Passion Patrol 2 - a Sexy Police Romance Suspense Novel With a Touch of Humor: Hot Cops. Hot Crime. Hot Romance. (4 page)

“He hasn’t said much. He thinks one of his mates put it in his pocket when the police stopped them. I really don’t know if that could be true.”

“Well, it could be—but why not just drop it? Why make things more complicated by trying to get it into someone else’s pocket?”

Spencer nodded and appeared to think for a while.

“Cops are different aren’t they, Shannon? You approach things with a criminal mind, if I can say such a rude thing.”

“You’re right. It’s not rude to say that. You’re Lord of the Manor. You see things from there. All I’ll say, Spencer, is that I believe him. I could speak to the officer who nicked him.”

“And?” he questioned.

“And, I might have a peek at the file, just to be certain,” she replied. “All I can say is that a stop on a kid like Ben on his way to the cinema doesn’t often happen. I’m guessing there is a bit more to it. Maybe he’s not telling us everything.”

She shrugged and looked at him as he watched the road ahead as they passed through the center of the village. His profile was strong and his eyes deep set under dark brows.

A big vehicle was heading towards them at very high speed.

“Christ—a maniac!” he shouted.

Shannon studied the door mirror and read the registration plate backwards. It wasn’t too tough. She knew it already.

“It’s from one of those new houses at Badger’s Bog,” she said.

“What! Ha! Badger’s bloody Bog. The place is an eyesore. It’s a cultural Chernobyl. The farmer’s son-in-law is one of those developer creatures and in the end he got planning permission. I’ve had to buy the whole farm to stop any more hideous desecration of the countryside.”

Shannon noted his intense anger. The speeder was in the black Chrysler 300. The driver looked like a female of about fifty with large earrings, brassy expensive hair, and a salon perma-tan. Just maybe there had been a dark haired girl in the back, half hidden by the smoked windows.

“It’s from that house called “Bluegrass,”” she said.

“How do you know that?” he asked.

“Cos I’m a right old pro, Spencer. Like you with your welder.”

He grinned and returned to his theme.

“Ben told me what had happened last night. Perhaps you should have told me there was alcohol and cannabis involved.”

“Maybe you’re right but it’s brilliant he told you himself. I assured Ben it was between him and me. He didn’t have anything himself. To be honest he seemed a bit of an outsider. My guess is he took the bike to show off, you know, to get accepted as a bit of a tearaway.”

“That’s a lot of guessing and what if he hadn’t told me?”

“Then you’d never have known from me because I told him I wouldn’t. You could’ve been some right stuffed shirt and completely overreacted. He’s trusted your wisdom by telling you. It wouldn’t have been fair to deny him the chance to tell you the whole story. I’m a cop and my first job is to build up trust with these kids. D’ya see that?”

“I do, but I hadn’t thought of it that way,” he said.

She knew he had a point. She cursed the fact that she couldn’t tell him that her story edit was in exchange for some information. A deal was a deal and she had stuck with it. In any case, she had trampled every protocol for the questioning of minors. Doubtless Jasmine de Montfort would be able to advise him of her errors.

His mood lightened again.

“What sort of saddo would call that place Badger’s Knoll? It’s a sneer at what they’ve destroyed,” he said.

Shannon giggled.

“Saddo. You’re not a guy to say that.”

“It’s Ben. I try to keep up. You know, join in a bit. He thinks you’re ultra-street-chick cool.”

“I think he’s a gallant charming young man,” she said in her poshest clipped accent.

“And you’re certainly not a gal to say that,” he said, beaming a huge perfect smile.

They passed through the village. He slowed down and turned right through imposing iron gates bearing the Bloxington coat of arms. The private road passed through trees and opened out into a meadow of wild flowers and long grass. She saw the lake ahead of them and the front face of the Manor on the far side. He steered the Land Rover off the road and bumped down to the edge of the water. He switched off the engine and bounded out like a spaniel to come round to open her door.

“The sun is lovely and there’s a seat. It’s my favourite view,” he said, offering his strong bare arm to steady her as she swung out her legs. He kept his gaze into some polite distance. She took the offered forearm. He was firm and steady.

“Well thank you, kind Sir,” she said.

He looked back into her eyes as she reluctantly let go and brushed down her dress. He led the way to a wooden bench. She sat beside him.

“Wow! What a view,” she said.

“Shannon....” he began.

“Yes, Spencer, I know,” she teased.

“Really, what do you know?”

“You never did this with PC Flowers.”

He smiled with the warmth of the sun. His laughter lines deepened to reflect some kind of joy.

“I wasn’t going to say that, but whatever I was going to say was just to cover up that I was thinking that very thing,” he said.

Her hand went forward to touch his arm. His hand started to come to meet hers but he drew it back and gazed silently over the lake. She held back her touch but the safety catch of a hair trigger was off.

“All this for one man,” he said.

“I didn’t see any fences and the gates were open. You let folk just wander in,” she said.

“You know that?”

“Ben told me. He loves you. He’s proud of you, Spencer.”

The big lost man put his head in his hands.

“Shannon, this is wrong. Oh God. We just can’t talk like this.”

“We’re doing OK so far. You wanted to talk about Ben,” she said, longing to reach out for his hand, but holding back.

“Yes, we are, aren’t we? Look, it’s not been easy for him since the accident—the death of his mother. I’m guessing you know about that.”

She wanted to keep it simple.

“I know enough.”

