Hidden Kiss (Love Is The Law 2)

by Isabella Brooke

  "Got any bread?"

  "Um - yeah, in the wooden bread bin beside the microwave."

  He helped himself to a few slices and her heart sank as he began to mould and roll it in his fingers. Because of her tight budget, she planned her meals with a military precision. No food was ever wasted. This evening's special event was pushing her money to the limit, and she had planned on eating beans on toast for three days coming. But not if it had all been used up to make, well, whatever the hell he was making.

  He looked up, caught her staring. "What's cooking? Smells… good."

  "That's the onions." Thank god for onions. They always smelled good. "Just a lasagne." With the mince padded out with lots of grated carrot, she thought to herself. And the cheapest mince, at that. The kind where your teeth bounced off unexpected lumps of fat.

  "I was pleased to get your text," he told her as his big hands worked with surprising delicacy on the white dough. "So, you must have hit your deadline today."

  "I did, quite early too. And…" She knew she had to tell him, because she wasn't going to be able to hide it. "And, I've got a job."

  "Another commission?"

  "No, not exactly. Perhaps the freelance life isn't quite for me. Not, for like, all the time. It gets very lonely, you know? So I have got myself some temporary office work. It'll be good for me, actually. It's really useful to get out and about, meet real people, you know. Otherwise I could go a little crazy, cooped up here, trying to write stuff. Getting out into the real world should rejuvenate what I'm doing, actually." She could hear herself gabbling away and had to force herself to stop. She bent down to check the progress of the lasagne in the oven. It was bubbling over the edges of the ceramic dish. She'd used cheap cheese, the kind that seemed to be made of elastic bands melted down, and it was blackening already on the top.

  "Good stuff." He concentrated on tweaking the bread between his fingers. "Ta-daa! How about that, then?"

  She stood up and burst out laughing. He was actually holding a perfect little grey rose.

  "How the hell…?"

  "Ahh, the useful things I learned in prison. Seriously. Some guys can make anything out of bread. They paint these things and, wow, they are works of art, I'm telling you."

  "It is incredible."

  Turner put it carefully on the worktop and moved closer to her. She almost stepped back, and he caught her fluster.

  "Emily, what's up? I'm not about to leap on you. I'm kinda more interested in food. At the moment. Don't worry."

  "It's not that," she said, though she was relieved. She thought about putting on some mock-annoyance that he was prioritising his stomach, but she didn't have the heart for it. "I'm actually quite nervous. I feel like… I don't know how I feel."

  He took her hands in his and rubbed his thumbs over her skin, reassuringly. "I'm not quite nervous. I'm a hell of a lot nervous. Because on the one hand, it feels like we're starting from scratch. And on the other, it feels like we ought to know each other really well. Seven months of letters, you know? Except… there's a funny thing."

  "What?"

  "I've never been round for a meal at your place, and you've never been round at mine. We had a few meals out, and then bam - I'm sent away. So this is a really odd situation to be in. But we're both nervous together, so that's all right. Isn't it?"

  He was laughing but his eyes were serious. She felt drawn into them, and stared back, wanting to see him so deeply that she could read his thoughts.

  And pulled back, slightly, when she realised she didn't want him to be able to read hers.

  "Yes," she said, to ease the awkwardness. "Yes, it's all right. We just need to take things slowly and get used to each other again."

  "We didn't have time to get used to each other right at the beginning," he pointed out. He paused, wavering, as if he were deciding whether to kiss her or not. She swivelled her head and looked towards the clock on the oven.

  "I need to dish up."

  "Anything I can do?"

  "Did you bring wine?"

  "What, you want alcohol as well as roses?"

  "I can tell you what I'd prefer if it came to an either-or choice."

  "Romance is dead." He revealed a bottle from the deep pocket within his jacket and set about with a corkscrew as she pulled the lasagne from the oven and began to divide it up. It was runny and not the rich dark brown that she had hoped for; instead the meat parts seemed pale. Still, with the side salad she'd found in the reduced section, things would be fine.

