Hidden Kiss (Love Is The Law 2)

by Isabella Brooke

  Riggers' head whipped round as he heard the conversation with the 999 controller start up. He shrugged, apparently unconcerned. "Anyway, nice talking to you all. See you later, Emily." The hint of threat made her stumble over her words and she lost what the controller was asking her.

  "No…sorry, no, he's gone now. No, it's fine. I'm sorry. No, we really don't need…" in panic, she hung up. Could they trace a mobile number? Was she going to be arrested for making a prank call? A million terrible things tumbled through her mind but Polly brought her back to the present.

  "Arsehole. I shouldn't let him rile me up. Not like I haven't heard all that before. And worse. Try being a black lesbian." She shook her head, her anger dissipating quickly. "If people don't want to put you on a pedestal as a wonderful example of diversity, they want to stone you to death."

  Emily sighed and threw her head back, unsure whether she ought to answer Polly's humourless smile with a smile of her own. She didn't. "I'm sorry."

  "For…?"

  "Everything. A shitty, shitty night. Are you okay? And Joel… are you okay…?"

  Joel's face was set hard, his pointed chin almost quivering as he clenched his jaw. Emily wondered about how he felt. The way society always expected a man to be all protective, and he'd been helpless.

  "It's not your fault," she said, trying to express her half-formed thoughts.

  "No, of course it's not," he replied strangely. "So, how do you know that fuckwit?"

  "I…"

  "Another article? Another fall guy for you?"

  "No, not at all…"

  Polly waved her hands between them. "Look, look, guys. We've had a stressful encounter. Let's tidy up. No-one else is waiting for food now. So let's call it a day, yeah?"

  It was true. All the clients had melted away into the night, unwilling to be anywhere near potential confrontation. They'd all had too many bad experiences when things had gone wrong, police riot vans and custody suites and unanswerable questions and assumptions roping them into bad situations.

  "Yes." Emily immediately grabbed a plastic bin bag, and shook it out so she could start filling it with the discarded Styrofoam cups that were littering the area. Joel huffed, and she tensed, waiting for another dig at her. But he went back to his own table and began to tidy up the drinks area.

  They worked quickly, and almost in silence. Polly made a few light hearted remarks from time to time, but both Joel and Emily gave non-committal one word replies, and Polly gave up. Even her indefatigable enthusiasm seemed to have a limit.

  It was nearly ten o'clock by the time Emily got home. The heating had clicked off an hour previously, and her flat seemed chilly and unwelcoming. She was exhausted from the weekend of camping, the night of stress, and the cold which had eaten into her bones. She would have had another bath to warm up, if she'd had the energy.

  But she wasn't a freelancer anymore. She couldn't have a late night. She had to be up and at work the following day, and earn some money to pay some bills.

  She rolled into bed, feeling sorry for herself, and then immediately feeling guilty for her self-indulgence. She remembered the folks who'd been grateful for a bit of hot food and a chat.

  Fuckity. In spite of her tiredness, sleep was a long time coming.

  * * * *

  Turner visited the bank and paid in two cheques and a wodge of cash. It felt good. He grinned widely at the cashier who smiled back, blushed, and lowered her head in a fluster.

  I'm not grinning at you, he wanted to say. Just at the fact that I'm paying in my own hard-earned cash at last. But hey. Take it as a compliment if you wish.

  He floated out of the bank, a bundle of notes still in a roll in his inside pocket. With a number of commissions behind him, and some very satisfied customers, he was feeling positive. He'd spent the morning at a business link-up meeting organised by the city council. At first he'd felt like a fraud when he walked into the swanky hotel reception, but after a while he'd started to connect with other creative professionals in all sorts of job sectors, and he realised that he was more like these people than anyone else he'd met.

  It was a revelation. All the skills of being a criminal, he realised, were essential to the modern entrepreneur, too. Up to - but not including - breaking the law. But everything else - fast thinking, finding and exploiting loopholes, finding customers, meeting their needs, supplying quality products - he knew of many drug dealers, for a start, who could have applied their skills to start-up businesses and done very well for themselves.

