owe it to you to take responsibility.”
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