Hidden Kiss (Love Is The Law 2)

by Isabella Brooke

  "Ahh, no. It's in the garage," she lied, and instantly regretted it. Once told, it could not be untold. What would she say next week, when the repossessed vehicle failed to rematerialize from the garage?

  "Right, let's hit the road!" They pulled onto a dual carriageway and began to head north.

  * * * *

  Being a passenger in a car was relaxing, and Emily stretched out in the seat, letting the humming motion ease away her troubles. It wasn't hard to leave it all behind her in Manchester.

  "Leg room," Turner said, shooting a glance sideways. "Under rated, yes?"

  She knew he was referring to her tiny car. Well, her ex-car. She stuck her tongue out at him rather than say anything else that would end up being a lie.

  "Look," he said as they flashed along the motorway. "I know you probably think this is going to be awful. And if you really, really hate it tonight, we'll come home. But give it a chance."

  "I will, don't worry. Sorry about my reaction earlier. I'd been soaking in the bath and I didn't really expect this, that's all. But I'm kinda looking forward to it."

  "Really?"

  "Well. I'm looking forward to spending time with you."

  "That's what's so great about you, Emily. You're up for anything. A lot of women would have had a hissy fit at me about this, but I really want to share it with you."

  "I know."

  They lapsed into comfortable silence as he turned off the main arterial road and began a slower journey through Yorkshire towns, and then onto the dark roads of the villages and hamlets. Emily stared into brightly-lit living rooms and bedrooms as they went past, little jewelled snapshots of other people's lives.

  "Hey, are you all right?" Turner asked, his voice low in the darkened car.

  "Yeah." She turned back to face him. "I just like being nosey, that's all. I'm looking into people's houses."

  He laughed. "You'd make a good burglar. We're nearly there. We'll drop the car in the forestry commission car park and hike up to the best camping spot ever."

  "Is it a public camp site?"

  "No. But wild camping can be okay, if you arrive after dark and pack up before dawn, and leave no trace."

  "Is it legal?"

  "We'll not go to prison."

  "That's not exactly an answer."

  "It's not exactly a crime…"

  "Hmm." But she wasn't worried, and she felt a flutter of excitement building as they unloaded the car in the deserted car park. Turner had come prepared with a ruck sack for her, and soon they were like two shadowy turtles, picking their way carefully along a path that shone whitely as it curled out of the car park and up the looming dark hill.

  The moon was half full and illuminated the limestone path, the pale rocks almost glowing in the night. After a while the path narrowed and then disappeared, but Turner had a head torch for each of them, and they moved on, slowly.

  "This is weird," she said very quietly.

  "Why are you whispering?"

  "I don't know. Because it's dark?"

  Turner laughed quietly. "Okay. So what's weird?"

  "Um, the dark. It's so… don't laugh! It's so big."

  He did laugh, but he agreed. "I know what you mean. Okay. We're nearly there."

  They came out into a hollow, with steep sides on three edges. The fourth was more like a ledge. It wasn't high and the drop wasn't steep but they had a good view of the twinkling lights of civilisation. Little pockets of yellow and orange scattered over the valley and hills beyond.

  "It faces south all day so it always seems warmer here. Come on, if you can hold your torch pointed at me, I'll get the tent up."

  He was practised and it didn't take long. Emily quite enjoyed watching his solid form move so confidently in the dark. He seemed bigger in the shadows and she admired the way he moved, smooth and powerful.

  "How are you doing?" he asked as he shoved the final tent peg in, grunting as he bent and pushed. "Warm enough?"

  Emily was fantasising about how broad his shoulders were and how much effort he was putting in. "Ahh yes, quite warm, thank you."

  He stood up and moved up close to her. In the dark, her other senses were heightened. She could smell his fresh, clean outdoorsy smell, with still a lingering hint of spice, probably from his shower gel or aftershave. His breathing was soft and deep. She raised her hands to his face, stroking along the smooth sides of his chin and cheek.

  "I'm so glad you're out here with me, Emily," he whispered.

  "I'm glad you asked me."

