Passion Patrol 2 - a Sexy Police Romance Suspense Novel With a Touch of Humor: Hot Cops. Hot Crime. Hot Romance. (13 page)

“An honor to meet you, Sir,” said the inspector. “I saw a team outside doing showboat team chants. They look like a bunch of internationals.”

“Some folk just can’t bear to lose,” said Tim.

“But surely they’re all ringers. From what I’ve seen of your Grace’s team....”

“They’re middle aged and out of shape,” said Patrick.

“Not quite all of us,” said Spencer.

“Your Grace, I didn’t mean....”

“Brian, I’m Spencer, OK, and you’re quite right.”

“Good job I’m a ruthlessly fair umpire.”

“Is that good?” said Ben, stepping into the huddle.

“Yes, young Sir. Justice is the highest aspiration of the law. That’s why imperfect men strive endlessly to achieve it. Clerks write laws. Justice rights wrongs.”

“Brian, you are a true philosopher and clearly the man for this afternoon’s contest,” said Spencer with a wink.

By 12:30 the marquee was filled with people and the hubbub of conversation. A team of staff served game pie, beans, and mustard mash. The meal was washed down with pints of warm English bitter beer drawn from oak barrels labeled “Ye Olde Peculiar Skull Thumper.” Bottles of red and white wines were spread out on the tables for less thirsty diners. Shannon watched Spencer as he played host, shaking hands and smiling at a multitude of guests. How she would have loved to be at his side. Seemingly without invitation, Jasmine followed the same trail, shaking the same hands, her big-toothed fake smile fixed on her face.

A cold wave of jealous hatred chilled Shannon’s stomach.

“Hey, relax,” said Mel. “She’s a posh, snooty bitch. It’s no contest.”

“I hate her. I hate her so much,” she said as she took Mel’s hand.

“Chill. He’s never gonna choose her.”

She relaxed. In any case, what could she do? A large bearded man in a white panama hat and white crumpled linen suit was making his way toward her. An enormous red handkerchief bloomed from his breast pocket. An impossibly glamorous platinum-blond woman built like Jessica Rabbit, was on his arm. She wore a red plunge-top lace playsuit and stratospheric heeled sandals. Her skin was burnished to perfection. Her long slim legs were smooth and extended to a Barbie doll body that Shannon imagined would not be defiled by hair or blemish.

“Vandervell! How wonderful to see you. I’d so hoped you could come,” said Spencer, encountering him. He waved for Shannon and her group to join him. He began introductions.

“You made ‘Red Flag of the Grimethorpe Zombies,’” said Mel. “It’s a socialist realist cult classic.”

Vandervell seemed to inflate to an even bigger size.

“It’s a unique and important critique of post-modernist non-consciousness,” said Tim.

Shannon sneaked a grin at Ben as Vandervell’s importance safety valve looked close to lifting off.

“Very rare I meet people who truly understand the intellectual elements of my work,” he said.

The woman at his side gave an almost theatrical sniff. At a glance, she had a snorting issue.

“I’m Shannon.”

The woman smiled and hesitated.

“I’m—Just who the fuck am I, Vandy Pandy?”

“You’re Selena fucking Fontesse. How many times? I’ve told you who you are.”

“Yes, I’m Selena Fontesse. I’m a hot beach bunny in ‘Vampire Clambake.’”

Shannon smiled. She liked Vandervell’s starlet companion, even with her jutting ruthless silicone enhancements.

“Are you an actress?” asked Selena.

“Yeah. Life’s an acting job for me. I’ve got a day job as a cop while I’m waiting for my big break.”

Vandervell roared out a laugh.

“Don’t joke! You’ve got something extra, Comrade. We could create very special art together.”

She felt her dad’s protective arm around her shoulder. He was being a good guard dog dad. He was also on his third pint of real English ale. She was delighted to see Vandervell and Selena. Once the match started all the men would troop off to the pavilion. Now she had friends. What an odd bunch of creatures they were. Somehow Mel and Tim had got round to Victorian Gothic revival architecture. Selena excused herself to the toilet, probably for a line of coke. Vandervell swallowed pints of Skull Thumper Ale and slabs of game pie.

