Hidden Kiss (Love Is The Law 2) Read online

  Hidden Kiss (Love Is The Law 2)

  By Isabella Brooke

  Text Copyright 2013 Isabella Brooke

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover credits: stock photography from eroticstockphotos.com and 123rf.com. Cover design by the author.

  Chapter One

  The tall grey walls were topped off with razor wire, and the spring wind shredded itself through it into chilly shrieks. Emily stared up at the outer prison wall, as it rose windowless and impersonal and very, very solid.

  To pass the time as she waited for Turner to be released, she tried to plot how she'd undertake a prison break. As an intellectual exercise, nothing more, of course. She leaned her lower back against a wall and folded her arms, pulling her jacket tight against her body. She'd been waiting for twenty minutes now, and she'd seen quite a few trucks and cars enter and leave through the huge double gates.

  The prison staff seemed to immediately surround any vehicle entering, though, and as the gates swung shut she was sure they'd be conducting a thorough search.

  She sighed. Well, I was warned that there was no particular schedule except "be there early". But I wish I'd brought something to do.

  Oh, she had things to do, all right. She could whip out her smartphone and attend to some emails. She could pull out her notebook and start to plan some pitches to send to magazines, putting out feelers for possible article commissions.

  And she really ought to.

  Emily shifted her weight from foot to foot, as the cold crept up from the pavement. The breeze still carried the bite of late winter and it blew her hair into her eyes. She shook her head in annoyance.

  When Turner had been sent down, seven months ago, she'd just splurged on a very expensive and stylish hair-do. It had marked the start of her new life. Her journalism career was taking a new turn, as she moved from social justice to writing about entertainment and gossip, and she was full of sparkling ideas.

  But her life had been on hold since the day the judge had sentenced Turner. He'd been taken away by those dark-dressed guards and even though they'd all knew it was coming - he'd pleaded guilty, after all - it was as if everything stopped, and had stayed stopped, until today.

  He had written to her, of course. His letters had urged her to think of their future, and to concentrate on their feelings for each other. He'd become excited about the courses he was doing and how he was going to start his own business once he was out. His letters had bubbled with positive plans for his new life.

  He had willingly put himself up for arrest, and pleaded guilty, aiming to wipe the slate clean. He wanted to do his time, and emerge a rehabilitated man. He'd tipped the police off himself, and confessed everything.

  Emily could have burst with pride at his strength and his honour. Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future. It was a trite Facebook-ism, but of all the maudlin and faux-inspiration shit that social media could throw at her, it was one that stuck in her head. He had declared himself a changed man; a man going straight.

  Going straight - for her.

  God, I hope I can live up to that, she thought.

  A battered grey car with thumping music pulled up on the kerb not far from where she was waiting. She resolutely didn't look towards the occupants. The prison wasn't in the best part of town, and she wasn't familiar with the area. She was familiar with the type of area, though, and she knew for sure that she didn't want to get drawn into a conversation with anyone here.

  Turner had spent most of his sentence at a Category B prison some way out of Manchester. She'd visited him once, early on, and the experience had been awful. The room full of tense families, and the prisoners all dressed in grey clothes and suppressed anger had pressed around her head like a migraine. From then on, she'd urged him to give all his Visiting Orders to his mother, Pearl and his sister Elaine.

  The car door opened and she peeked out of the corner of her eye, dreading who it might be. Her worst nightmare, Riggers, had been released a month before Turner. Riggers was Turner's co-defendant.

  Riggers was also the reason Turner had gone to jail, and Turner had made sure to take Riggers down with him. There was unfinished business between them, and Emily had been on edge all the past four weeks, certain that Riggers was going to come after her.

  Nothing. And it wasn't the skinny, weaselly young white man that emerged from the car into her peripheral vision, either. It was, instead, a smartly-dressed black man who was staring at the prison gates with the same expectancy that she knew was on her own face.

  She tipped her head back and sighed, staring at the pale grey clouds in the darker grey sky. How long had she known Turner before he'd started his sentence? A few weeks, maybe?

  How ridiculous this all was. She was only one step removed from those women who fell in love with men on death row in America by letter and somehow got married to them. She almost smiled to herself as she imagined how her solicitor brother would react to that. He was opposed to her relationship with Turner - he'd flip tables if she married a man on death row.

  It would almost be worth it just for his reaction.

  The gate opened again and she looked towards it half-heartedly, conditioned by now to expect a total stranger or a goods van or something equally mundane.

  Her vision narrowed, shading to darkness at the edges of her sight as her heart expanded in her chest and her mouth went from normal to dry in a split second.

