Hidden Heart (Love Is The Law 1) (7 page)

He was keen to talk about
anything else.
"I've only slept in a tent when I've been at festivals.
Does that really count as camping?"

He snorted and made eye contact,
sending a fresh shiver down her spine. She was transfixed by his lips as he
swallowed an olive, and licked the oil from his fingers. "Nope, it does
not."

She waited, wondering if he were
about to invite her on a camping trip, knowing she'd have to refuse. Then she
was annoyed when he said, instead, "I needed to get away. Good olives!
Have you had one?"

She picked up a tart green one.
While she chewed, he looked around the room, one arm casually draped over the
back of his chair. The slight twist in his upper body made his jacket hang open
and she couldn't help but let her eyes linger on the way his tight tee shirt
clung to his well-formed pecs. She dragged her gaze away as he turned back to
face her, but she wasn't sure that he hadn't caught her peeking.

She crossed her legs,
uncomfortably aware of the proximity of his knees to hers under the table.
"Yes, they're tasty. Look, I don't quite have a commission yet but…"

He shrugged and she stopped,
waiting for him to comment. He just set his mouth in a line, so she continued.
"I don't have a
definite
commission but the editor I want to work
with is on leave, you see. I think I might start this on spec."

Turner worked his way through
some calamari. "Sure. Go right ahead."

"So we need to talk about
the direction."

"You're the writer."

"I need your input."

He remained silent and Emily felt
a lurch of fear. It was like he was slipping away from her, and she didn't like
it. She took a stab. "And you need the money, right?"

"I need the money
now,
and
that's not going to happen."

"Don't you get any…
benefits?"

"Some. Enough for me. Not enough
for…" he stopped and knocked back a slug of wine. "Well, you know. I
spoke about my sister and her kids. My mum's a bit unwell, too. I have
responsibilities."

"Oh, sorry to hear
that." Emily searched his face for a clue but he had a wall around his emotions,
and she couldn't judge how far to probe. "Um, anything I can do?" she
concluded lamely.

That made him laugh, for some
reason, and he said, "Like what? A searing article exposing… oh god, I
don't know. Yeah, sorry. Thanks for the offer. More wine?"

"Are you all right?"
Just the fact that her glass had been topped up seemed to make Emily feel more
bold and able to ask the question that was bugging her. "You seem
different. Flippant."

He raised an eyebrow at her.
"Flippant's my nature, or so I've been told by plenty of women before
you."

She frowned at him and he
immediately tried to take back his words. "Christ, that made me sound like
a right dickhead. Like I've got a stream of women all banging on my door."

"And you haven't?"

"I think they got bored
waiting for me to be released from prison."

He said it so casually but the
word sounded loud in Emily's ears and she couldn't help but glance around to
see if anyone else had overhead. He spotted her uncertainty.

"Are you embarrassed to be
with me?"

"No, not at all!"
Nothing could be further from the truth, actually. There was no way that she
wasn't attracting jealous glances from other women, and she liked that.
"No. But I am just surprised that it's something you talk about so openly.
What with society's stigmas and all that."

He shrugged again. "I am
what I am, I guess. And I've got to be honest about it, haven't I?"

"I suppose so."

"More wine?"

"I haven't finished this
yet! Are you trying to get me drunk?" As soon as she said it, she
regretted it. The question shifted the whole evening onto another level. An
unprofessional one. She laughed, light and false, trying to make it seem like
an ironic joke.

Turner didn't laugh. Emily's
glass was only half-empty but he topped it up anyway, keeping his eyes fixed on
hers. In the subdued lighting of the bar, his face was made angular by shadows.
His voice was low, almost growling as he said, "We may as well. Look, I'll
try to help you with the article if you really want. I can put you in touch
with people and all that. But I'll be honest with you. I don't think it's going
anywhere, do you?"

"It is," she protested.
"I think. I hope."

He shook his head. "Are you
working on any other articles at the moment?"

"No."

"So how are you
surviving?"

