Passion Patrol 2 - a Sexy Police Romance Suspense Novel With a Touch of Humor: Hot Cops. Hot Crime. Hot Romance. (6 page)

“I might have been thinking about you. I could feel guilty about that—but I don’t,” she said.

“It’s a cliché, but I’ve not met anyone like you before.”

“You’re my first 11th earl you know. You’ll have to be gentle with me.’

He held out his arms from his sides, his palms open and facing her.

“I don’t know what I’m trying to express exactly, but I want to express it just to you.”

“Good job I know then,” she said, stepping forward, raising her lips, and fixing her eyes on his. He reached out for her cheek with his powerful but gentle hand. His fingers folded just a little behind her neck. She closed her eyes as the warmth of his touch and the closeness of his body molded into her. Now she was screaming inside for his kiss. Their lips brushed, then united in a joy of fold and touch. Her mind flew to some senseless place of blooms and physical release. She was naked of possession, without care for anything. His arms were holding her. His body was hard and strong. Everything of him was a fit, as if she had always been a statue carved within him. She brushed her hands up and down his sides, longing to feel his skin. She pulled out his shirt and slid her fingers across his flesh. She felt his deep groan of pleasure in his chest and sighed back her own response. She opened her eyes to find his still closed. She teased along his lips lightly with hers. He took her chin and kissed her in return, watching her eyes.

“’Now that’s why you didn’t know what you were trying to say,” she said.

“How’s that?” he asked dreamily, softly kissing the lids of her eyes.

“Cos there’s no words for it.”

“I’ll have to remember that in case I ever want to kiss you again.”

His voice was low and slow. His hand moved to the small of her back and rested above the swell of her buttocks. He pulled her tight to him. Something was happening to her with this man. She had always been aware of her enjoyment of sex and had no reserve about it. Now this desire was an inner pulse that swept up her emotional longing for him into a single force. If he reached for her now, for her aching breasts or the hot juice of her she would melt and simply spill into him. This passion must always have flowed like a hot river for all those reckless lovers in fiction and history. In this moment here with him she was wanton and naked on the banks of that river, longing to release or drown.

Involuntarily she shuddered as she felt his arousal against her. What a joy it was to have excited such a male. She glanced at him, letting him see her eyes unfocused in the lust his pressure had evoked in her. She knew she had to stop now. For sure she was prepared to see it through but she wasn’t quite ready. For a few more days she wanted to keep her secret parcel of desire unopened. She sensed he wanted to speak, and laid her head on his chest.

“Heavens above,” he whispered, “that was wonderful. You are so beautiful I can’t stop looking at you. I shouldn’t be saying things like this, should I?”

She smiled inwardly at his old-fashioned manner and reserve.

“No, you certainly should not. You’ll make me vain and horrid. Then I’ll need you to say it more and more to stop me being insecure.”

“You don’t seem insecure.”

“I wasn’t but I’m a ruined maiden now and it’s too late. You’ll have to tell me again....”

“You’re beautiful. I can’t stop....”

She raised her fingers to his lips and smiled. He responded by kissing them.

“It’s OK, I’m still secure enough. You, Spencer, are a lovely hunk of handsome man.”

“Are you sure? Tell me again,” he said.

“You’ve had your ration. It’s only the third time we’ve met. But you’re a big lovable bear in overalls too.”

“Lovable?” he repeated.

“Yeah, could be that way. I’ll have to see....”

He kissed her forehead and stood back.

“You look like a man who’s had too much weak posh tea. You need a proper brew.”

“You and your Yorkshire tea.”

She went through to the kitchen and put the kettle on.

“That poor girl in the ditch, what will happen to her?” he asked

“Next up will be a post-mortem examination. I’m hoping to be there.”

“And after that, if you never know who she is and no one reports her missing?”

“Eventually the authorities will carry out an official funeral.”

“With nobody there? How can some lives be worth so much and others be just nothing?” he asked.

She could detect a sincere sorrow in his voice.

“Now you’re asking why I’m a cop, Spencer. It’s because life’s not bloody fair.”

“I think any funeral should be in the chapel at the Manor. I’ll arrange a plaque and a proper grave so that her life is recorded, so that some hearts will carry her on.”

Shannon looked at his sombre expression.

“Now you’re being a big lovable bear again.”

He reached out and squeezed her hand.

“I wasn’t trying to be sentimental,” he said. “And just how are you going to find me two cricket players. Ideally I need a first class batsman and a decent bowler.”

“Did I mention my dad is from Antigua?”

“Yes!’

“Have you heard of Richie Richardson?”

“Of course, he captained the West Indies.”

