Time wore on and drink flowed but Paloma seemed content to just sip her champagne so as her peers got drunker and rowdier, she remained a picture of elegance. Finally, she asked Joe, “Can we have just one photo, Osito? Bond and his girl?”
“Go on, then. Before I whisk you away in my helicopter.” Joe got ready to pose, then wondered where Paloma kept her phone. “Shall we take it on my phone?”
“I haven’t got mine, I feel naked without it.” She took his arm. “Will you take me home with you tonight, Sergeant?”
“But of course. It’s a lovely place in Highgate, actually. And I’m sure Alejandro won’t mind. It’s his house, but he’s a friendly sort.” Joe took out his phone. He went straight to the camera app, avoiding all the notifications that had sprung up because he really didn’t need to see anything from Wendy at that moment. He held the phone up. “Ready?”
“I was born ready,” Paloma told him saucily, slipping her arm around his waist. “I hope you take the armour off in bed.”
Joe shook his head. Taking Paloma to bed would undoubtedly lead to the most amazing night of Joe’s life, but he well knew that his principal, even in drag, was off-limits. “Ms Picante, we need to talk. Now, photo?”
“Photo,” she agreed, composing a suitably sultry smile for the camera.
Joe held the camera up in front of them. Their images appeared on the screen. Joe almost didn’t recognise himself. His eyes had lit up and he was grinning broadly even though he hadn’t been aware of it. When had he last looked so happy? And when he last been so utterly conflicted?
Joe took the photo. “I’ll…send it to you. You can stick it on Insta, if you like?”
“Or we could make it just ours?” she asked, batting her eyelashes. “To remember our special night?”
“It’s…very special, yes.” But there couldn’t be an ours or an us. There couldn’t be for so many reasons, and Joe had to look away as he didn’t want Paloma to see it on his face. Not yet. He felt nothing short of desolate, to discover Paloma again, and to be offered a second chance that was impossible for him to take.
Paloma took Joe’s arm and asked, “Take me home, Osito?”
“I’ll get us a car.”
They didn’t have long to wait, but in that time, Joe found a message from Patrick. He must’ve seen photos of Paloma’s performance.
How splendidly unexpected.
Joe sent his reply.
Very.
Paloma clung to his arm as they approached the car, showing no signs of letting go. But she would have to. They both had to.
“Sit with me?” she asked as he opened the car door for her.
“I’m your CPO,” Joe reminded her with a forced grin. “You know I have to sit in the front.”
As much as he would’ve given anything to sit in the back with her. To behave as if the reason for him being there wasn’t because he was paid to protect her. And what would the driver say on his tea break to the others?
Someone should tell Sergeant Wenlock that Paloma isn’t really a woman!
“We’ll soon be home,” she decided, settling into the seat. “It’s not too long to wait.”
Joe bent to scoop the hem of Paloma’s gown into the car so it wouldn’t flutter outside the door. He nodded to her, then sat in the front.
And they drove all the back to Highgate in silence, Paloma’s heady perfume filling the car like a promise unfulfilled.
Joe checked his phone, finding photos of Paloma’s performance all over social media. Nothing from Wendy yet, but as several photos showed Paloma sitting on Joe’s lap, Wendy would not remain silent for long.
Was my face really that red?
But people would assume it was the embarrassment of a straight man, not the anguish of a gay man who’d been hiding his identity for years.
He’s a wind-up merchant, Joe reminded himself, but Paloma’s attentions tonight hadn’t seemed like a wind-up. It was more like a seduction, a moment he had thought was lost on Halloween, a chance to be more than strangers. And no matter how much he wanted it, how much Alejandro and Paloma had enchanted him, Joe knew that he couldn’t. He couldn’t have the pretty, fiery man any more than he could the beautiful, poised woman he became.
He had to ask for a new principal.
Chapter Six
The car pulled up in a gap near to Alejandro’s home. Joe looked around for any risks, and saw a group of what looked like a bunch of bored teenagers heading up the street. They’d probably been drinking cider in the park, or perhaps smoking something, because they were hyped up and noisy as they came along the pavement.
