Hidden Heart (Love Is The Law 1) (8 page)

He said, "I'm sorry. I
didn't mean to… I shouldn't… I'm not that sort of man. To, you know."

"To what?"

"Force myself on anyone."

"You haven't."

"I have. Let me get you
home. I need to see you safely home."

Emily didn't know whether to be
disappointed or relieved. She shook her head and smiled. "It's all right.
Just get me to a taxi and I'll be fine."

"Sure?"

"Sure."

Turner paused, his expression
distant, as if he was about to suggest something. Then he extended his arm and
she took it. He led her out of the backstreet and onto the busier routes
between Salford and Manchester. They walked in silence until Emily couldn't
stand it any longer.

"Turner, listen. Don't beat
yourself up. I don't know what's going on in your head right now. You're not
yourself. Not that I can claim to know what "yourself" is, but you’re
not the man I met the other week. I've had such a great night with you, and
then… then you kissed me, and that's okay too. It really is."

His fingers dug into her upper
arm and he briefly dipped his mouth to brush her forehead, a light, chaste kiss
of acknowledgement. "Thank you. It has been a great night. It makes me
feel normal again, like the man I used to be before I messed it all up."

She thought about her own
mistakes, but held her tongue. Instead, she let her arm snake around his waist
again, her fingers pressing into his hips and slightly dipping under his
leather belt.

"Oh Emily, what are you
doing?" His voice was low and he stopped walking, half-turning to face her
while still holding her close.

"Turner, it's all
right…" she said again. Her blood was roaring in her ears as she offered
up her lips to him once more.

He accepted her invitation and
this time the kiss was deeper and longer. Passing cars tooted their horns but
Emily didn't care; she was wrapped in the arms of a strong man, and she
squeezed her eyes shut, trying to absorb every sensation and every touch, taking
the moment into her memory for ever.

This time, when they broke apart,
they didn't speak. Turner hurried her along the pavement to a taxi rank and
they jumped in. A worry flitted through Emily's mind;
he's going to find out
where I live.
But one look at his dark, hungry face, pushed the concern
away. He was an
ex-
criminal, after all.

He didn't even look around her
flat as she led him into the cosy, chaotic living room. He was upon her once
more, exploring new ways of kissing, judging her responses. Hard, fast, slow,
gentle, nibbling and pulling; together they meshed their lips and their bodies,
standing central in the dim-lit room, illuminated against the uncovered
windows, proudly displaying their passion to the night air of the North.

It felt as if every vein in her
body was throbbing and fit to burst. She tugged at his suit jacket, pushing it
back from his shoulders, and he let it slide to the floor. He countered by
pulling at the waistband of her cardigan, drawing it up over her head, ignoring
the buttons. It would stretch out of shape but she didn't care.

"Oho. If I had known you had
nothing but a sexy bra on below that cardi, I would have taken you in the
alleyway."

Emily ran her hands over his
broad chest, up onto his shoulders, and down his muscular forearms. "If I
had known that, I would have told you," she replied, encouraging him.

He stepped away to pull his own
tee shirt off, and stood still for a moment, allowing her to take in his
powerful body. She lingered, letting her eyes do the exploration. Then she
unzipped her skirt and let it slither to the floor, revealing her stockings and
simple black knickers. He didn't move, and she moved around him, drinking in
his toned torso from all angles. On his shoulder blade was a dark tattoo and
she reached up to trace it with her fingernail. "Regimental?"

"Yup."

She stayed behind him, snaking
her hands around his belly and dipping under his belt once more, teasing him
with her fingertips. He reached behind with his hands and grabbed her, stopping
her.

"What's up?"

"Let's take this to the
bedroom."

"That door there, to the
right."

He wasted no time, once in her
private room, in shedding his jeans and socks. He stood at the foot of her bed,
his arousal clearly visible beneath his smart white underwear.

"Do you want me to
undress?" Emily asked, letting her hands rest on her hips.

"Christ, if you don't, I'm
going to bite the damn stuff off you with my teeth."