“He’s a mate of my dad. They played together as young men for the Leeward Islands. My dad had the chance to come to London to work and he chose that path. I’m glad he did cos that’s how I got made in England.”

“He can bat?”

“He sure can. Have faith. The other one is my mate, Mel.”

“A young lady?”

“Mel is a bloke. He’s played for the Met Police.”

“He may have a match already.”

“He’ll cancel it for me. He’s my absolute BFF. He’s bringing me a curry tonight.”

“Here?”

Spencer’s expression conveyed several other questions.

“BFF—best friend forever, we worked together in Brixton.”

“Bonds made in adversity are the strongest,” he said.

She could tell he didn’t want another man in her life. She was enjoying the tease.

“Am I being a minx?” she said, holding his eyes.

“I don’t know. Are you?”

“Look, Mel is gay. He does
not
do women.”

“No man could resist you.”

“You’ll meet him Sunday. You’ll see how he is. I promise.”

“I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“You did OK for the first forty-one years.”

“That’s because I didn’t know I was going to meet you,” he said with a look that nearly stopped her heart.

“Wow!” she said, surveying the new Mitsubishi Shogun SUV in the police house car park.

“It’s very special,” said the garage sergeant. “The police service has decreed that you merit such a vehicle. It is a very valuable piece of kit.”

“I’ll try not to scratch it,” she said in a girlie voice.

“Normally an
ordinary
driver, someone not trained to an advanced level would not be issued with such a machine. I take it you are not advanced.”

“Some people say I’m a bit forward and cheeky, but I’m not advanced, Sarge. I’m just a regular girl underneath.”

He looked at her from under his slashed peaked hat. Mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes. She stared back with an expression of insolence. She hated driving specialist snobs. She’d been shuffling cars around the garages under the arches in Peckham since she was about ten. “I’ll soon get some pink fluffy dice and a ‘bitch on board’ bumper sticker so that I’ll feel at home.”

The sergeant gulped.

“I imagine that’s a joke. Here’s the keys and remember not to put petrol in it.”

“Is it a battery car? Where do I plug it in?” she asked disingenuously, well aware of his meaning.

“It’s diesel. DIESEL. It’s a type of fuel oil.”

“Oil—ooh yes, you pour that in the engine, Sarge! I’ve seen my dad do that.”

“No! No! Diesel fuel. It goes in the tank!”

Shannon started to laugh.

“Sarge, I was winding you up....”

“Well, you never know with
non-advanced
drivers.”

“I’m sure, but I’ll look after it. I wouldn’t have chosen white as a color and all those stripes are a bit brash—but hey,” she said with a shrug.

The sergeant smiled feebly, pulled on his backless kangaroo-leather driving gloves and strode to a waiting patrol car. She jumped her bottom up onto the bonnet and swung her legs and waved as he drove away. She needed a shower and there was some work to do.

Her computer screen was showing the results on all the checks she had run on the “Bluegrass” house at Badger’s Knoll. Both vehicles were registered to a company “Green Pasture Properties.” The register of voters showed the occupants of the house to be Sylvie and Ron Arrowsmith. She flicked to a company director search and sure enough, the business was their baby. She noted two previous bankruptcy warnings on their credit record. A Criminal Records check at once revealed Ron Arrowsmith to be a very serious villain indeed. Until now he’d been a violent gangster. He had followed traditional pathways of extortion, protection rackets, armed robbery, and a sideline as a fence handling stolen goods. He’d been acquitted of the murder of an undercover cop ten years ago. Sylvie had no recent record but had been locked up for a sexual assault on a female many years ago. The charges were dropped before trial
.
She had a conviction for operating a brothel in the West End of London in 1987. Since then she had gone off the radar.

So, there were millionaire criminals living on the edge of rural paradise. Her mind turned to the body in the ditch. She knew, she
knew
these people were involved. She remembered her childhood days at her dad’s little back street garage. Everyone knew the owner paid money for protection from thugs. Even as a kid her blood had boiled at the humiliation of seeing her dad’s wages docked when the boss had to pay the crooks. As a teenager she’d wanted to stand up to them but her dad had always shaken his head sadly and said, “The weeds will always choke the orchids.” From what she had learned in the police, the victory of the orchids would be a long time coming.

Even a week before now, her soul would have churned with anger at these thoughts. Now, there was that man in her life. That man who’d kissed her. That man she’d kissed. No, that wasn’t right! He was that man with whom she had kissed. Soon Mel would be coming with the curry. There was time to phone her dad.

“Hey, are you really my father?”

“Depends who you are.”

“I’m the sheriff of Fleetworth-Green.”