“Wait, please, Mr Fuente, until they’ve gone past.”
“Whatever you say,” was the sweet reply.
Joe sent one more message to Control.
Peanut back at home.
The kids whooped their way past, apparently not noticing three people sat in a car waiting at the kerb. Once they were several metres away, Joe climbed out of the car and opened Paloma’s door for her. She exited with the same elegance she had shown all night, bidding the driver farewell before she took Joe’s arm again.
“I think I possibly misjudged you,” she told him softly. “I’m sorry for that.”
“You or Alejandro?” Joe asked with a grin as he led them to the front door. “I think I can understand why you were so cross with me. We’ve ended up thrown together, and it’s not exactly… Well, it’s awkward, isn’t it?”
“I’m Alejandro too.” She laughed, squeezing his arm. “It doesn’t have to be awkward. Nobody need know what happens when the door closes, Osito, and I think there’s more than a spark, isn’t there?”
Joe put his hand over Paloma’s where it rested on his arm. Then, trying not to wince, Joe removed her hand. “A CPO cannot have a relationship with their principal. At best, I’d be reassigned. At worst, I’d be sacked.” Joe took a ragged breath. He couldn’t speak like a rule book forever. “I really, really like you. I’ve got your rose under my pillow, but…even if there is a spark, Alejandro—there can’t be.”
“But it happens, we both know that. Everybody knows.” She blinked, hope still shining in her eyes. “Or is it because there’s a boy under this paint and padding and that’s the real problem? Is that it, Joe?”
“I kissed you knowing you were a man. You stroked me, and I knew you were a man. I didn’t stop you, because I wanted it. What does that tell you?”
I’m gay, for God’s sake.
“There are lots of men who like a boy in geish, not so much when he takes off his paint.” He could hear anguish in her voice and more, annoyance welling beneath it. She glanced to the street, where the youths’ voices were growing louder again. They should be indoors, not standing out here like targets. “And they’re always married. I thought you liked me as me, not just this! I thought— Zak’s right, I am stupid, aren’t I?”
“We’re both stupid standing here!” Joe tried to joke as he took the key from his pocket. “I need to talk to you properly, not—”
Joe didn’t have time to finish his sentence. A flash of light roared into his peripheral vision, a vivid burst of sparks, and he only had time to grab Paloma around her middle and pull her down the steps onto the pavement, his body shielding her where they lay as a firework exploded against the front door.
There was so much noise out of nowhere, Paloma’s shriek, the sound of a car engine and the voices of the youths—the idiots who had thrown the firework—raised in alarm.
“Fuck!” a young man shouted. “You all right, mate?”
Joe lifted his head and squinted at the teenagers. He was struggling to see anything clearly as the firework repeated and repeated, a furious purple afterimage with each blink. “No thanks to you! What the hell do you think you’re doing, throwing fireworks at people like that? You’re all under arrest!”
He glanced down at Paloma. “Are you okay?”
“My dad’s gonna kill me!” One of the boys advanced and Joe was surprised that not one
of the group had fled. “Shit!”
“Rupert?” Alejandro’s voice thundered from beneath Joe and the boy gave an audible groan of anguish. “Let me up, Sergeant! He lives two doors along. I fixed his mother’s Ascot hat when he flew a drone into it!”
Joe pushed himself back to his feet and held out his hand to Paloma. But he was still on edge, adrenaline still pumping through him, and he scanned the street for any further threats. “And repaid you by chucking a firework at us.”
“No!” Rupert started forward as Paloma took Joe’s hand and allowed him to draw her to her feet. “We didn’t throw it! There was a car!” He looked to his three friends, each of whom looked as terrified as him. “You heard it! We wouldn’t—”
But he was silenced by Paloma, who stopped to retrieve something from the floor and gave a howl of rage. In her hand was a shimmering red shoe, its heel hanging by a narrow thread of leather. She rounded on the lot of them, Joe included, and screamed, “My Romy!”