These were not questions she
wanted to face, not again.
"It's the freelance life. Feast and famine.
Things will come up. I'm actually forging ahead into a new direction, actually,
you know."
Jesus, stop saying actually
. "Back to my original
plan, perhaps. Entertainment…"
Of which a perfectly good commission
came my way a few days ago, which I turned down. Because I am an idiot
.
"Actually,"
for god's sake,
"Who knows? I've been talking
about taking a permanent position somewhere."
Even with all the
redundancies Nathan told me about?
"So yeah. I've got plans. I'm quite
excited about the future, actually."
Fuck.
She finally stopped
talking and tried to set her face into a calm, confident expression.

He shrugged again, but whether
that meant he believed her or he was just humouring her, she couldn't tell.

"That's good. It's nice to
have options."

"Are you being-"

"Sarcastic? Yes.
Sorry." He suddenly straightened up and ran his hand over his cropped
hair, a look of exasperation on his face. Exasperation that she realised was
aimed only at himself. "I am sorry, honestly. I don't mean to take this
out on you. I've have a rough few days. I went away to get some clarity and do
some thinking, but I reckon I just thought myself in circles. I've got some
family stuff to deal with and I kinda feel let down by all sorts of things.
None of which is your fault. And I agreed to come out tonight because I thought
it'd be good for me to spend some time with a fun, attractive woman, and
instead I've just behaved like a dick." He sighed. "Sorry."

"It's okay," she said
automatically, one corner of her mind in freewheel about being thought of as
fun and attractive. "It's fine."

 He tipped his head to one side
and she suddenly realised that he didn't need to hear any more platitudes. Impulsively,
she said, "Actually, no it's not all right. You have been a dick. You
should be sorry."

He grinned and she relaxed. She
had finally said the right thing. He leaned across the table, letting his hand
rest close enough to hers that she could feel the heat rising from his skin.
"So, how can I possibly make it up to you?"

Once again, the conversation had
shifted into the choppy waters of unwise flirtation. She licked her lips, her
mouth drying as she tried to think straight.
If the article isn't really
going to happen then he isn't the subject and this isn't like the fuck-up I did
last time so this is all okay…

Turner's fingers lightly brushed
hers as he moved his hand back to grasp his wine glass, and she shivered at the
electric touch. "I don't know," she said, as coolly as she could.

"More wine?"

"You
are
trying to
get me drunk."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"Depends on your
motives."

He held her gaze while he raised
the glass to his lips, provocatively sipping as slowly as he could to drag the
moment out. Finally he said, in a deep voice, "My motives are entirely,
utterly, and one hundred per cent dishonourable."

Emily nearly melted.

"Oh."

He leaned in closer once more,
clearly revelling in the effect he was having on her. "Terrible motives.
Dreadful things. Dark, sordid and unspeakable." Then he sat back in a
rush, and said in his normal voice, "How about yours?"

Emily's voice was almost a
squeak. "My motives?"

He nodded.

Every single witty retort
deserted her, and she muttered, "I don't have any. I'm easy."
Oh
for god's sake.
She felt her cheeks flame red as she realised what she'd
said. There was no way of trying to dig herself out of this hole, and she
didn't even try. She simply sat quietly as Turner hooted with laughter at her
faux-pas.

"I'm sorry, I really
shouldn't laugh. But for someone who works with words for a living, you're not
making a very good job of it right now."

"I've never been one for
slick patter," she managed to retort.

He picked up his wine glass and
chinked it against hers. "Touché."

Emily's stomach was churning with
anticipation and fear, but she wriggled in her chair to get comfortable and
started to eat a few more of the little snacks on the table before them. She
wanted a few moments to think about where things were leading, but it seemed
that the events were spiralling out of her control, as Turner's lower leg began
to press against hers under the table.

She moved her leg out of the way,
but smiled up at him to soften her rejection. He was unfazed, and topped up her
wine glass once more.
Wait, when did it even get empty?
She had to slow
down.

