Hidden Kiss (Love Is The Law 2)

by Isabella Brooke

  Her temples throbbed. This wasn't right. Relationships weren't supposed to be complicated. When I was a teenager it was all angst and worry and who-thinks-what. But I was sure that when you found The One, it was supposed to all fall into place and become straightforward.

  If it doesn't then maybe he's not The One.

  She shut her eyes and drew in a long, shuddering breath.

  I wish he was The One.

  * * * *

  She must have dozed off, because the car was pulling into her apartment block's parking area and her headache was slightly eased. She stretched and yawned, a thousand kinks spiking into her stiff muscles.

  "Wake up, sleepy head." Turner kept the engine idling as he looked to one side. "You were snoring." He had a hesitant smile on his face. She understood that he was trying to be non-threatening and make things better, the ways men do - by jokes and bluster.

  "I was not snoring. I'm a lady. It must have been the noise of the tyres on the road." She desperately wanted to make things better, too. But without talking about the previous night. There was no way she could explain herself.

  He accepted the olive branch of her weak humorous excuse. "Right, okay, but what explains the dribble?"

  Instinctively she put a hand to her mouth in horror, but her chin was dry. "You git," she laughed, and it was genuine this time. "I was going to invite you up for a coffee but I'm not sure now."

  His hand hovered over the key in the ignition. "Don't you want to just go to bed?"

  Her eyebrows shot up and he almost blushed as he hastily tried to explain. "I mean, you're feeling unwell, so I just thought you'd… I mean, not with me. Of course, that would be great. I'm not saying I wouldn't. But… uh, you have a headache…"

  She smiled, properly touched at his efforts to somehow steer a safe course through the modern minefield of flirting without insulting her. "My headache is a bit better and I think a coffee would do me some good. And you would be welcome to join me. You've done a lot of driving."

  He flicked the ignition and the Range Rover stilled. "Okay. Thank you. God, it feels like…"

  "What?"

  He opened the car door but paused, one long leg dangling out onto the tarmac. He looked away as he said, quietly, "Like we're almost starting over, yet again."

  She didn't know what to say. Were they? Should they?

  "Come on up," she said at last, and grabbed her overnight bag from the back seat.

  * * * *

  She clattered around in her small kitchen, grateful for something to be doing with her hands. The mechanical comforts of routine soothed her.

  I've got grow up and tackle this, she thought. She popped open the coffee canister lid and inhaled deeply, letting the rich caffeine hit the back of her throat. She'd dropped a rung on the brand ladder, with her budget forcing her to buy slightly cheaper coffee, but she hadn't sunk to the lowest label yet. Instead she'd compromised by buying relatively decent stuff, but drinking fewer cups. Now, she was glad of that decision.

  She took pride in her kitchen even while she accepted that her cooking skills were rudimentary. She didn't like cooking and she saw no reason to try to. It was still nice to have a pleasant kitchen, though. One day, she'd have a large farmhouse style with white painted wood and a massive central table.

  Who'd be sitting at that table with her?

  Get your big girl's blouse on, Emily. Don't dwell on that sort of thing.

  "Here we are." She took the two mugs through to the main room. Turner was standing by the long narrow window, looking out over Manchester. Sometimes the view was stunning, but the light had to be right. Mid-morning on a grey Spring Saturday wasn't the best time. Litter swirled around the grey concrete. The trees weren't budding much and there was one solitary wooden box that the council had planted with bulbs a few years ago. The desultory display of daffodils was sparse and wilting.

  She passed him the mug and stood by his side, sharing the view with him. The coffee was too hot to drink but it was something to hold.

  "About last night," she said, and a prickle of sweat made her underarms tickle. Why on earth was she so nervous about all this? Get a grip. "I am sorry. I overreacted to what you said, and I'm really sorry. And I feel bad for kind of making you come all the way home again today. The hotel was fab. I think I spoiled it all…." Don't cry, don't fucking cry, or he'll think you're being silly and manipulative.