And that was it; all they needed
to fall upon one another, tumbling on the bed in a flurry of limbs and passion.
He threw her onto her back, while she twisted and entwined around him. They
kissed again, not just lips but nipples, hips, back and neck. She fumbled for a
condom but he was ahead of her, tearing open a packet and taking charge. She
tried to respond as an equal player but this was Turner's game, now, and he set
the pace.

His fingers sought her spaces and
judged her readiness; she gasped out, "Yes," wanting to assure him
she'd been needing him for some time. Hours, if truth be told. She wrapped her
legs around his and tried to guide him to her.

He played, and taunted, teasing
until she was begging, before he would relent. When he finally claimed her, she
felt tears spring to her eyes and she tried to hold herself back:
not yet,
oh god…

"Is that all right?" he
asked, his gentlemanly concern just a throaty growl. He went slowly, carefully.

"No," she blurted.
"More, harder, please, oh god…."

His eyes narrowed and he thrust
harder, and she squealed with each slam as the pressure built up. "Yes, that's
it - keep going - yes…" She was aware she was babbling but she'd passed
that point of caring, the point of no return, the point of ever being the same
again.

"Emily…"

Hearing her name from his mouth
was the final straw and she scrabbled her fingernails over his back as the
rising tide within her became a torrent of stars and explosions. He, too,
jerked as he could hold himself no more, and his sweat-soaked head was thrown
back as he grunted and shoved in hard, deep, holding himself as the room spun
around them both for a long, wild minute or hour or eternity.

Breathing slowed, time slowed.
Emily became aware of the weight of him upon her, and pushed at him, so that he
rolled off with a muted apology. There was the usual flurry of tissue and
re-arrangement, and then they were in an awkward embrace, both unwilling to
admit their limbs were cramped and tingling as they wrapped in each other's
arms.

She lay awake, expecting him to
leap up and demand a shower or a coffee or a taxi. But his breathing continued
to deepen and she realised that he'd fallen asleep, his left arm up above his
head and the sheets still half-tangled around his legs. She let her own eyes
close, but her mind was whizzing and awake.

Eventually the pins and needles
in her arm forced her to move, and she sat up, pulling the discarded duvet
around her body. The lamp light from the living room filtered through the
half-open bedroom door, and in the shadows his body seemed immense, even in
sleep. His face was relaxed and gentle now.

Oh crap. What have I done?
She thought about the article, and her lack of commissions, her money and her
job prospects. Her enthusiasm for her work waned and waxed with no warning. She
was exhausted from her mind-changing and her switching. Nothing felt right.

For a moment, she just wanted to
run away from everything and go to do voluntary work overseas.

Turner was right. The social
article was never going to happen. At least that meant what they'd just done
was all right, then. There was some small consolation.

She drew her legs up and rested
her chin on her knees, hugging herself, feeling suddenly small and alone.
Turner slumbered on.

Did she want him to stay or did
she want him gone? She felt too old to be having one-night stands. She'd said
to Kayleigh that she was looking for The One, these days.

But this was no way to begin a
relationship. If she was serious about him, she'd have got to know him. And if
he was serious about her, he would have let her.

It should be so simple. A great
night and hot sex. She sighed, and felt like crying, and still sleep did not
come.

Five am was a magical time to see
any city. Turner strode with the confidence of a man who owned the night,
nodding in allegiance to the handful of others he encountered on his way home.

He'd woken suddenly, heart
pounding, the room unfamiliar around him, and for a moment the walls had closed
around him. He remained still and rigid as the memories of the previous night
had seeped back.

Delightful memories.

Emily had been wrapped in her duvet,
her makeup smeared all down her face. He could almost imagine she'd been crying
with those streaks of mascara on her cheeks. She looked so fragile and so
beautiful and he knew, then, that he had to leave. Scum like him had no place
in her life.

He moved with stealth, sliding
back into his clothes before finding her bathroom. Then he'd left. No note,
nothing. It was best this way.