  "Romance," she pointed out as she arranged the food on the plates, "is lubricated by wine. Here we go. Let's go through."

  She'd done her best with her living room. She'd tidied her computer desk and hidden her mess of paperwork. They were going to have to eat from trays on their knees, but she'd cleared the coffee table and laid out candles. She'd even cleaned the bathroom properly.

  "So, tell me about this job then," he said as he cut up his lasagne and began to pick at the salad.

  "It's just temporary. Which is great, that's actually all I need. Um." She couldn't help sniffing at the forkful of food. It was too sweet. "So, yeah, in a charity in the city centre. A, uh, homeless place. Doing the sort of stuff that I'm good at - writing. Writing bids for grants, letters, adverts, general copy." Plus all the other stuff a general office drone had to do - answering the phone, making tea, typing up reports and balancing the books. Charities on a shoestring had to employ good all-rounders, she knew, but she had been surprised at the list of expected duties.

  Still, it was a good month of work, at least, and it was a subject close to her heart.

  Too close, as Turner clearly remembered.

  "A homeless charity? That's good. I know you were into that."

  "Yeah." Well, she had to taste the lasagne. She chewed, she swallowed.

  She met Turner's eyes. He, too, was forcing a mouthful down.

  "Um. It's different," he commented. He picked at the food on his plate, pulling the layers apart with his fork, and found what seemed to be a large lump of meat. He popped it in his mouth and started to chew.

  And chew, and chew.

  "Oh god," she said, mortified. "It's completely rank, isn't it? I am so sorry. Spit it out if you need to."

  She was making the offer politely and didn't expect him to have to do it. But he carefully balled up a piece of tissue, and discreetly removed the offending food. He dabbed at his mouth and smiled. "I didn't realise you weren't a cook. Do you like cooking?"

  "Not really," she confessed, though she knew that with better ingredients her lasagne would at least have been edible.

  "Why did you invite me round, then? We could have gone out."

  "I didn't want to set a precedent. You know, out for meals all the time. I wanted something cosy and intimate. And, well, normal." She also didn't want to end up in a habit of eating out, where they would swap who paid and she would be forced to confess her lack of funds. At least let me get my head above water with this agency job.

  "If this is normal," he told her, grinning widely, "Then let's be strange. I think I'd rather eat the bread-rose that I just made. And that's me being tactful."

  Emily laughed too but she slumped her shoulders in despair, feeling a confusion of relief and disappointment. Straight away, he put his tray on the floor and scooted sideways. He took her tray from her unresisting hands and placed it by her feet.

  "Come here, you daft thing." He pulled her close and she fell into him. She was just so tired out from trying, thinking, running, doing, panicking and worrying that for a while she thought that she could allow herself to just rest against him. And rely on him.

  "I'm so sorry…"

  "You're not about to cry, are you?"

  "Hell no. I'm a modern independent woman. Just, one that can't cook."

  "And why should you? I love cooking. Excellent. Thing is, my delicate male ego just wouldn't have been able to handle it if you had turned out to be a fantastic cook as well as gorgeous, talented and
wise. So really, this is the very best outcome, don't you see?"

  "Nutter," she protested but then he was tipping her head back and kissing her, and her words melted away under his lips.

  Their moment of tenderness was interrupted by the very loud growl of Turner's stomach, closely followed by Emily's.

  "How do they do that?" he demanded, sitting back, flushed. "Stomachs, I mean. It's like they communicate."

  "It is a bit freaky. Um, we should eat…"

  "Pizza. I'll phone for pizza. What toppings?"

  "Anything." She got up and took the plates of inedible lasagne through to the kitchen and dumped it all into the bin as he called a local company and ordered half of their menu.

  Things went better after that. The pizzas were delivered and they fell upon them, ravenous. It was only when they had cleared away the cardboard boxes that a shadow crept into their conversation. Emily was sitting with her feet tucked up under her bottom, nestled with the curve of her back against Turner. He was such a big, solid man that he presented a comfortable wall to rest against. His arm was around her body and she was happily enclosed and safe.