  He thought for a moment, shifting his weight from leg to leg, before saying, "What exactly did I say that made you feel so bad?"

  She blinked away the incipient tears. "It's going to sound so stupid now. I was drunk, remember. It was about you allowing me to do something."

  "I think I realised as I said it that it was the wrong thing to say. But I have to be honest with you, Emily, I'm not going to lie. You overreacted."

  "I know I did. I… can't explain that."

  "Hmm." He blew on his drink and tried to sip it. "Well, some things can't be explained. I didn't mean to upset you, but I did. I can't promise that I won't upset you again, if it's something like that. But, I can promise you this: I won't ever deliberately upset you."

  "That's all I can ask."

  "Ahh, you muppet." Turner reached to one side and put his mug on the edge of her computer desk. "Come here."

  Emily put her mug down too, and gingerly allowed herself to be enfolded in his reassuring hug. "Thank you," she said indistinctly.

  "We're both tired. I think we've both been working too hard. And probably trying too hard as well, with how things are going. Let's just relax, let things run along in their own way."

  He spoke sense. All the work and money stresses were making her feel strained and taut.

  Emily let her hands wander around his waist and skirt across the top of his tight buttocks. He responded by pressing harder against her. When he spoke again, the tone in his voice was lower and darker. "About this headache of yours…"

  Their explorations were immediately stopped by a knocking at her flat door. She pulled back and looked across the flat. "Must be a neighbour; the intercom hasn't buzzed," she said. "Perhaps I've got a parcel or something."

  She kept the door between the pokey hallway and the main living room open. So it happened that when the main flat door swung back, her brother Matthew could see straight through.

  And Turner, by the window, could see his old criminal solicitor standing in the doorway too.

  Emily drew in a sharp breath and stared at Matthew, wild-eyed. This was not supposed to happen. "How…"

  "Someone let me in at the bottom. Thought I'd just come up. Deliver you the stuff about your car." Matthew's face was blank as he took in the scene, and that scared Emily. He should have been angry. Furious, even. But he was pale and one step beyond fury.

  When Turner had been sent to prison, Matthew had been his solicitor. And he'd sworn that if Turner had ever set foot near his sister again, he'd unleash every force within him as a professional - and as a protective brother - to ensure Turner regretted it.

  It was no good trying to say Turner had changed. He'd said that once before, and Matthew had helped him, and it had ended with more jail time.

  Turner coughed. "Hi there."

  Emily stayed frozen between them. "Matthew…"

  He pushed the brown envelope towards her. "There's nothing I can do about your car. It's gone, you've lost it. The agreement you signed was all legal. How stupid. Are you really in that much debt?"

  Oh fuck no. "No, things are getting better. I'm working…"

  "Really. Right. Or perhaps he's helping you out with money. I wonder where he gets it from."

  "I've set up a business," Turner said, but he stayed by the window. "And I'm going straight."

  "You can go straight somewhere else. What did I tell you about being near my sister?"

  "I think the choice is up to her."

  Oh, now's a really great time to make me feel like I've got my autonomy. "Matthew, look, he's right. I know you struggle with this but th
at's why I haven't told you. I was going to. He's working hard; he can prove himself to you."

  Matthew looked at her with cold eyes. She could deal with that. But then he said, "I'm hurt, Em. And disappointed. And confused. And I'm sad for you."

  He stepped back and directed a glare full of venom over her shoulder, straight at Turner. "And as for you - watch yourself. Watch your back, Turner."

  "Is that a threat?"

  "Of course not. Friendly advice."

  "Friendly?"

  Matthew looked like he was fighting back the urge to keep speaking. Reason and sense prevailed. Silently, he spun on his Italian-designer-leather heels and stalked away, his back rigid with righteous anger.

  Emily had a buzzing in her ears and the headache was returning with a vengeance. She realised she was holding her breath, which didn't help. She clutched the brown envelope to her chest and kicked the door shut.

  Turner had stayed by the window. He folded his arms and she wanted to run to him, rub her hands over his forehead, and make all the memories of the past hour - no, the past twenty-four hours - disappear.