  "You make me feel… fuzzy."

  That was unexpected, and made her laugh. "Sorry," she apologised, biting back her giggles. "Fuzzy? Like cheap cider?"

  "Warm and fuzzy. I want to look after you. Show you the world. Hell, I want to give you the world."

  "I don't want the world." She pressed harder against his body, letting her hands drop from his cheeks to his neck and shoulders. "I want you."

  He kissed her as she pulled his head down towards her own, and she was crushed against him by his arms. It was a kiss that stretched out time, merging moment into moment as their skin touched, passionate and hungry. She only pulled back when the crick in her neck was too painful to ignore. "I want you," she repeated. "But… I also want a drink. What did you bring?"

  He slapped her buttocks lightly. "Cheeky mare. Okay, we have red wine or white."

  "Good god, a selection?"

  "Well, a rather limited selection. I mean, I'm not about to offer you a range of cocktails and ciders of the world, spirits and mixers. Bowls of olives. None of that shit."

  "Oh, well in the absence of gin and tonic, I'll have to slum it with red wine, then."

  "Coming right up."

  They sat in the tent's entrance and Turner set about laying out a feast of a cold picnic.

  "I would never eat this kind of stuff at home." Emily waved a pork pie in the air.

  "I know," he agreed. "Everyone knows it should be white wine with pork pies, not red."

  The red wine was soon finished, regardless of whether it was the correct thing to drink with pastry products, crisps and nuts, and cakes from the supermarket. Emily's head was becoming pleasantly muzzy, and although her toes and fingers were tingling with the cold, the alcohol helped her to ignore it.

  Turner's arm crept around her shoulders and she leaned in to him. His thumb rubbed the top of her arm, rhythmic and reassuring. He pushed his face against her hair and inhaled.

  "This is perfect," he muttered.

  Emily drew up her knees and shifted on the hard, stony ground. It wasn't perfect. She'd still rather have been with him somewhere else - anywhere else - if that place was warm and soft and comfortable. But she knew he had a need to show her something that was special to him, so she managed to bite back her sarcasm, even though the wine was threatening to loosen her tongue.

  "I'm a bit chilly."

  "I am sure I can warm you up."

  "Out here?"

  "Why not."

  "Well, bugs and cold air and passing sheep and, um, more bugs. That's why not."

  "Perhaps I can tempt you into my humble abode." Turner reached behind, twisting at the waist, and unzipped the tent with a flourish. The air mattresses were pumped up, and the thick down sleeping bag already spread open. "Do come inside, madam."

  His elegant words were marred somewhat by the undignified wriggling they had to perform, until they were both safely ensconced in the tent, almost sitting on top of one another. Even moving just slightly forced their bodies against each other. The inside was illuminated by a head torch dangling from the centre of the roof of the tent, and Turner kept knocking his forehead against it.

  "It's trying to tell me something," he said in fake irritation.

  "What, that your head's too big?"

  "No. That I need to go…lower." He grabbed Emily's waist and pulled her down to the mattress with him, and she wriggled as the airbed shifted and rocked unpredictably.

  "God, it's going to make me sea sick," she com
plained.

  "Let's ride the waves."

  "What's with the corny lines?"

  "Sorry. Too much wine, good company, and a sexy lady."

  He kissed her again and she kept hold of him, as the wine coursed through her veins and shed the last of any doubts and inhibitions she had about what they were about to do. At first she'd thought it would be too cold to strip off fully naked but it was amazing what a bit of heavy petting could do to the system, and soon they were both nestled in a heap of discarded clothing.

  They were almost fighting, worming on top of each other and then underneath, tumbling in a shadowy, sweaty, drunken mess of frantic sex. Emily let herself go. It was easier out here, in the wilderness and the near-dark. His mouth explored her, all of her, though it involved some contortions and yoga-like positions as he kissed his way right down to her toes, making her squeal and nearly kick him as he tickled her. Then he worked his way back up, pressing his solid body against hers, and she felt herself begin to melt.

  "You're wild tonight," he growled.

  "Too much wine," she fired back at him, clawing at his neck to drag him down to her breasts.