“A simple pie and a pint, Comrade—that’s a working man’s humble repast,” he declared, holding up his hand in rectangle to frame Shannon’s face. “You, sister of toil, have a true proletarian beauty. You possess the loveliness of a working-class Cleopatra.”

“Cleopatra wasn’t working class,” said her dad.

“Okay, Brother Patrick, I’ll concede that inaccuracy. I meant Boudicca.”

“Boudicca wasn’t half West Indian, half Irish,” said Shannon, loving the flow of conversation.

“But she was in her consciousness, Comrade. She was an oppressed minority confronting imperialism and poverty.”

Mel and Tim wrapped fairly drunken arms around each other.

“The workers united will never be defeated!” they declared as twins.

“That’s my beautiful baby,” said Patrick, once again embracing her. This was alarming. He rarely drank.

“Vandervell, one-size-fits-all warrior-queens are my thing. I’ll be any one you want,” said Shannon.

“You’re a rare jewel of loveliness trodden by social inequality into the mud of obscurity, Comrade,” said Vandervell.

Mel and Tim cheered.

“Mud, mud, glorious mud,” sang Mel, waving his pint mug in the air

It was clear that nearly all of Spencer’s team were drunk.

“Spencer says I’m a minx.” said Shannon more than half aware that Jasmine was standing just on the edge of her group. If she could be there boldly giving his name a shout out, Jasmine could get a whiff of her confidence. She was flaunting her flattering admirers around her and the bitch could see it!

“Then he’s a wise man. We don’t want too many clever aristocrats against us at the barricades, Comrade!”

Shannon reached out for his hand. He was a big creative guy who’d seen it all. He was no more a revolutionary than she was. He’d battled with money men and risked all on his own drive and judgment to make movies. There were things and ideas on this earth that he alone had put there. She offered a bro’ fist. He touched knuckles and held her eyes. She knew Jasmine was watching and chewing bitter dust. Shannon was beginning to love these people.

Selena Fontesse came back to the table. Vandervell had filled a plate of pie, beans, and mash for her. He kissed her cheek with a warm non-sexual tendresse that Shannon could see was loving and sincere.

“It’s delicious. It will do you good,” he said, as father to a child.

As Selena ate he threw a pleading rope of compassion to Shannon to hold with him. They both knew the heat and light of stars only existed against the cold and black of space. Selena was shooting across their vision with a selfless and helpless sparkle. Her life, pouring out in a bridal train of tinsel behind her would warm the seconds of paying strangers. She was a flash because there was darkness. Because there was infinite darkness, so many longed to shine at any price.

It was 1:45pm. Soon the match would begin. Still Spencer was circulating among guests. At last he approached with a dark-haired, gorgeous young man of about twenty-five. God, he was a dish of long-lashed jungle pheromone sex tug. He was tall, slim, and sun bronzed.

“May I introduce Prince Xavier of Montenegro. Shannon, can I leave things to you while I get the rest of the team together?” he said, turning to go. He stopped and turned back, kissing her lips. “Just so you know....” he added.

His kiss warmed her. She had needed that fix of reassurance. He must really trust her to hand over such an attractive companion.

“Your Highness, is cricket a traditional game of Montenegro?”

“Cricket became my game at university. I’m only a prince of the commodity trading desk at Spencer’s firm. My real sport is polo. Montenegro is a republic these days and I have older brothers to maintain the royal thread.”

She noticed he was wearing supermarket trainers and the buckle on his watch strap was silver yet the watch was gold. His cricket shirt was a regular white office number from Walmart. This prince was far from wealthy. His accent had a slightly dated BBC or Queen of England upper-class stiffness long ago dropped by the likes of British royal princes. Maybe some ruthless governess had controlled his early years. She doubted his salary ran to polo ponies.

“Polo is a very expensive game,” she said.