  He linked up with a jovial graphic designer who'd been freelancing for a number of years, and his insights were particularly invaluable. "Even if you can complete a job in a day, if the price is high, wait until just before your deadline. Otherwise they'll think they're over paying you."

  Sound sense. In fact, the whole morning had fired him up with new and exciting ideas. He positively bounced his way home, and got straight onto the phone to make more plans.

  Although, not about work. No, this was pleasure. Emily had a real treat in store for her this weekend.

  Over the week since the camping trip, he'd grown more and more regretful about it. He'd been so keen to show her his special place that he hadn't considered her own feelings very much. And she'd been so polite and willing to go along with it, too. But it was clear that she didn't like camping very much.

  I really do want to give her the whole world! Starting tonight.

  * * * *

  He appeared at her flat door in a smart black suit, holding a very large bunch of red roses. The look on her face was priceless. He wanted to take a snapshot of it.

  "Oh my god. What…?"

  He thrust out the flowers. "For you."

  "Ahh, thank you. Come on in. You look… good."

  "Thank you. We're off somewhere special tonight."

  "I got your text. I'm nearly ready. I'll pop these in water."

  He watched her dash through to the kitchen and then on to her bedroom. She was in a slinky black dress that made her curves even more inviting, and her hair was piled in artful heaps and clips around her head. When she emerged once more, she had wrapped a turquoise scarf in some floaty, shiny material around her shoulders. She'd probably put more make up on, but Turner was focused on her eyes.

  "God, Emily, you look fantastic."

  She smiled, looking down, shy and pleased just like the bank cashier. "Thank you."

  "Got an overnight bag?"

  "Wait - what?"

  "Don't panic. We're not going camping. I'm so sorry about last week. It was kind of a disaster, really, wasn't it?"

  "No, no, not at all!"

  "Bless you for being nice about it. But no. I want to spoil you, to treat you properly. So this weekend, I'm taking you to London."

  "London? Where?"

  "It's a city in the south…"

  "I know, I know. I mean… but, London…Really?"

  "Yes."

  "But I…"

  "My treat. My bill. Don't you worry about anything. Just sling a change of clothes and some wash stuff in a bag, and we're off. Just for tonight."

  He loved her facial expression. Delight and annoyance fought over her face, dimpling her cheek as she tried to decide on the right response.

  "Emily. Let me do this for you. Please."

  She was broken, and she knew it. "Okay. Hang on."

  He could have punched the air as she went back into the bedroom and began to throw things into an overnight bag. I've absolutely got to make everything up to her. This is going to be great.

  Within half an hour they were heading down the busy motorway, snarled up in the usual Friday evening traffic. Turner didn't care. He was spending time with Emily, and that was all that mattered.

  "You've been busy all week," he remarked. "I've hardly had a chance to speak to you."

  "You've been busy too."

  "I know, I know. I'm not having a go. So, how did the soup kitchen thing go? You haven't mentioned it."

  "Well, nothing
happened. It was cold, and I don't fancy doing it again."

  "Well done to you, for getting out there and doing something, though. Has work been all right this week?"

  "Yeah. Kinda busy."

  "You aren't saying much."

  "I know. I'm sorry, I just feel … weary, I suppose."

  "Ahh. I don't like to see you tired. Let's put some zing back into your life!" He flicked on the radio and found a perky, upbeat station. He was happy to not talk if that's what she wanted. Maybe she'd drop off and get some sleep on the journey down. They'd left at four o'clock after he'd texted her, persuading her to leave work early, but they still wouldn't be in London for a few hours.

  It wouldn't matter for the evening meal. He'd booked a fashionably late table at a posh restaurant and couldn't wait to treat her like a lady.

  He enjoyed the drive down. The sat nav took them with confidence to the hotel and he was heartened to see her face light up as the valet took the Range Rover from them, and another man in livery carried their bags up the wide, sweeping stairs.