  "I saw Riggers today."

  She kept herself relaxed. "Really?"

  "At my mum's house. Did you know that Elaine was actually moving in with him?"

  "No, I didn't. When?" She tried to inject surprise into her voice, but she wasn't surprised in the least. It had a horrible inevitability about it.

  "Today, looks like."

  "You can't do anything about it."

  "Maybe not. But I'm watching him. He says he's changed."

  "Bull shit."

  "I have changed. So maybe he has. Elaine seems to think he has."

  "Well, whether he has or he hasn't, don't make trouble."

  "I won't. But it makes me so angry. Everything he's done - the crap he's heaped on my family. From getting Elaine pregnant, to running out on her, to the crimes we fell into."

  She bit her tongue. It took two to get pregnant, for a start. Elaine had been a willing partner in that. True, Riggers had then played away behind her back, but that was hardly unusual.

  Turner voiced her thoughts about the crimes. "Although I suppose, I cannot blame him for the crime stuff. I was stupid to listen to him in the first place. But as for the rest…"

  She shook her head but continued to hold her counsel. She could feel him becoming tense in the way his arm muscles twitched, and his breathing had speeded up. "I just wanted to rip his head off," he told her. "When I saw him. But Elaine seems all… safe… with him. I was surprised about that."

  "What? That she was safe?"

  "That she wanted to be. I thought she was happy on her own."

  "They say you have to be happy on your own first before you can be happy with anyone else."

  "They being…? Glossy magazines, I assume. Or some blog."

  "Well, yes."

  Turner nuzzled his nose into the back of her scalp, tickling her. "You're not safe."

  "What?"

  His arms tightened around her and she play-fought back.

  "You're not safe from me."

  "Turner!"

  His lips moved along the back of her neck. Electricity seemed to jump along her skin and she writhed, trying to move so she could face him. He relaxed his grip momentarily but sprung upon her as she inched around.

  "No, you're quite, quite vulnerable."

  Her reply was stopped by another kiss, this time deep and passionate, almost so strong that her head was forced backwards as he ground himself down upon her. She tried to push him back but her hands slipped around his body instead, pulling him closer to her, until they tumbled on the sofa and he was above her.

  He sat up, his legs either side of her, one braced on the floor and the other tucked up along the cushions. She was sprawled on her back and her heart was hammering as she looked up at him.

  "Emily… do you want me to take it slowly? I can stop. I can even go home."

  "Please don't go…"

  "Should we stop?"

  She reached up and pulled him down towards her, wriggling so that she could lift her legs and wrap them around his thighs, pinning him on top of her.

  "Let's leave it all behind," she told him. "Let's not stop. Not now, not ever."

  His pelvis was like a rock against her belly and he kissed her again, and again, until she was almost panting with need.

  "The problem is this. It's been a while, Emily. It's going to be over very quickly…"

  "The first time, yes," she agreed. "But then you can take me through to the bedroom and we'll do it all again, only slower." She pushed her hips up against him and he groaned.

  "Oh my word," he whispered, beginning to gyrate. "Who cares that you can't cook?"

  They kissed again and the candles had hardly burned down much further before he was carrying her, naked, through to the bedroom, and they began to get to know each other again. And very thoroughly.

  Chapter Three

  The staffroom smelled horribly of damp. It had hit Emily as soon as she'd walked in on her first Monday morning, but as she was being shown around the premises, she politely didn't mention it. As the list of her duties was unfurled throughout her induction day, she quickly realised that she'd be unlikely to have any spare time to use the facilities anyway. She'd be lucky to get a break for a cup of tea.

  Happily for her health and sanity, the other staff had more balanced views. On the second day, as she drowned in new tasks and unfamiliar work procedures, Polly, a student social worker, perched her expansive bottom on the edge of Emily's desk and said, "You've not moved for three hours."

  Emily sighed and stretched. "There's so much to do! My head is bulging."

  "You only started yesterday, pet. You'll not achieve owt by burning out in your first week. Fancy a brew?"

