Opposing Forces
Authors: Juliet Anderson
OPPOSING FORCES
BY
JULIET ANDERSON
This eBook is a work of fiction. Whilst references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters and incidents within are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons. Any similarity is co-incidental.
“Great party, Maisie,” the drunken centurion slurred as he caught her in a bear hug.
“Thanks, Frankie,” Maisie grinned and extricated herself from his grasp. She was very happy, the party was going extremely well. Her penthouse flat was full to capacity, the music thumping and drink flowing ever so freely. She snuck out to the kitchen to find her secret stash of champagne.
“If I’d known you were going to be Helen of Troy, I would have come as Paris,” a slightly wobbly Shrek staggered into the kitchen after her.
“But Paris meets a very unfortunate end, Eric.” Maisie squeezed his biceps. “And you are the perfect shape for an ogre.”
As she headed back out the kitchen, she saw him standing in her large entrance hall looking very out of place. He had mid length blonde hair, tied back in a pony-tail, and was dressed in the uninspiring grey of a Swiss police officer. And he was very cute indeed.
“Hi,” she flashed him her best smile. “Welcome to the party.”
He stared at her a little bemused. “Are you…?”
“Helen of Troy. You must be a friend of James’.” Julianne, her flatmate, was engaged to the Captain of the Lausanne ice hockey team and always had a good supply of friends to bring along to parties. This guy she had not seen before.
She slipped her arm through his and led him into the living room which was heaving. “Come on through. I love your outfit by the way. You’re one brave guy.”
He looked at her curiously with his fabulous brown eyes. “My outfit?”
“Yes, I’ve thrown many a costume party and no-one has ever shown up dressed as a police officer. It’s a pretty good copy too.”
He laughed. “Have you seen many police uniforms close up?”
“Regrettably a few. We don’t usually see eye to eye on most matters.”
She took him through to a quieter area at the far end of the apartment and perched on a big window seat. “Please sit. Most people aren’t quite so formal at parties.”
He sat on the other end of the window seat. “Is this your apartment then?”
“Yes, I share it with a friend of mine.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Yes it is. The place was virtually derelict when I bought it, and it’s been a true labour of love restoring it.” She was very proud of her apartment. It was in an old building and had not had anyone living in it for many years. After some very detailed planning, and a lot of money, she had transformed the place into a fabulous loft style penthouse, with wooden floors, marble columns and soft furnishings. She even had her own little roof garden from her bedroom. The stone balcony at the front overlooked a pretty square in the old part of the city. Surprisingly, the building had a small car park behind it, which was extremely rare in the city. She genuinely adored her home. “Now, you haven’t even told me your name.”
He smiled and looked a little bashful. “It’s Philippe. Philippe Thevenez.”
“Swiss?”
“Born and bred. How about you?” he asked.
“I’m English.”
“That would explain a lot.”
Maisie laughed. “I guess we can seem a little eccentric to the highly ordered life of a Swiss person. But that’s who we are. I’m Maisie by the way.”
“What do you do here in Lausanne?”
“I head up Events management for Chateau Villette.” She popped the cork on the champagne bottle she was carrying. “I hope you have no objection to this stuff? If you want anything else, you might have to fight your way back to the kitchen.”
“I’m not supposed to drink on…”
“Oh God, you’re not on penicillin for some vile disease?”
“No. I’m on duty. I am a…”
Maisie did not let him finish. “Sorry, I automatically assumed you were one of James’ team members.”
“James?”
“Yes, James Longchamp. He plays for the Lausanne Raiders.”
Philippe’s eyes widened a little. “James Longchamp is here?”
“Yes and most the Lausanne team. Although you might have trouble identifying them tonight. I think one of them is unfortunately dressed as Borat. So, you’re a doctor?”
“No, I really am a…” Philippe never got to finish.
Maisie heard a sickening, crunching sound as her front door literally exploded into a million pieces. She watched in horror as the room filled with police in full riot gear. All her guests turned to stare in shock and everything seemed to stop for a couple of seconds. Then all hell broke loose. There was barely a guest in the room who didn’t want to have a go at a Lausanne police officer; that mixed with alcohol was the perfect cocktail for a full scale fight.
Her apartment descended into chaos. The sound of breaking glass and furniture filled the room. She stood up, visibly shaken but before she had a chance to move, Philippe held her back.
“Stay out of it, Maisie.”
“This is my home. These bastards are wrecking it,” she shouted over the noise. “Of course I’m not bloody going to stay out of it.”
She saw some police thug manhandling Julianne and that was about all she could take. She launched herself at the officer and whacked him over the head with her bottle of champagne. He dropped to the ground.
Julianne was grinning from ear to ear, blood dripping from her nose. “Thanks for that.” She kicked the police officer in the gut. “Just like old times in the Dungeon pub. Such happy memories.”
