Hidden Kiss (Love Is The Law 2) (5 page)

"Emily!"

"Wow."

When she'd seen him yesterday, in his court-going suit, the
prison aura had still clung to him. Now, he was like a new man. As he enfolded
her sideways in a one-armed hug, keeping a massive bouquet of flowers safely
out of the way, she realised he even smelled different.

"Let's get these in water. I want to say hello
properly," he muttered into her hair, and she led him through to the
kitchen. She could hardly keep her eyes off him.

In his black jacket, casual grey tee-shirt and smart dark
jeans, he looked like a model from a perfume advert, except maybe the scars on
his knuckles made him too real. They'd be photoshopped out, she supposed. She
trimmed the stems of the roses and lilies while he didn't disguise the fact
that he was looking all around her kitchen.

"What are you hunting for?"

"I'm just checking. I built up a really detailed
picture in my head, of your whole flat. I was just comparing my memory to the
reality."

She ran a vase full of water. "You do know how creepy
that sounds, don't you?"

"Does it? Sorry. A lot of stuff that seems creepy is
perfectly normal in prison."

"Eww. I don't think I want to know."

"Heh. Have you ever seen a bunch of flowers made from
bread?"

Emily held the vase of red and white blooms out at arm's
length. "Nope, I definitely think these are flowers."

"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.