  "I'd love one. But…"

  Polly stood up and crossed her arms, standing like a bouncer as she stared at Emily expectantly.

  "What?"

  "I'm waiting for you, pet. Come on. Put the bloody answerphone on and let's go have us a cuppa and a natter, eh?"

  "But I…."

  "Are you a smoker?"

  "No."

  "You oughtta be," Polly said, taking a step closer as if she were about to pick Emily up, and carry her away from her desk. "Then you'd get more breaks and you'd not be afraid of taking them. Look at it this way. Do you want to get deep vein thrombosis and have a blood clot travel around your body and lodge in your head and cause a stroke?"

  "Er… no."

  "Then get up and walk with me, pet."

  This time, Emily didn't hide her distaste at the musty smell in the poky office, and Polly laughed as she rinsed some mugs under the tap. "You get used to it. You'll get used to all of this. How are you finding things, so far?"

  "I like it." Emily was surprised to hear herself admit it, but it was true. All her previous office temping jobs had been monotonous trudges through the hell of meaningless paperwork, but at the charity, she felt as if her work had a purpose.

  "Good. It's pretty manic here but that's all right, really. Milk, sugar?"

  "Uh, just milk please. Thanks." Emily stayed standing up and leaned back by the window, her eyes flicking over the curling posters and notices on the walls. She tried to ignore the smell. "Been here long?"

  "Three months." Polly's eyes danced. She spoke with a smile always threatening to break through. "I thought I wanted to specialise in children's stuff but I did a placement with kids and it broke my heart, it really did. Then I came here and I thought I was better suited to working with adults, you know? Though some of 'em are just like kids. So young."

  "Yeah."

  "Plus, I think my partner woulda thrown me out if I'd carried on with the children's work. It got to me so that I was going home in tears and just ripping her head off, taking it all out on her, you know? It was kinda hard to admit that something I'd dreamed about was not quite right for me, but that's life. So, what about you?"


  "I'm sorry?" Emily had been thinking about Joel and his youth. She'd lost track of the conversation and wasn't sure what Polly was asking her.

  "Partner, home life? Someone to take all the aggro out on? Pardon me if I'm prying, tell me to go stick it. I do get carried away." She smiled wide and winningly, with the confidence that her questions never got refused if she asked jauntily enough.

  Emily grinned back, spontaneously. When she thought of Turner and the weekend they'd just spent together, a warm rush made her belly contract. "Yeah. There is someone."

  "Ooh, look at you! Look at that face!" Polly clapped her hands, making her many silver rings jangle. "You look like a woman right at the start of a love affair. What are we talking? Days? Weeks?"

  "Ah, it's kind of complicated. I met him eight months ago. But we're only just getting together now, properly." She suddenly didn't want to mention his prison sentence. She told herself it was because it was in the past, and irrelevant to the here and now.

  Perhaps she was a little ashamed.

  "Aww, how sweet!" Polly didn't probe any further, and Emily was relieved. "So, you had a weekend of wining and dining and all that first-date type stuff. Loving it, pet!"

  Emily shook her head but she was still smiling. "Close. On a budget, though. Not so much of the wining and dining." More like crappy cooking and limp lasagne.

  Polly drank down the dregs of her tea, and moved to the sink to wash her mug. She looked sideways at Emily, still by the window. "Is it true you used to be a journalist? That's what Maria said, at any rate."

  Used to be? That stung. "I… I still am," Emily said, with a sigh. "But it's a hard life, being freelance, and I needed to make some extra money that was a bit more reliable."

  "Oh, I see."

  Emily thought that she probably didn't, but it was time to get back to work. As she followed Polly in washing up her mug, the staffroom door opened again.

  Emily glanced up to see who was coming in, and the mug slipped from her hands, clattering into the sink. Had her thoughts conjured him up?

  The young man nodded and smiled, but she couldn't smile back. She was frozen, staring, as Polly said, "Hey Joel. How you doing, pet?" She was looking at Joel, not Emily, and didn't see her reaction.