“Time to show the benefits of an English education,” Maisie beamed. She threw a fabulous punch at the next officer to approach her. It has been a while since she had been involved in a bar brawl, but her old skills were coming back quickly. In some warped way, she was having tremendous fun. The officer who grabbed her from behind got a very bloody nose when she threw her head back and dealt him a heavy blow across the bridge of his nose.
“Bitch,” he spat and as he went to hit her with his baton, Frankie stepped in and knocked him flat.
“Thanks,” she gave him a high five.
“This might be a brawl, but it’s still no excuse for a man to hit a woman.” He had sobered up remarkably quickly.
“You are a true gentleman, Frankie.” She whacked another officer over the head with her champagne bottle. Such a quality product and so versatile.
Another grabbed her from behind. She drove her elbow with maximum force into his ribs and let out a painful squeal. The bloody man was wearing body armour; that was highly unsporting. As she spun round, he hit her full in the face and she flew across the room, crashing onto a small side table. As the officer came at her, Philippe stepped in and put him down.
“Jesus, Maisie, are you alright?”
“Of course I’m not sodding alright,” she swore at him. She could already feel the blood running from her nose. “Help me up.”
As he pulled her to her feet, she felt something cold around her wrists. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been trying to tell you, I really am a police officer.”
Still holding her precious bottle of Perrier Jouet, and with both arms handcuffed in front of her, she protested vehemently as Philippe dragged her with as much care as possible outside to the waiting police van. A crowd had gathered in the square in front of her apartment building.
“You’ll be glad to know police brutality is not dead,” she shouted to the onlookers who all gave her a cheer.
“I am so sorry for this,” Philippe whispered in her ear as he lifted her inside the van.
“You definitely should be dressed as Judas,” she scowled at him. He might be a traitor, but he was still cute.
Maisie sat on the bench and smiled at her fellow inmates. “How’s it going, boys?” She took a swig of champagne.
This was met with a roar of laughter from her bruised, battered and bleeding party guests. “We’re always guaranteed a good time with you, Maisie,” Jean-Pierre attempted a grin. He was missing a couple of teeth.
“Has anyone see Julianne?” She was concerned for her best friend.
“Yeah, she wasn’t so lucky,” Jean-Pierre snickered. “She ended up in the van with Marco in his Borat outfit.”
With their van full, it was off to the central police station. By the time they got there, Maisie was starting to sober up and really hurt. The desk sergeant got the full brunt of her anger.
“Your Neanderthals crashed into a private party with no warning whatsoever, proceeded to use excessive force on my guests and systematically destroyed my apartment. Never once did they identify themselves or their purpose. Rest assured, when my lawyer finishes with this Department, they will be lucky if they have the authority to issue a bloody parking ticket.”
Desk Sergeant Albert Dufrais had been in the job for over thirty years. He had seen many people come through his doors, but tonight really was something special. The torn and tattered outfits just added to the spectacle of bruised and bloody faces. He was mortified at the state of the young woman before him. She was lovely; he could not imagine how a man could inflict the injuries she had on such a pretty face; but then half the force were chauvinistic thugs. The sight of her dressed as Helen of Troy, with a bottle of champagne still in her hand, was something he would not forget easily. And her verbal tirade was far from over.
“I suggest you call your boss and advise him to have the whole of the riot squad on standby. Once news gets out, which it will after I call my lawyer, that the Raiders match tomorrow night is cancelled because these morons beat up half the team and locked them in a cell without medical attention, I think you might find this station torn to damn pieces.”
She eventually drew breath, took a swig of champagne and attempted to smile sweetly at Sergeant Dufrais. “Now, please be good enough to give me a phone to use.”
Albert decided that perhaps it was a good time to phone the Chief of Police.
Steffen was thankful his phone rang. He had had a long night at the most boring of fund raisers, his date for the evening was being overly clingy and pressuring him to stay but he really was not in the mood. It was his perfect getaway.
“Grundberg,” he grunted as he answered the mobile.
“It’s Desk Sergeant Dufrais, Sir. Apologies for disturbing your evening but I thought you should be appraised of a situation developing at the station.”
“Go on,” he ordered.
“It seems the serving of a noise violation ended up with the riot squad being called out. We now have half the Raiders team in custody and one very irate Helen of Troy kicking off and threatening all manner of bad publicity and lawsuits, which I have a suspicion may well be justified.”
Steffen thought for a minute he had heard wrong. Helen of Troy? “Have you been drinking, Sergeant?”
“Regrettably not, Sir. I think you might want to get down here, there seems to be one hell of a mess to sort out.”
Luckily his driver was still outside the apartment block. “Back to the station, Sam,” Steffen sighed sliding into the rear of his car. As it sped through the deserted streets of Lausanne, he leant back in the comfortable seat and undid his bow tie. He could really have done with going to bed, not back to the station, but if Dufrais had called, it must be serious.
He groaned heavily as he saw the press already gathering outside the station. It seemed Helen of Troy had called the newspapers. “Pull into the underground, Sam,” he instructed. The last thing he needed was a run-in with the press without even having the faintest idea of what had happened.
Dufrais met him in his office as soon as he arrived.