  Now she knew she had a hell of a lot of explaining to do.

  "You can't trust a criminal," he said, and her heart sank even further at his menacing tone. "We're liars and we don't change, apparently. We're different. But you, Emily? I think you've lied to me. You said your car was in the garage. You said things were fine. And now… what's this about losing the car? And debts? Did you fail to pay monthly instalments or something? You could have come to me."

  She shook her head miserably. She walked through to the main room and sat on the edge of the sofa, digging her fingernails into her knees. "No, not monthly payments. Worse. I took out one of those loans where you hand in your log book and paperwork."

  Turner winced and rocked his head, leaning back against the window frame, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. "One of those fucking legal high street loan sharks?"

  "Yes. It was temporary. I had stuff coming in. I thought. But the commissions weren't as… things didn't… I should have tried harder. But I just… gave up on it. But look, I'm working now, I'm paying stuff off. I'd given the log book agreement to Matthew to check it was legal."

  "And it is. Of course it is. It shouldn't be. Those bastards charge a percentage of interest that my maths skills can't even comprehend. So why did you say your car was in the garage when you'd actually had it taken away? How long were you going to keep lying to me?"

  "I'm sorry. It just sort of came out when you asked where my car was. I thought I'd get the money together to buy it back or something. I tried to get a new credit card but…"

  "Oh for god's sake. You're supposed to be an intelligent woman."

  "I know. But now I'm working I can pay it all off."

  "Can you?"

  She thought about the mounting interest on her loans and about her meagre pay from the hard-pressed charity. "Maybe. In time."

  He shook his head. "I want to help you. I would have helped you. So why didn't you ask…?"

  "Fuck knows." She stared at the carpet, exhausted, her head throbbing. "Independence. Shame. Whatever. All of the above."

  "You don't respect me enough to give me the benefit of the doubt. You don't care for me enough to let me help you. You don't want to let me into your life enough to share these burdens. You make it very clear you don't think you need me."

  "I do need you!"

  "You don't ask me for help. You lie about it instead. Of course you don't need me. Or you don't want to."

  "You have your business. I can't ask you for money."

  "And maybe I couldn't have given it to you. But what about sharing the problem? Talking about it? Support?"

  She felt awful. Her hands were sweaty where she pressed them against her thighs. "I wanted everything to be perfect and not ruined by me…"

  "Unlucky," he said, sneering and bitter. He walked right past her and out of the door.

  She remained seated, counting to a minute and then to two minutes. He'd be gone by now. She could have guessed he wouldn't stay to argue or make a scene. He was a man of definite black and white, and she knew he wouldn't bother to debate. She'd betrayed him - his sense of himself - and lied. For a man who was trying to go straight, honesty was a badge he wore with pride.

  She wanted to cry but her throat was raw and her eyes dry. She gulped down the last of her cold coffee and walked like a stumbling, shambling ghost, through to her bedroom, where she curled up and hoped to sleep away the headache, the pain and the loss.

  * * * *

  Turner took a few moments in the car park to try and calm himself down. He didn't want to drive while he was angry. He balled it up deep inside himself and forced it right out of his mind. He could feel his heart pounding away and he had the urge to make fists and hammer into things. But he didn't. He cracked open a can of coke that was lying in the glove compartment, and drank the extra caffeine down, letting it settle in his tense stomach before deciding he was safe enough to drive home.

  He knew he needed to do something and as soon as he got home he dropped his overnight bag on his bed and grabbed his gym kit. It was a short walk to the gym and at the furious pace that he was walking, he was there in no time.

  He spent nearly an hour beating seven shades of hell out of every machine in the wide, echoing hall. Yet it didn't seem to do him any good. He couldn't imagine he was punching Emily - that was an awful thought. And Matthew was her brother. He understood the solicitor's pain and he didn't really wish Matthew any harm.

  Punch. Slam. Jerk. His muscles strained and sweat poured over him but he found no relief, no release, no catharsis. Eventually one of the instructors came over to him.