  He responded willingly and she wrapped her legs around his thighs, as her urgency built.

  When he entered her she almost came right away, with the relief and the release of it all, but she held it back as best she could. The uncertain movements of the airbed didn't matter at all as he built up his pace and when he shouted and grunted, she was not far behind, feeling waves of tension flood out of her as her body jerked and her muscles rippled.

  She couldn't think; didn't think. Turner collapsed on top of her, rolling to one side slightly and dragging her against him to keep her warm as the sweat cooled on her skin. She nuzzled up against him, feeling so totally safe and cocooned. He stroked her hair and she murmured as she felt sleep creep up to her.

  After a while, she was half-aware of Turner pushing the clothes aside and pulling the sleeping bag up around them. She reached for him again, pulling him back to her, and he folded his body protectively against her back.

  Soon they were both asleep.

  Chapter Five

  Polly was wrapped in so many scarves that her neck had entirely disappeared and she looked like her face was tiny atop so many multi-coloured layers. Her dreads were piled under a cable-knit woolly hat and she jumped from one foot to the other constantly, trying to keep warm.

  "It's May, for god's sake. I mean… May! I can't believe you went camping in this."

  "It wasn't this cold," Emily said. She, too, was huddled in warm clothing as they stood by the folding table, dishing out hot pies and drinks to the line of homeless folk.

  "Two nights!"

  "Yeah, well, that second night was a mistake. I spent all day today in a hot bath, trying to thaw out, and get rid of the knots in my muscles. Air beds are not comfortable."

  "It was good of you to come out then, tonight, after all that. Thanks, pet."

  "It's all right."

  Emily and Turner had enjoyed a great pub lunch on Sunday and then he'd dropped her home. She'd been in the bath nearly an hour, with two top-ups of warm water, when Polly had rung asking for a huge favour. The weather forecast was for a cold snap, and she knew they'd extra help on the soup kitchen run.

  Emily was more than happy to help out. It was a surprise to her that soup kitchens didn't actually serve soup. It would have been a lot easier. Instead, they gave out hearty pies with mushy peas, sponge puddings, custard and lots of coffee.

  She also hadn't realised Joel would be there, too. But he was stationed by the tea and coffee on a table a little way apart from theirs, and so far, she hadn't had much contact with him. He seemed pretty disinterested in her, anyway, and that was fine as far as she was concerned.

  The people she was serving with hot food and drink tugged at her heart. She couldn't decide what was worst; the old men, hands shaking, grateful that she even looked at them never mind talked, and gave them food. Or the thin, spiky young women, often fresh out of the care system with nowhere to go. Or the scared-looking young men with mental health problems. Or the drunken old ladies who blustered and shouted and tried to block out the reality of everything around them.

  No, how could you rank them? It was all awful.

  They thanked her with exaggerated politeness, often insisting on taking her hand in theirs, patting her fingers, as much desperate for the healing of real human contact. She didn't recoil from the dirty fingernails, the scabs and the bruises. She just felt helpless in the face of such need.

  It was approaching eight o'clock and they would be packing up quite shortly. The queue was diminishing. In a lull, Polly pressed her gloved hands to the large metal urn that contained the remnants of the gravy. "Have you noticed the reaction of the public?"

  "Yeah. Mostly scurrying past, head down, like we don't exist."

  "Well, this shouldn't exist, in a rich country like the UK. Recession? Bollocks." Polly was close to pressing her face to the urn in an effort to get warm. "They want to go to some properly poor countries. Where people are grateful for anything. Here, we whinge if we can't afford a holiday!"

  "I know." Emily thought wistfully of the times when she had had enough money for holidays and treats. She was struggling now, but at least she had a warm flat to go back to. "How much is left in there?"

  Polly peeked under the lid. "Not a lot. Any more food in the van?"

  "I think so. We may as well bring out the last bits. I'll go. Wouldn't want to tear you away from your personal radiator."