Once more his leg was against
hers, hard and warm. This time she didn't move away. She met his eyes, and as
soon as she did so, he shifted his gaze to her neck, then her shoulders, and
down to her breasts and along her arms. She could almost feel his touch on her
as he walked his attention around her body, her whole body, and back up to her
face once more.

Fun and attractive.
His
earlier compliment flashed back into her mind, and she smiled to herself.

And yet he didn't take the
flirting any further. They finished the bottle of wine, and ate their way
through a mountain of tapas. Emily found herself more and more on edge, waiting
for his next move. It never came. His leg remained pressed against hers, and
his gaze smouldered at her, but that was all. Every movement of his body, every
lick of his lips, tormented her with potential that was never realised and her
anticipation grew to fever pitch. When he reached out to hook a piece of bread
from near her plate, and his fingers brushed close to her arm, she felt all the
hairs on her neck rise up. But his hand didn't deviate from its course, and she
was left tense and wanting, with a pulsing deep in her belly.

Eventually, head spinning with
wine and lust, she allowed him to lead her out of the tapas bar and onto the
bustling quayside. Throbbing music unfurled from every building, mixing with
the shouts and laughter of the revellers as they span past. A siren blared, the
blue lights echoing from the neon-splashed walls. High-vis jackets, cat calls,
tempers flaring and fading in the ebb and flow of a Friday night.

"Whoa, this is crazy,"
Turner muttered, his head turned so that his breath ruffled across the top of
her hair. He wrapped his right arm around her, tightly drawing her into the
protected space of his body. She leaned in to him gratefully as he plunged
through the crowds, heading for the quieter streets away from the main
thoroughfares.

"That's better."

The noise was dulled by the angle
of the wall as he took her along a back street, and then another, working by
degrees in the direction of Manchester City Centre. It was a three-mile walk,
and Emily slowed, trying to get her bearings and look for a bus or a taxi.

Turner slowed too, matching her
pace. "Even for me, when I first got out of prison, this was just
terrifying. All the noise, I mean. My mates decided I needed to celebrate my
release and they took me on a night out. I couldn't tell them how scary it all
was."

"So what did you do?"
Emily nestled against him as they walked.

"Drank until I didn't
care."

"Oh."

Without warning, he stopped, and
pushed her back against a wall. His arms went either side of her shoulders, but
his body didn't quite touch hers. He kept himself a few inches away from her,
but his eyes pinned her as effectively as any force would have done. She quaked
at his sudden movement, but stayed still, her arms by her sides. She could have
pushed him away, and wriggled out under his upraised arms, and fled into the
night. Instead, she was fighting the urge to wrap her arms around him and pull
him even closer. Conflicted between what she thought she ought to do, and what
she wanted to do, she couldn't move at all.

"But not tonight," he
said, enigmatically.

"What?"

"Tonight. I haven't drunk
until I didn't care. Maybe I should. I've just drunk enough for this."

Before she could question or
challenge him, his lips were on hers, and her body just took over in primal
response. A small logical voice was still asking for more details, way back in
her mind, but she ignored it. She thrust her chest upwards, against him, as her
hands went first to his hips and then around his waist, running over the smooth
taut rise of his buttocks. His kiss was hard, harsh even, pressing her back
against the wall, but she fought back, her lips tugging his as their breathing
mingled in muffled gasps.

It had been a while since she had
been kissed like this. In fact, it had been a while since she had been kissed.
Turner's arms drew closer to her head, his hands resting in her hair then
creeping down, along her neck, where he held her steady as his tongue sought
hers. Emily held on to him even as he pulled away, needing to breathe.
Reluctantly she released her grip and let him lean back. Their hips were still
hard against one another.

"Oh. Wow."

He laughed at her. "I'm a
little out of practise…"

"Not at all."

"Good. So." He
swallowed and a look of anxiety seemed to flit over his face. He let go of her
fully, and stood back. Suddenly, Emily was cold as the air rushed in between
them, and she was just one more party-goer pushed up against a wall. She
reached out and touched his wrist, but his expression was worried.