  "Turner, mate, go easy, yeah? You'll have that thing through the wall at the rate you're carrying on. What's the stress, man?"

  "Women," Turner muttered through gritted teeth.

  "Right."

  "And people that lie to me."

  "Yeah."

  "And everything."

  "Okay."

  Turner slowed and stopped, panting. He rubbed his towel over his face and rested back on the padded bench, letting the weights rock back to their home. "I could burst."

  "Please don't. You'll make a mess."

  "Funny fucker."

  The instructor shrugged. "Go get a hot shower. Use the sauna, maybe. Get a sports massage."

  "I can't sit still and I can't lie there while someone pummels me. No. I need to move, and do something."

  "We need the windows cleaning."

  Turner glanced over at the vast glass wall that was one whole side of the gym. "Okay, I'll go to the sauna."

  "Happy to help."

  Turner growled at the instructor who laughed at him and waved him away.

  The sauna didn't really help and Turner managed to sit there for about four minutes before he launched himself back onto his feet and stalked off to the showers. He ruined his time at the gym by stopping at a high street sandwich place on the way home and stocking up on a baguette full of meat, three cookies and more fizzy drink.

  He was just starting on his second cookie, sitting at his kitchen table and staring at his laptop, when there was a knock at his front door. For a moment he contemplated pretending he wasn't in, but the visitor just let themselves in anyway.

  "Turner! Hello!" The chirpy voice hallooed closer.

  It was his mum. He rose to his feet as she came into the kitchen. "Hi, mum."

  "Hello love! I thought I could do with some fresh air and a bit of exercise so I went for a walk to the shops and I thought, well, I'll pop in and see my favourite son on the way home."

  "I'm your only son."

  "And my favourite!" Pearl smiled widely. As the chemo drained from her system she was getting brighter and brighter with each passing day. "I'm not disturbing you, am I? Oh, you're having lunch. Excellent. I'll stop for a brew, then."

  "Sure." He had to smile. Even if he had been working, he would have stopped to chat to h
er. He'd come so close to losing her that he wasn't going to take her presence for granted ever again.

  "Working hard, love?" She peered at the lines of code on his laptop screen as he filled the kettle at the sink.

  "Yeah, it's a website for a bloke that's starting a landscaping business."

  "It doesn't look like a website."

  "No, it's what makes the website work. Look." He set the kettle on and then reached over to the laptop, toggling a button so that the code disappeared and a rudimentary website popped up.

  "There's no pictures. You've got to sort that out, Turner. I might be an old fuddy duddy but I know that websites need pictures, you know."

  "I know, mum, I haven't got to that bit yet."

  "Hmm. Well, it's all very clever. So, well done, you."

  "Thanks." He smiled. She was making him feel better without even trying. "Mum, can I ask you about Kyle and Liam?"

  Pearl leaned back in the kitchen chair and pursed her lips. "Go on."

  "What's happening at school? Especially with Kyle? Are they kicking off bad, or what?"

  "Yeah, they have been. I think…"

  "What?"

  Pearl seemed unwilling to speak and she spent a few moments huffing, and adjusting her cardigan. Finally she said, "Well, I think things have been quite unsettled for them. First they were living with me, and then I was ill a lot, and then you were here, and then gone, and then Andy came back on the scene and of course he's their dad." She paused for breath. "And then another change, with them moving in together and trying to be a proper family again."

  Turner poured the boiling water onto the teabags and began to mash them in the mugs. "Mum, Riggers - sorry, Andy - he's a bully. I'll tell you that straight out. I didn't like the way he spoke to Kyle and worse than that, I didn't like the way Kyle reacted to him."

  "He did what he was told."

  "Yeah." Turner dumped the teabags in a soggy mess on the drainer. "Not because he was acting out of respect. He did what he was told because he was scared, mum. Did you not see that?"

  "No."

  Turner mixed milk and sugar into the mugs and pushed one in front of his mum. "Biscuits?" he offered.