  One part of her mind was trying to analyse her physical reactions; what use in fight or flight is a dry mouth? How does that help primitive man or woman outrun a tiger? But the rest of her mind wasn't thinking at all. And her body certainly wasn't working properly, either.

  Turner emerged from the prison and the gates shut behind him, and all she could do was stare across the road, directly at him.

  He saw her immediately but he had to wait, frustratingly, as the passing traffic left no gap for him to walk across the road. Emily was grateful for the pause. She needed time to watch him and study him. Was he different?

  More importantly, was he the person she remembered? Was her memory accurate? Because of all the terrors that she had felt over the long months, the fear that she had misremembered him was the strongest.

  Perhaps he was thinking the same thing because his face seemed set and blank. He was tall, and had he been that broad and muscular before he went into prison? No doubt he'd spent long hours in the gym. He was dressed in a white shirt and black suit trousers; the clothes that he'd worn to go to court in, she realised. His hair was close-shaven, and his face seemed a little thinner.

  But she just couldn't be sure. She almost felt panicked and she clenched and unclenched her fists, the movement you had to do before a blood test.

  "Emily…" He spoke even before he was halfway across the road, and his voice was the same Turner that had sung to her in her mind as she read and re-read his letters to her. She didn't hear the traffic or the car doors or the gates. She just heard him.

  "Turner!"

  Then he was on the pavement, and striding up to her, coming to a sudden halt about four feet away, as if he had hit an invisible wall. There was a clear plastic bag in his right hand but he let it fall to the floor.

  "Oh god," Emily blurted out, flapping her hands. "I'm so sorry, I don't even know what to say…"

  What a fine fucking welcome this was, she told herself in irritation. Seven months he's been inside, and he comes out to be greeted by Miss Dither UK.

  Turner's face broke into the widest, most genuine grin she had seen in a long time, and his orange-brown eyes sparkled in pure delight as he closed the distance between them with one long step, and gathered her into his arms.

  "You don't
say anything, because I'm kissing you, Emily Carrera," he said and promptly made it true.

  Emily's head whirled around inconsequential topics. My mouth isn't dry anymore. He smells good. He's so tall. Maybe I'm just short. Does he like my hair? Is that guy in the grey car still there, and is he watching?

  Gradually her awareness shifted from her own chaotic internal monologue to the present moment, and she began to relax. She realised that she was just trying to hold back the overwhelming feelings. As her inner chatter receded, tears began to gather in the corners of her eyes and she struggled to breathe though his lips were gentle on hers.

  He pulled back, and when she saw that he, too, had tears in his eyes, it set her off completely and she dissolved into an inelegant snotty mess, helpless and hiccupping.

  Turner laughed and pulled her tight against his chest, his arms steady around her shoulders, and they stayed wrapped in each other's arms for minutes, as crying became giggling and reverted once more to crying. Somehow, the shared emotion made things easier, and Emily's muscles relaxed. She pressed against him, nestling almost.

  Turner ran his hands up her back and ruffled them through her hair, making her tense momentarily. She should have found the money, somehow, to have a new style cut. Dammit.

  "Hey, come on now," he murmured as he stroked her, calming her. "Fantastic though it is to be out of there, and here with you, I can think of nicer places to be. Did you drive?"

  Emily unhooked her arms from around his waist and fished out a tissue to tidy her face. She patted her eyes before looking up at him again. "Yeah. Parked around the corner. So. Um, yeah. Ready…?" She suddenly felt awkward; her face would be blotchy and pink. What a lovely sight for his release day.

  He raised one dark eyebrow at her, a wry smile on his lips. "What do you think?"

  "Huh, sorry," she said, trying not to feel foolish. "Down here."

  They were both silent as they walked along a row of parked cars. Emily kept sliding sideways glances towards him, and discovered he was doing the same.

  "Am I different?" he asked as they came to her little Smart car.

  "I was wondering that myself."

  "What, whether I was different or whether you were?"

  "A bit of both."

  They got in, Turner folding himself awkwardly to fit into the small space. Somehow, it felt easier to talk while she had her eyes on the road and half her brain engaged with driving safely.

  And then they were talking at the same time, all words and excitement tumbling over each other in a glorious mess.

  "Have you seen much of my mum? She didn't come to the last visiting time because of an appointment but Elaine said she'd had the all clear. How does she look? I can't wait to see her."

  "They could have come to pick you up! She's fine, she's doing really well."

  "I wanted to see you. That's why I asked for you, not them. I'm so glad you came. You stuck by me. Christ, Emily, you don't know what that means to me. Too many men get their Dear Johns inside… anyway, is the cancer definitely gone? From mum?" His sentences darted from topic to topic like a small boy telling a favourite relative about a Christmas party.