“Your what-y?” But Joe had heard the car too. The boys didn’t seem likely suspects. Joe had to balance getting Alejandro out of the path of any further fireworks with getting contact details from a group of rather shocked teenagers. He was already back at the front door, where a patch of soot marked the paint. The remains of the rocket had to be about somewhere, but he wasn’t about to go groping in the dark for it now. “I’m going to report this, but you might be asked to give witness statements, okay? I’ve got to get Mr Fuente indoors now.”
“Jódete!” Paloma barked at the youngsters. “And you’re paying for this shoe. Tomorrow, your mother and I will talk, Rupert!”
“Shit,” Rupert muttered, but he seemed to realise that was slightly better than being arrested. “Can we go for now?”
“Yes.” As Joe put the key in the lock, he looked back at the boys. “If you lot are often wandering about, do me a favour? Keep an eye out, won’t you? Not just for yourselves, but if you see anyone hanging about Mr Fuente’s house, acting suspiciously, I want to know.”
“No problem,” Rupert agreed and his companions nodded. Then, street as anything, they sloped off towards their Highgate houses. Paloma watched them go with a fierce glare, muttering darkly under her breath. Only when they were lost from sight did she spin on her remaining heel and turn that glare on Joe.
“I want to go out again,” she told him. “I want to go into town.”
“A firework nearly took your head off. You’re going indoors.” Joe knew Paloma would struggle to walk in one heel, so he lifted her into his arms and went into the house.
“I don’t want to!” She threw the damaged shoe down onto the floor, slamming it into the rug. “Put me down! I want to go dancing! Put me down!”
Joe strode over to the sofa where he deposited her before taking out his phone. “You’re staying here where you’re safe, and I’m calling in the firework incident.”
So bloody well keep it down!
“My fucking Romy,” she howled. “And you! You— I banged my head! I’ve got leaves in my wig!”
Joe turned his back on Paloma and put a call through to Patrick. “Commander Holloway? I need to report an attack on Peanut.”
“Speak,” Patrick told him with a hint of urgency under his usual calm demeanour. Paloma began to rant again, a string of Spanish invective filling the air. “I’m assuming everything is under control? Peanut certainly sounds as though he’s in rude health.”
“Peanut is unharmed, sir. But…” He glanced over his shoulder at the furious, one-shoed redhead. “But shaken up. We were entering Peanut’s home less than five minutes ago, when a firework was launched at her. I mean, him. I got Peanut onto the ground, and the worse that’s happened is that the front door needs a touch-up, but I have reason to believe that it was launched from a car. I distinctly heard a car, and a group of lads hanging about heard it too. I’ve told them to expect to be called to give statements, but with any luck, we might get something on the CCTV.”
“I’m not a fucking peanut!” Paloma bellowed. “I want some chips!”
“Could you maybe ask Peanut to be a little calmer? It’s rather difficult to hear,” Patrick told him. “A firework? Is there any possibility this was seasonal hijinks?”
And nobody knew the danger of explosives more than the commander. They’d robbed him of his health, after all.
“Mr Fuente, if you please?” Joe went back to the call. “There’s a small chance, of course, but this does seem too targeted, sir. By the way, if there’s anything left of the rocket, it’s probably somewhere on the area steps, but I didn’t have time to look as I needed to get Mr Fuente inside.”
“I’ll send some officers over,” Patrick assured him. “I’ll have extra detail put on the house overnight and I’ve received a request for Peanut to visit Ironclad at eleven o’clock tomorrow. I’ll have the driver bring you to the Greenhouse when he’s safely deposited, we’ll go over this.”
“If I please?” Paloma asked furiously. “If I please?”
Joe put his hand over the mouthpiece. “If you could please lower the volume, Mr Fuente! I’ve got Commander Holloway on the line.” Joe went back to his conversation with Patrick. “Okay, sir. Will do. I’ll see you tomorrow. And…sorry about the noise. Peanut’s on edge.”
“There’ll be officers with you in a few minutes. Tell him there’s nothing to be afraid of, nobody’s getting through. I’ll see you tomorrow, Joe, try and settle him.”