He needed to walk, and to move,
and to get his blood flowing. It was chilly, and the sun was near to rising,
bringing a deeper darkness ahead of the light that would soon be creeping down
the streets.

Emily was fun. He rolled the word
around in his mind. It meant so much more to him that those three letters could
convey.
Fun
. Not stressful, or demanding, or puzzling, or anything that
could describe many of his exes. Just alive, and bubbling, and fun to be with.
She challenged him but in an intellectual way, not a tedious way.

He wanted to sound intelligent
when he was with her. He wanted to impress her and delight her, make her laugh
and make her think.

The thought returned:
She's a
woman worth going straight for.

He kicked at a can that clattered
with unnatural loudness into the gutter, and a street cleaner two hundred yards
away looked up, his shoulders set in a bodily frown of disapproval. Turner
strode on, outrunning his guilt.

It was too late, way too late.

He felt a blast of anger at
Riggers. The emotion punched up from his stomach and almost winded him. If
Riggers had materialised in front of him at that moment, Turner knew he'd be
going back to prison for murder. He was angry at Riggers but also at Elaine for
having got two children by the man. He was even, shamefully and wrongly, angry
at his mother for getting ill.

And he was angry at himself for
letting himself fall for a woman like Emily. He cared, and it hurt like knife
wounds. Because he cared, he had to leave. If he didn't care, he could happily
fuck her any time he pleased.

But not her. Not Emily. She
deserved better than him.

Riggers, you bastard.

He lurched sideways into an
all-night kiosk, where a dull-eyed teenage boy slumped behind a rack of
chocolate bars. Impulsively he gathered up a range of newspapers, fresh that
morning, and topped it off with two cans of something acidic and nasty to wake
him up. He had to ask three times for a carrier bag from the slothful cashier,
and his mood was still dark by the time he got home.

His street was quiet, just litter
blowing across the road, though a few lights were showing in the windows and
opposite, a television flickered in a living room. But the daylight was
bringing grey steel to the air and soon the usual bustle would be beginning,
even here, where hardly anyone worked and for many, daytime was just a lighter
shade of boredom.

Turner's first act was a long,
hot shower, followed by one of the cans of fizz and a large cup of coffee. Then
he spread the papers out on the small pine table in the kitchen, and flicked
through them indifferently. All he really wanted were the ads sections at the
back: Situations Vacant.

Telesales, telesales,
telesales. CEO, lollipop lady, telesales. Make £500 a week, call now
, no
name, no clue; obvious scams. He tore through the thin sheets in increasing
frustration, his pile of clippings and leads woefully small.

It was a long, slow drag through
to nine o'clock. Voicemail after voicemail, answerphones and empty silences.

It's Saturday, you fool.

Turner sighed as the realisation
of his idiocy crept around his neck and he sank his head into his hands.
What
was the fucking point?

He must have dozed, or perhaps
passed out, because then it was ten am and there was a furious battering on his
door. He jerked upright, alert in an instant, ready to flee from the police.

But the shouting was from a
familiar and equally unwelcome voice, and with a curse, Turner stood and went
to the back door to let Riggers in.

"What do you want." He
spoke it as a statement, not a question.
You want nothing from me, nothing
that I am willing to give.

Riggers was in the same old grey
sweat pants, and a grey hooded top with expensive logos emblazoned across the
chest. He pushed forwards from the alleyway behind the house, forcing himself
into Turner's kitchen, smiling as if they were long-lost friends. Turner stood
back to let him in, though he was still itching to punch him.

Why do I keep letting this
little turd in?

He already knew the answer.
Because he needed him. Turner felt ill.

"All right, matey? Been out,
have you? You look like you've not slept. Nice one, nice one. Living it large,
innit."

Listen to yourself, you little
prick.
Turner folded his arms, deliberately flexing his muscles, wondering
if Riggers would be bright enough to notice his veiled threat. It was always a
gamble. Riggers abused a variety of substances, which either clouded or
heightened his senses, and it wasn't easy to tell how he'd see the world from
moment to moment.