“That’s my girl.”

“Shall I come to the point?”

“Is it a nice point or a nasty point?”

“It’s a big, big extra sweet love for my daddy point.”

“OK. What do I have to do and how much will it cost?”

“You have to play cricket for the Earl of Bloxington’s team on Sunday. A cabinet minister and a prince have dropped out.”

“I guess I could cruise down if I’m free.”

“I’m serious.”

“Shannon, I thought I’d never hear you say that word.”

“I didn’t mean to say it. It just slipped out.”

“I’m fifty-three. I’m a car mechanic in Peckham.”

“You’re a star of the Leeward Islands in my heart.”

There was a silence.

“OK, what’s the crack?”

“It’s just a little game down here.”

“There’s no such thing as a little game of cricket.”

“That’s why you’re a star.”

“I’ll get some practice on the balcony outside the flat. I’ll get your mum to bowl some bouncers.”

“You’ll be here!’

“Didn’t I say? Yes, I’ll be there.”

“I love you.”

She put down the phone. That was one problem solved. She turned over the circumstances of the Arrowsmith family. She had a clue that there was skunk weed cannabis in the house. She had no idea of the quantity. She just could possibly have seen a dark-haired girl in Sylvie’s car. She was a village cop, serving a bit of a sentence on the sidelines for jumping in on a death-or-glory mission. The last thing she wanted was to make the same sort of mistake again. With the zizz of Spencer’s kiss still on her lips, there was no way she wanted a forced transfer out of here. For now a still tongue would make a wise head.

She saw Mel arrive in his battered old car with the take-away curry. He looked tired and older. His grey office suit was creased and shapeless. At one time he would always have been immaculate. He’d been alone for too long and now even she had left him. She ran out and hugged him.

“My Sugar baby love,” he said.

“I’m so happy to see you!” she said, aware that his body was thinner and wiry. He smelled of police stations, prisons, and Brixton.

They took the food through to the kitchen and opened Cobra beers in the pungent atmosphere of Vindaloo and steaming pilau rice. Mel took a long grateful slug from the bottle. He was a tall good-looking guy. He was a couple of years older than Spencer. He needed a shave and his intelligent hazel eyes conveyed a sad weariness.

“Hope you’re staying out of trouble down here. There’s been no crime here since records began and now there’s a body in a ditch as soon as you arrive.”

“Trouble finds me.”

“Love the hairdresser’s jeep. How the hell did you swing that?”

“Things aren’t quite normal in these parts.”

“Really?”

“There’s Spencer—the earl....”

“Yes....”

“He kinda swings things.”

“Like you’re kinda swinging him?”

“No.”

“Shannon, you changed the tone of your voice. It shows, Sugar. I’m a bloody detective. No way would they give a plod that vehicle. So the earl is caught in your tractor beam. He might as well surrender.”

“Aristocrats don’t surrender. They fall on their swords and get cremated on their shields.”

“So what’s he like?”

“Big guy, dark hair, forty-one years old. And he needs you far more than he needs me.

“He’s gay?”

“He’s a cricket nut. He needs a player for Sunday. My dad can pick you up.”

Mel glanced at her and took another slug from his beer.

“Yeah, it’ll be great. Thanks for asking me,” he said, reaching out a hand to squeeze hers. His loneliness had started to eat him alive.

As they ate the curry and drank too much beer Inspector Lilly phoned to tell her the post-mortem was at 10:30 a.m. at the Croydon mortuary. She gave a little shudder. Dead bodies and intestines were not her favorite element of police work.

“Why you gonna be there?” asked Mel.

“I feel involved. I want all the info while it’s fresh.”

Mel looked at her shrewdly. “She’s got road traffic injuries. She’s an illegal fallen off a truck.”

“But why there?”

“Why anywhere? We ain’t gonna know. If you were in charge of the case where would you start? You might find out she came in on a Romanian truck towing a hired Belgian trailer. How many men could you commit to it?”

“I feel lucky,” she said.

“If you get lucky just share it with the big boys and be a good village cop.”

“I’m allergic to cats.”

“Too bad.”

“I do want your help with a case.”

“Shoot.”

“Spencer’s son was nicked for possession of cannabis. I don’t think he knew the stuff was in his pocket. Can you get me the file?”

“So, he had his mate’s coat or the copper planted him up or what?”

“There’s a something and I want to check it out.”

“Cos you’re loved up on his dad?”

“No. Because I believe him.”

“That’s good enough for me. Give me the details.”

She scribbled them down and put them in his jacket pocket. Then she warmly kissed his cheek and left him to the sofa and her spare duvet.