Hidden Kiss (Love Is The Law 2) (11 page)

"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 tired, 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?

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.

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."