Hidden Kiss (Love Is The Law 2) (12 page)

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 that'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.