  "Turner," she hissed as they were ushered through the glass doors into a gold and marble lobby, "How can you afford this?"

  "Let me worry about that. Business is good. And you're worth it. Don't fight it, please, Emily. Let's make this special."

  "But…"

  "Hey." He slid his left arm around her waist, hugging her, wanting to reassure her. "It's not like I'm going to do this every weekend."

  Something like her usual fire made her smile and she said, sideway to him, "Oh, damn, so I'm not supposed to get used to it, then?"

  "Nope. Next week, we'll be back in a tent eating cold beans out of a can."

  "Delightful. Okay. I'll try to make the most of it."

  "Excellent." He spun her to face him. He didn't care who was watching. He planted a slow, sensual kiss on her lips, tasting the stickiness of her lipstick. He pulled away and was pleased to see that she seemed more relaxed. "Emily. Thank you."

  He led her to the reception desk and the check-in process was swift and efficient. Soon they were in a handsome suite and Turner tipped the man who brought the bags up while Emily rummaged through the bathroom and the main room, squealing with laughter at her discoveries.

  "What's the big deal?"

  Emily popped her head out of the bathroom. "Proper smellies!" she announced.

  "What's proper about them? Where have you stayed that had improper smellies?"

  "Just… oh, everything. Wow. Just, wow."

  "Come on, you're going to make yourself sick like an overexcited child. Do I have to leave you here while I go to the restaurant on my own?"

  She emerged, smiling from ear to ear, looking so radiant that he could have scooped her up and thrown her onto the bed right there and then. "No. I'm all perked up. Let's go!"

  He felt like he was ten feet tall as he led her the short way to the exclusive restaurant and they were shown to a discreet table. He wondered if all eyes were upon them. They should have been. Emily was a sight worth appreciating and he felt immensely proud to have her with him.

  They ate food that he could barely pronounce and drank a bottle of wine that cost more than a crate-full from their local off-licence. She was relaxed and happy and that made Turner relaxed and happy, too.

  "Oh god," she said, pushing away the last of her liquor-soaked pudding. "I think I've drunk too much, you know. That's strong stuff." She poured herself a glass of water with an unsteady hand.

  "I'm feeling pleasantly muzzy myself. It's a mild night. Shall we walk the long way back to the hotel?"

  "Through London?"

  "I don't think it's any worse than Manchester on a Friday night. I was on Google Maps earlier. I reckon we can go along the Thames. You don't see the floating turds as much when it's dark."

  "You make it sound fantastic."

  "Yeah. Coffees?"

  "No, not for me. I do think I need a walk." She giggled then frowned, a sure sign of gradually creeping drunkenness. The wine had been a slow burn but Turner could feel it taking hold of him, too. It started with his legs, making them slightly limp.

  They lurched and giggled their way out of the restaurant after paying, and the cool night air was a welcome change. Emily nestled herself right up close to Turner, making it difficult for him to walk straight. Well, more difficult than it already is, with this wine in me.

  "Have you had a good time so far?" he asked as they strolled along the banks of the river, assailed on all sides by statues, amazing views, and lovers just like themselves.

  "Yes, thank you. It's just amazing." She hiccupped as she stumbled along.

  "Better than last week, then."

  "Hush. It was okay."

  Turner stopped and planted an uncoordinated kiss on her lips. He could feel the alcohol making him unsteady, but it also meant he didn't care. "You're so nice," he said as he released her and they walked on a bit further.

  "Nice."

  "Yeah. And other things. But mostly, just nice, and there's nothing wrong with that."

  "Huh."

  Turner got the feeling she didn't want to be nice. He remembered a fridge magnet that his mum used to have, along the lines of nice women don't make history. So he said, awkwardly, "You're cool, too. And a fighter and a doer and a person who stands up for stuff and you're honest and you're inspiring and also, really really good in bed."