“Goodnight, sir.” Joe ended the call. He sighed. “Let’s get you nice and calm. Can I make you a hot chocolate?”
“Is that a joke?” She glared up at him. “I want some chips.”
“Why would it be a—?” Joe closed his eyes and remembered the street café where he and Paloma had sat together, drinking hot chocolate. Bloody hell. He dropped to the seat beside Paloma. “I’m so sorry. Can we talk, please?”
She shrugged. “You’re going to anyway.”
Joe took Paloma’s hand. “I can’t be your protection officer anymore.” She looked at him, tears filling her eyes. But she said nothing. “It’s not because I don’t like you,” Joe went on. “It’s because…because I like you too much. We can’t have a relationship if I’m your protection officer.”
“I’ve met men like you.” Paloma slid off her other shoe and dropped it onto the floor. “Men who like all this, but don’t like Alejo so much. They’re always married. They’d tell you they’re straight. How dare you? You don’t want a relationship with me, you just want to fuck a boy in geish!”
“Don’t assume anything about me.” Joe let go of Paloma’s hand and pressed his fingertips against his temples. A headache was thrumming at the edge of his skull and he closed his eyes only to see the afterimage of the firework again. It could’ve killed them both. It could’ve sent him into hospital like the car that had tried to run down the duchess. “Yes, I am married. And it’s been shit from the moment I signed the register. And I only have myself to blame. But just…don’t assume.”
“Does your wife know you get hard for drag queens?” Paloma rose to her feet, furious tears spilling down her face, trailing rivers of mascara in their wake. And she’s still as beautiful as ever. “And what happens if your bosses find out? What happens if I tell? I’m going to bed, Sergeant. If I were you, I’d pack my bags and say my prayers!”
“Please don’t tell. Please, Mr Fuente, please don’t breathe a word to anyone.” Joe’s desperate whine would’ve sounded pathetic if he’d heard it from anyone else. Wheedling, pleading.
Buck up, Sergeant Wenlock! Are you a man or a mouse?
A mouse, a fucking pathetic mouse.
Paloma said nothing, but the look she gave him was withering. Then she swept from the room, leaving him alone.
Chapter Seven
So it was over, then. A moment of madness, and Joe was finished. He’d end up patrolling the perimeter of a warehouse, with an Alsatian on a lead sniffing at the chain-link fence. And after he’d ridden in limousines with princes
. What a spectacular fall from grace.
He sighed and leaned back against the cushions, just as The Flight of the Bumblebee burst from his phone.
Wendy would like to FaceTime.
Joe wondered if he could pretend he hadn’t heard his phone ring, but he knew how persistent Wendy could be. She’d keep trying until he gave in and answered. So, plastering on a grin, he answered.
“Wendy, how are you? Can’t talk long. Busy day.”
Wendy blinked at him from the screen and he recognised the large, grey velvet headboard of their bed behind her. Then she lifted a glass of white wine and took a drink.
Silently.
“Wendy, I can’t hear you. Is there a problem with the sound?” Joe knew full well there wasn’t, but he was a desperate man buying time.
“Who was she, Joe?”
“Who was who?” Joe inwardly cursed himself. He couldn’t claim there were connection issues now.
“The woman on your knee?” Wendy took another drink. That glass wasn’t her first, Joe suspected, but he knew better than to say it. “The redhead. Barnaby sent me the picture. He says they’re everywhere. I just don’t have the energy to bother looking tonight. I was negotiating with LA all evening, and I’ve come home to this.”
Joe chuckled. He wondered if it sounded as false to Wendy as it did to him. “That’s not a real redhead. She was wearing a wig.”
“Are you trying to be clever?”
Joe sighed. “She’s a drag queen. A man. Wearing a wig, and a frock, and padding and a corset. And besides, I didn’t ask her to sit on my knee. It was part of the show.”
“A drag queen?” Wendy grimaced. “What sort of people are you looking after? I want to see you, Joe, we need to have a proper talk. I’ve got a window tomorrow afternoon. I’ve booked a table at Firehouse.”
The Reluctant Royal Page 10