If she had only realised exactly who the rugged, slightly nervous photographer was, Joanne would have approached the entire situation differently.

But she hadn’t known. Not two weeks ago, anyway.

She shuffled paperwork around on her desk, just reorganising it, not actually processing any of it. She hated feeling distracted like this when there was so much work to get through.

She had been a full partner at Walker, Dent and Scott now for four years, and the time had flown by. It had always seemed to be the case that either very little happened in her life or, without warning, major events sprang up in super-quick time.

That was how it had been when she met the photographer, as it still amused her to call him.

She had no reason to complain about anything, told herself every day that life was good. She was now secure financially and Piper was growing up into a clever, gregarious young person whom Joanne felt proud to parent.

On top of this, she truly loved her work and, without wanting to sound boastful, knew she was damn good at it. Her rapid rise in the legal profession was testament to this.

She had built a first-rate team around her at Walker, Dent and Scott. The support team of paralegals and administrative staff served all three partners, but in reality, they all had their preferred staff.

Roy and Dan, the other two partners, often worked with men but Joanne, understanding that the glass ceiling really did exist in the legal world, found satisfaction in giving other talented females a chance to shine where she could.

As a result, she got to know some of her staff better than others, particularly the women. She had her own private office on the second floor but tried to move around the building as much as she could, not least because her personal trainer told her to do something active for at least five minutes of each hour for the sake of her thighs, if not her workload.

So she often heard the staff talking about their personal lives. It was hard not to take bits in as she walked around the office. Some of them seemed to do nothing but gossip all day long, but she tried not to get dragged down into disciplining staff like a schoolteacher. Anya was both the office manager and the partners’ PA and that was her job.

Also, there was an unwritten policy that directed that the three partners should endeavour to separate themselves from everyday office affairs.

One of the functions of Anya’s role was to relay any rumblings of discontent or personal problems the staff were experiencing so the partners didn’t personally get drawn in but could be made aware.

Anya also liked a little gossip now and then when she brought Joanne’s coffee through.

Joanne was vaguely aware that the newly qualified paralegal, Emma Barton, had a husband and a little girl, Maisie, who was around the same age as her own daughter. The girls attended the same dance school in town, in one of Joanne’s own buildings, in fact. They often nodded to each other at drop-off or pick-up, but that was about it.

There were far more experienced paralegals in the team, but Joanne hadn’t forgotten how Emma had opened her heart in a recent professional development interview. She’d mentioned her marriage problems and admitted she was driven to better herself because, growing up, her father had constantly told her she’d never make anything of herself.

That need to prove her worth had resonated with Joanne on a very deep level. It had been one of the many things she’d tried hard to bury years ago. Suffice to say, some things just didn’t want to stay hidden, and that was a problem, because hers was a childhood she’d rather forget.

Unlike some other local legal outfits, Walker, Dent and Scott were not the kind of firm who threw glitzy parties that ended up in the ‘Who’s Who’ pages of the glossy Nottinghamshire Aspect magazine. The most they did was take the staff out for a quiet lunch each year, usually at Hart’s restaurant, a week before Christmas.

So although she knew he existed, Joanne had never met Emma’s husband, Shaun.

This year, Walker, Dent and Scott had the honour of being chosen to host the annual legal conference for the East Midlands region. Roy and Dan had asked Joanne if she fancied organising the event, and she’d readily agreed. It was just her cup of tea.

She booked out the ballroom at nearby Colwick Hall. Once the ancestral home of Lord Byron, it was an ornate and impressive building set in extensive grounds on the River Trent. Joanne felt sure the legal eagles from surrounding towns and cities couldn’t fail to be impressed by the hand-painted ceiling and majestic pillars. It was the perfect venue to cement Walker, Dent and Scott as the premier legal practice in Nottinghamshire.

She’d organised canapés and champagne for arriving guests and a four-course lunch served at white-linen-dressed round tables for ten.

Just as one speech was coming to an end, she’d spotted a couple of flashes from the back of the room. She’d slipped from her table and stalked over to the man in dark clothing clutching a fearsome-looking long-lens camera.

‘Who are you and who do you work for?’ she’d demanded in clipped tones, fearing he had been sent by a rival law firm intent on stealing her ideas.

‘My name is Shaun Barton and I’m freelance.’ He raised the palm of his free hand in the air, the width of his shoulders and muscular biceps not lost on Joanne.

She was trying to act fearsome, but there was something about this tall man, with his rugged good looks, his slightly arrogant stance but shy manner, that completely disarmed her.

‘The Post asked me to come along to get a few shots for the Nottinghamshire Aspect magazine. Apparently someone asked if they could cover the event.’

‘Oh!’ Joanne felt the creases slide from her brow, and she smiled widely at him. ‘In that case, carry on, thank you.’

She turned to walk away and then hesitated, two glasses of champagne lending her a little more sauce than usual. ‘If you fancy a glass of champagne and a bite to eat, my table is over there.’ She pointed with an oval nude fingernail. ‘We had a no-show.’

Ten minutes later, Shaun Barton slid into the seat beside her, and he stayed there until the end of the afternoon.

The man was a tangle of interesting contradictions that, to Joanne’s equal delight and annoyance, got her heart racing a little faster. It was a long time since she’d felt that.

Much later, back home and sitting on her balcony with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, she poured herself a well-earned glass of Rioja. She had a warm glow of satisfaction in her chest, signifying a job well done and the fact that she had Shaun Barton’s business card in her handbag.

The next morning, she drove to work, unusually pumped up with anticipation for the day ahead.

She smiled to herself mischievously, recalling Shaun’s mesmerising blue-green eyes and forceful square jawline. They’d been unable to focus solely on each other as there was important networking to be done, especially for Joanne, as the event host. Still, they’d managed to engage in a little small talk and enjoy the invisible electricity that crackled between them.

The journey into work was swift, as she’d left the house earlier than usual, thanking her lucky stars that Piper was on a youth hostel trip in Derbyshire with school for the week. For once, events seemed to have conspired to help her, rather than hinder her.

She parked the car in the otherwise empty staff bays and stopped halfway across the car park to fish the office keys out of her handbag.

When she looked up, she saw Shaun Barton standing by the office door. He looked even taller and broader than she remembered. Her heart thundered in her chest and her mouth felt dry.

‘Could you spare me a few minutes?’ he said cautiously as she drew closer. ‘I’ve come to apologise.’