by Kate Meader
Laws of Attraction, #2
Publication Date: January 22, 2019
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance, Loveswept



Rule #1: Never fall for your client.
Rule #2: Never fall for your client’s fiercely protective, smoking hot sister-in-law.

I’m the kind of guy who believes that everyone deserves the best legal representation money can buy—which just so happens to be me, Lucas Wright. Give me your henpecked, your cuckolded, your irreconcilable differences yearning to break free! And if you’re the bad guy in your marriage, that’s cool too. Your green is as good as anyone’s.

Tell that to Trinity Jones. It’s my job to destroy her sister—the soon-to-be ex-wife of my a-hole of a client—and Trinity’s “big sis” instincts are dialed up to the max. I admire that. I admire her. But she won’t stop me from representing my client to the best of my ability.

Not even if my chemistry with Trinity is undeniable. Not even if we can’t keep our hands off each other. Not even if she injects life into a heart assumed to be long dead.

Because when faced with a choice between love and duty, the job will always win—or at least that’s what I thought before I met Trinity . . . and suddenly conflict of interest never felt so right.

This ebook includes an excerpt from another Loveswept title.


Hottie Brit has returned. Or never went away.

Before he sees me, I take a moment to watch him unobserved. Long fingers are wrapped around a pint glass, which we don’t see a lot of down here. The Library is a fancy cocktail kind of place. That too-long-on-top dark hair is mussed, as if he had to abuse it to temper his energy. A small scar bisecting his eyebrow makes him a little less pretty and a lot more interesting.

The air around him thrums even as he sits still, like a Broadway musical might break out any moment.

Gideon squints to tell me Hottie Brit is out of here the minute I say the word. I smile to let him know I’ve got this. Maybe HB didn’t stay for me, though deep down I know that’s not true. My pulse picks up at the thought. It’s been awhile—a long, lonely while—since anyone this attractive has hit on me.

I’ll let it buoy me and fuel a few British-accented fantasies later.

As soon as HB sees me he switches off his phone and places it facedown on the bar. I’m oddly touched.

“Hello, again. Lucas Wright at your service.” He offers his hand, curiously formal.

I’m stunned enough into grasping that hand, its warmth life affirming and not a little zingy. “Trinity Jones. Literally at your service.”

He smiles. Charmingly crooked, it lights up his eyes, his cheekbones, and my very neglected lady parts. His irises are the blue of a curaçao cocktail, one with a sting in its tail.

He still hasn’t released my hand. “I’m not really a whiskey drinker, hence my—”

“Resistance to the tasting?” I finish for him.

“People usually make fun of things they don’t understand, right? Give me a nice pint any day.” His self-deprecation throws me for a second, and while I try to measure how calculated it is, he leans in slightly. “Does this mean we can’t be friends?”

My attitude toward him is far from friendly. Not exactly hostile, but something more discomfiting: a wriggle in my stomach and a lurch in my chest. The first I attribute to attraction, the second . . . I’m not sure yet.

I release his hand. “I’ve no doubt a guy like you has plenty of friends.”

“You can never have enough friends, Trinity.”

“Or friendly bartenders to unload your troubles on.”

He flicks a glance to Gideon, who’s watching us from a semisafe distance, ready to lunge into action at the first sign of trouble. “Now Treebeard over there doesn’t look so friendly.”

Treebeard? That’s perfect. I can’t wait to tell Gideon. “Just protective. We look out for one another here.”

HB holds up his hands, palms facing me. “I’ve been warned!” Then he waves at Gideon, who hipster-scowls back. The exchange makes me smile, but I turn away to grab a bar towel before Lucas can see it. Can’t make it too easy for him.

“So, Trinity, I have a proposition for you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Uh-huh. Now, I imagine you get this a lot, working here.” He waves around, somewhat effusively. This guy has an entertainer gene. Probably can sing and dance as well.

“I’ve had a few . . . propositions.”

“I bet. Slimy, handsy old geezers incapable of making eye contact and drooling all over the bar.” He makes a point of looking at a spot two feet south of my face.

I point at my chest. “Uh, my tits are up here, asshole.”

He grins. “Just taking the lechery to its logical conclusion. The lecher so drunk he can’t even lech right.”

“Don’t think lech is a verb.”

“Is when I do it.”

This makes no sense, but I laugh, the sound unrestrained and genuine, and catch Gideon out of the corner of my eye. He disapproves. Whatever. I can laugh at funny, hottie, nonsensical Brits if I want to. It’s not as if I’m going to let him banter his way into my bed. It’s just nice to be the target of an attractive guy for once.


Originally from Ireland, USA Today bestselling author Kate Meader cut her romance reader teeth on Maeve Binchy and Jilly Cooper novels, with some Harlequins thrown in for variety. Give her tales about brooding mill owners, oversexed equestrians, and men who can rock an apron or a fire hose, and she’s there. Now based in Chicago, she writes sexy contemporary romance with alpha heroes and strong heroines who can match their men quip for quip.

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