  She stiffened and stumbled and he hung on to keep her walking straight. "Sorry," he said, "we've both had too much to drink, but I do mean it."

  "Thanks," she said, her tone a bit flatter than before.

  He couldn't stop himself. His mouth just kept on flapping in spite of her reaction to all this praise. "I need to tell you this, Emily. That you bring out the protective side of me. That I want to keep you safe. I worried about you when you were out at the soup kitchen, you know. I thought about you." There, that should make her feel better.

  She almost pulled away from him. "You wouldn't try to stop me…"

  "Hell, no, of course not. But if anything happened to you… oh god, I know I'm pissed and should shut up, but you make me feel like a real man and part of that is, that I would fight for you, I'd…. I'd die for you. And I know that's a bit intense and all that."

  "Yeah, it is."

  Fuck, fuck, this wasn't going down well. I need to explain myself better. "Sorry. Sorry. I would never stop you doing anything. I'd allow you to do anything at all that you needed or wanted to do." Was that enough?

  "Allow me."

  Shit. Probably not the best phrase. "Of course. I can't stop you…"

  "Allow me." Her tone was dark and she was rigid now, pulling away from him.

  "You know what I mean. It's not really a case of allowing. That was a bad thing to say."

  "No shit."

  "Emily…"

  She walked on, fast, and he strode out to keep up with her. "Emily!"

  "I want to go back to the hotel and I want to go to bed."

  "I know, I know, I'm sorry. We should have had those coffees. We've both had too much to drink…"

  "You're telling me."

  He kept pace with her as she almost ran along the wide pavement. "Emily, slow down. Okay, we're nearly back at the hotel."

  "Good." She did slow, to his relief. She sighed and he reached out for her again, just taking her hand in his, and she didn't pull it away. She seemed almost resigned.

  "I'm tired. I was tired before, and I guess it's just hit me again, harder," she said, as they made their way up the steps and the impassive-faced doorman let them in without a flicker or comment. "I have a headache and I'm just exhausted. I really do appreciate all this, I want you to know that. But I think some things just hit a nerve, actually."

  He rubbed his thumb over her fingers. "It's okay. Is it okay? I mean, is there anything you want to talk about? I'm a good listener."

  "Not tonight. Please. Let's just sleep."

  He swallowed his sigh. I don't want to make any issue about this. She is t
ired, I accept that. But I've said something wrong and I want to know what that is. Otherwise, how can I make it all better?

  Chapter Six

  Emily had a hangover. She curled in the passenger seat as the Range Rover roared back up the motorway to Manchester. It was barely ten in the morning but she'd told Turner that she felt too ill to do any sight-seeing.

  Guilt consumed her. She rested her head back, slightly uncomfortably wedged between the window and the back of the seat, and stared with bleary, unfocussed eyes at the green and grey whistling past the window. That thought sparked an old New Model Army song to lodge itself as an earworm in her mind.

  Right now, they should have been poking around Camden Market or having morning coffee in Covent Garden or perhaps trying to be cultural in a museum or gallery. It seemed such a long, wasted journey, and she'd ruined it all, and could see no way of making it better.

  Her head hurt but she had exaggerated the pain when she told Turner, not fought it. It was a convenient and genuine reason to go home. She could sense he was angry and hurt about her reaction - no, her overreaction - the previous night, and she let herself seem more ill than she really was.

  Fuck, I am a manipulative cow. If I'm ill, he can't have a go at me.

  Well, I am ill.

  Fuck.

  She knew she was lying to herself. And, still, to him as well. She prodded back through her hazy memory of their walk home along the banks of the Thames. He'd been drunk, over-excited, keen to please. And she'd pretty much pissed on his eagerness and devotion.

  What had triggered it?

  His stupid, stupid attitude about allowing her to do something, that was what. Riggers rose back in her mind. His words at the soup kitchen: Does Turner allow you to do this?

  Apparently, he does.

  But it wasn't his place to allow or disallow, surely?

  Yet if he didn't then he didn't care.