“Yes, but it’s the only true sport of royals,” he replied.

She introduced him to the rest of her friends and let him stride off to join the team in the pavilion. He’d left his full glass of exquisite wine untouched on her table. She wasn’t proud and took it over. He was quite a guy that Prince Xavier.

“Ooooh, he could flutter those dark lashes on any part of me he chose,” commented Selena loudly. “I see you’re fixed up Shannon, so you won’t mind if I make a grab at him.”

“Fixed up?”

“Fixed up with the incredible hunk, Spencer,” she squealed, pouring the second half of her bottle of wine. Vandervell looked to heaven, slurped some beer and took delivery of another tranche of pie.

Shannon watched Ben collecting the last team members. Most of them were half drunk and gorged on food. If Spencer had hoped the opposition would blunt themselves with stodge and beer he would be very disappointed. All through lunch she had seen them eating moderate portions and drinking nothing but water. Jasmine on the other hand was well oiled with Chablis and Claret. The woman had no qualms about mixing red with white wine. Shannon guessed she took her pleasures from any source that pleased.

Everyone was making for the field. The sun was warm, the breeze gentle. The captains went out to toss the coin. The other team was doing elaborate warm ups and tactical huddles ending with triumphal bellows. Jasmine sashayed across and stood before them.

“Gentlemen, it’s only a game but as in life there are only winners and losers. Each must choose,” she declared in a shrill voice.

“She’s a hard spiteful bitch,” said Vandervell settling himself into a deck chair with a pint of beer on either side.

“I wouldn’t want to meet her on a dark night,” agreed Selena, equipped with bottle of claret.

Shannon seated herself at Vandervell’s side. He seemed delighted to be flanked by younger females.

“I’ve been thinking about this Black Boudicca project with you as the star, Shannon. We could set it on the North Peckham Estate.”

“They’d nick the wheels off the chariot.”

“A desperate act of self-harming working class frustration, Comrade.”

“What could I be?” asked Selena.

“Ah ... you could be an escaped Roman sex-slave who forms a lesbian relationship with the warrior-queen. It would symbolize the castration of imperialist power by female sexuality and working class solidarity.”

“Wow! That’s pure box office, Vandy Pandy.”

Vandervell extended his arms to either side of him.

“Take my hands ladies. Fame awaits us!’

Shannon laughed as she took his pudgy hand in hers. The situation was utterly bizarre but this life was seductive. Selena poked her head around Vandervell’s bulk.

“Your dad’s a sexy guy,” she said in a stage whisper.

“I’ll tell my mum. She’ll be pleased to know,” she replied.

Spencer walked past.

“I’ve put them in to bat. Our lot are too pissed to see the ball.”

Shannon shrugged. “It’s only a game....”

“It’s OTT to come with this lot. It’s going to be a massacre.”

She stood and kissed him.

“Look after my dad.”

“I will....”

She looked into his face. There was something big—something, he wanted to say.

“I know....”

“Do you Shannon?”

“I know about bears and honey and what else is there to know?”

He held her eyes. She didn’t want to let him go.

“There’s a game,” he said, striding away into battle.

Selena excused herself and made for the Ladies.

“She’s a lost soul,” said Vandervell.

“Can she be saved?”

“I’m trying, believe me. There’s experts and specialists on the case. Rehab isn’t a magic wand.”

She nodded. She’d seen enough one-way streets. Selena Fontesse was likely to be another coked up celebrity obituary in the gossip mags. An evil blood-soaked chain of greed had coiled around her as it had so many others. Shannon knew why she was a cop.

The first two batsmen walked out. Spencer’s team had spread themselves around the field. This wasn’t David and Goliath. This was Goliath and David’s grandfather. Inspector Lilly and Colonel Robertson took their places as umpires. Ben was lined up to bowl the first ball.

“He’s one hell of a prospect you know,” said Vandervell.

“Really? He’s never said anything....”

“They’re the aristocracy, Comrade. They never boast. Sometimes you can’t help but like them.”