  Polly stuck her tongue out at Emily as she went off to the white transit that had transported all their gear from the charity's lock-up garage. The food was in insulated boxes and she dipped the thermometer to check it was still useable - it was. She piled everything into one box, and lugged it back with her towards the table, struggling as it banged against her shins as she walked.

  Polly was no longer wrapped around the warm urn. Instead she appeared to be talking rather excitedly with a man who had his back to Emily. He was standing quite upright and waving his hands, too. He was dressed in clean, new clothes and as Emily crept closer, she heard what he was saying.

  "So why has that borough in London banned soup kitchens, then? I'll tell you why. They've done research. This kind of thing actually promotes homelessness. I'm not saying anything against you guys. You probably think you're helping. But you're making the problem worse. You encourage dependency, you know."

  Joel went to Polly's rescue, even though he was half the size of her and as pale as a ghost. "Are you really saying that when I was homeless, standing out here to get a rancid pie or lukewarm brew, was somehow making me want to stay homeless? That the option of getting a house and a job was so easy, that I could choose to come here instead?"

  "I'm saying, mate, that plenty of people aren't homeless. They get off their arses and work damn hard."

  "It's easy for you to say. You don't know what it's really like."

  "Oh yeah? I'm not here to justify my past to you, but I have to tell you, mate, that I've been inside. I've been on the rocks. I have had it hard but never did I roll over and say, oh well, that's it, I'm homeless. I've fought for what I've got. The whole benefits system is screwed. You're just a victim too, I suppose, being trapped into claiming instead of working. And all the while we're flooded with immigrants just here for the money too."

  Polly appeared to inflate, working up to a humdinger of a reply and Joel was looking ready to fling hot coffee into the man's face. Heart hammering, Emily stepped forward, keen to somehow placate the man and move him away.

  "Excuse me, sir. Perhaps these concerns would be better expressed in a letter to the charity where we could consider them and address them more fully." She could hear how her accent had shifted up a few notches on the social scale, but she couldn't help herself. Polly's eyes widened in surprise.

  The man turned, and it was Emily's turn to be surprised. It was Riggers.

  He recognise
d her immediately. But instead of the vile abuse that she was expected, given that in court all those months ago he'd sworn to attack her, he said, "Emily Carrera. This isn't your fight."

  "Yes it is." She glanced at Polly and Joel. Polly was hanging on to her mobile phone, ready to call for help if needed. But Joel was staring with an expression of anger on his face, and she didn't feel it was all directed at Riggers.

  "Yes it is," she said again, desperately. "I'm here from the charity too."

  "Good god. Does Turner know what you're up to?"

  "Of course he does."

  "And he lets you stand out here in the dark and cold, with these kinds of people?" He nodded at Joel who snarled, his hand shaking and making the coffee spill over his gloves.

  "It's not a question of him allowing me to do anything," she snapped. "And it's nothing to do with you, anyway. You're harassing the staff here. Could you please move on. Thank you."

  She summoned all the assertiveness training that she'd ever had, and moved decisively to the table, heaving the heavy box up next to the urn, trying to show Riggers that the discussion was definitely over.

  He wasn't for moving. He kept on staring at her with a look in his eyes that made her flesh creep. "Defensive, aren't you?" he commented, infuriatingly mildly.

  "Who the hell are you?" Joel blurted out.

  Riggers turned his head slowly and looked Joel up and down. The ex-con had insolence all over his curled lip and narrowed eyes. "Just a concerned, tax-paying citizen. And freeloading scum like you have no business talking to me." He turned away, presenting his back to Joel.

  "How dare you!" Polly shouted. But she looked as if she didn't know what to do. Shout more? Threaten him? Riggers lingered, revelling in their powerlessness.

  "I have a right to say what goes on in my country." He looked Polly up and down, just as he'd done with Joel. "You don't. Where's your country? Where are you from?"

  "You racist fuck. You fucking racist fucking fucker." A torrent of abuse spilled from Polly. Emily felt cold sweat all over her back. There was no reasoning with people like Riggers. No amount of history lessons, birth certificates, maps of centuries of immigration, or plain human decency, could change the mind of a man like that. So she pulled out her own phone, and began to dial the police.