“He was away at boarding school. After his mother, after Saskia died, I kept him at home,” he said, drawing in a deep breath. “Maybe more for me than for him. Maybe entirely for me. I don’t know. This wretched drugs business nearly destroyed us—you know, destroyed our bond of trust. It’s a deep wound for me, Shannon, because we were strong for each other and he knew I would be heartbroken for him and for his poor mother. Jasmine makes no secret of her belief that it wouldn’t have happened if I’d sent him back to Eton.”

He stopped. She knew that even if there weren’t tears in his eyes, they were pouring from his heart. She let him settle and somehow held back her own emotions and touch. He carried on.

“Do you think I’m selfish keeping him with me?” he asked.

“Easy answer, Spencer. No. You’re his father. He needs you. People’s needs are never equal in any relationship. The only equal thing between people is their ability to misunderstand each other’s needs,” she said.

“That sounds a bit Irish if I’m allowed to say that,” he said.

“That’d be moy Oirish blood, Sor,” she said laughing.

“And your father?” he asked.

“I never had a father. I had a dad and I still do,” she said.

“Shannon….”

“What?”

“Nothing. You’re a little minx, Shannon,” he said.

He hadn’t looked at her. The touch not touched and the look not looked hung like a great weight on a rope which tied them together, pulling them closer and closer.

She heard a sound and a snort behind them. She spun round to see a huge, horned, long-haired cow about a yard away.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” she exclaimed.

“Ah, that’s Petal, one of the Highland Longhorns. She won’t harm you.”

Shannon watched him get up and approach the beast. He patted the creature with his assured strong hands. She regarded the horns. She would rather take her chances with a mad axeman.

The mood had changed when he came back.

“It was your birthday yesterday,” she said.

“Yes. I was forty-one.”

“And I’m twenty-nine, just to save you asking, but more because I wanted to tell you,” she said.

“You wanted to tell me?”

“Yeah, so that I gave you of myself what you gave me of yourself.”

He nodded agreement.

“Fleetworth-Green is very special. I like to think of it as a bit of an island—a sanctuary if you prefer. This boy smoking drugs thing last night is a worry you know,” he said.

“There’s bound to be stuff. I’m not looking to grandstand it or make dramas. I don’t want scumbags getting rich selling to kids either.”

“Would you, could you keep me informed of any police-type drug situations in the village?”

“That would be very much against legal protocols, Sir,” she said.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“That’s why I didn’t say no.”

Suddenly he reached out and touched her arm just below the shoulder. It was an impulsive bond of complicity. She smiled and placed her hand on top of his. There was a stir of passion in her belly as his eyes questioned her hand still lying on his and pressing it to her skin. The warmth melted them into the air and swept them up and away from the weight of separate lives into the scent of lime trees and the sigh of the breeze.

“I’m flying,” she said at last.

He had no answer but to let his eyes stay with hers. And fly.

She snapped back to the moment.

“I hope you can make a decent cup of tea,” she said.

“Earl Grey?” he replied.

“Nah, come on. Yorkshire Gold, please. They grow lovely tea on the south-facing slopes of the Yorkshire Dales.”

He nodded seriously.

“They only harvest it on 1st April and I may have missed it.”

“OK. Next time then, Spencer,” she replied.

He drove to the house and stopped at the front entrance. Again he opened the door and offered his forearm. He escorted her up a flight of wide stone steps to an open doorway flanked by massive stone columns. He led the way across a marble-floored hall which itself sported marble pillars. Twin paneled doors opened to reveal a long wide corridor which formed a gallery of paintings. She imagined the people to be Bloxington ancestors although she spotted some members of the royal family. At the far vanishing point end, he stopped in front of a new style vibrant painting. It was a long full-length portrait of a beautiful woman in a magnificent blue ball gown. The background was of the lake and the house from the point where she had been sitting with him. She was young, about her own age with a haughty elegance which made Shannon feel like a fast-food waitress at the end of a shift. The woman’s long dark lustrous hair fell around her shoulders.

“Saskia, Ben’s mother,” he said.

Shannon nodded, taking in the presence of her, even as a painting.

“Beautiful,” she said.

“And that can never fade now,” he replied.

“Beauty doesn’t fade, Spencer. It gives up the crap, goes underground, and has more fun.”

“Oh,” he replied, obviously expecting a more serious response.

“Life is beautiful,” she added, knowing she could tread on his toes here. No way was she going to let him wallow on her time.

“Did you always think that on the streets of Brixton?” he asked.

“I never thought it was ugly. There was never a day without smiles and music.”

He seemed to accept her attitude and moved on. She knew she’d been a bit brash. In truth Brixton had often seemed bleak but she would play the irritating optimist rather than join him in building some untouchable icon.

He swung open huge cast iron French windows that gave onto a flagstoned terrace. In the center was a table set for tea. He held back her chair and she sat down. The view was of an enormous flat lawn. In the corner was a thatched pavilion and a cricket scoreboard. Beyond the field was the tower of a church partially obscured by tall ancient oak trees. One workman was rolling the pitch while two others were completing the laying of a boundary rope. She handed him the birthday card from her handbag. He seemed astonished.

“It was your birthday yesterday,” she said.

He reached into his pocket and drew out a Swiss Army knife. He carefully slit the envelope.

“You don’t just rip it open then?” she teased.

“You don’t hit a nail with a screwdriver,” he said as he read her words. He beamed a smile. “Thank you so much, Shannon. Saskia made a big thing of birthdays. Without her, you know, it doesn’t seem right.”

She didn’t want to follow his sentiment.

“They don’t do cards about welders. There’s not too many rhymes,” she said, looking at the cricket field.

“There’s a match on Sunday. It’ll be the Bloxington Eleven against a team from Jasmine’s legal chambers and their clients. God, I hope we win. Do you care for cricket, Shannon?”