  "Yes, as far as anyone can tell," Emily reassured him. She'd spent a lot of time supporting Pearl and the rest of Turner's family. "It's proper, actual remission. And she looks great. So, do many men get dumped while they are serving their time?"

  "Hell yes. And the ones who don't usually spend all their time worrying about their wives and girlfriends playing away."

  "Did you worry?"

  "That you'd be unfaithful?" Turner's quick-fire chatter slowed and stopped. Emily accelerated as they negotiated their way out of the town centre and along a dual carriageway, heading for the motorway that would take them home to Manchester. She waited for him to go on.

  Turner sighed and tried to stretch his long legs out in the cramped passenger area. He failed. His knees were practically lodged in the glove compartment of the dashboard. "I don't even want to think about the past seven months, you know. Yes, in the long dark nights of bang-up, I imagined every bad thing in the world. We all do. I am sure you had more than a few bleak moments yourself. But that's all in the past. Bloody hell, Emily, slow down a touch!"

  "I'm not speeding," she replied, but she eased off the pedal slightly. "Oh, does it all feel a bit strange?"

  "Just a bit. Okay, a lot. It's funny, but you get institutionalised within about two weeks. After that, it doesn't matter how horrible prison is, you realise you are going to cope with it. It gets normal very quickly."

  "Well, isn't that good? It means you will get used to life outside of prison again, too, pretty quickly."

  "Oh no. I am not going to take any of this for granted. Not ever again. I've got my new life in my sights, and I tell you something, Emily, I am going to make the most of it. Of everything."

  "That's… great." Emily smiled but she didn't turn her head, keeping her eyes on the taillights of the car in front instead. His passion was slightly unsettling and she felt bad, like her lack of enthusiasm was somehow letting him down.

  "So, come on, how about you? Your work? Your articles? You haven't said much in your letters."

  "I didn't want to bore you."

  "You're a journalist! That's fascinating. The other guys inside have got this idea of you having huge dinners in fancy restaurants in London, being passed bribes in envelopes."

  "I review films, and write about gallery openings."

  Turner was silent and when she slid her gaze across the dashboard to her side, she saw that he was watching her quizzically.

  "You don't sound so enthusiastic about it all. When you were writing about social justice and stuff, you were full of fire. Have things not panned out so well?"

  She forced a smile, shook her head, laughed it off. "It's up and down. But at the end of the day, Turner, it's work. A job, like any other, and right now, let's not talk about work! Do you want me to take you straight to your mum's house?"

  "But work should be - ahh. Okay, another time. Yeah. No, wait. Let's eat."

  "It's ten in the morning!"

  "I haven't any breakfast, not that I missed out on much. I tell you what, though, I have lain awake at night, dreaming of burgers and grease. Is there a drive-through on the way home?"

  "You are kidding me!" Emily laughed with true delight this time. "What happened to the cultured foodie that I knew? Before…well, before, you were all about the tapas restaurants and fancy meals out. Now you want a heart-attack-in-a-bun?"

  "I do, and my mouth is watering just thinking about it. Gherkins, oh my god, yes. Gimme lard and gimme extra ketchup on that."

  "You're a sick man. Okay, then."

  Once they were on the edges of the city, they had a choice of fast food palaces. She joined a surprisingly long queue behind a mix of sales reps and tradesmen in vans.

  "Can we park up and eat in the car?" Turner asked as he was handed a paper bag of calories.

  "Sure." Emily had just opted for a very large fizzy drink and there was silence for a while as Turner submerged himself into the meal, eating like a man who had been starving.

  "It's not just about the food," he said at last, wiping his mouth on the paper napkin. "It was about me choosing what to eat, and when. And paying for it. And enjoying it. And eating here, not where I am told to eat."

  "Control."

  "Yeah, the little things we take for granted. Control, and of course, responsibility. That's why a lot of guys prefer to be in prison - they don't have to take responsibility for anything. Speaking of which… Riggers."

  Emily looked down at her hands, clenched in her lap. "Well, he was released four weeks ago."

  "I know that. His release date was as important to me as my own. Has he made any contact with you?"

  "No, not a thing." She didn't want to talk about Riggers. She didn't want to answer the difficult questions that Turner might ask. He was going to find out soon enough.

  "Thank god for that."


  "It's been weird, though". She didn't want to talk about him but it was like picking a scab, and she continued. "I think I might have preferred it if he had. This waiting… was worse." She looked up as a warm feeling of relief flooded her and caused fresh tears to threaten her eyes. "I am so glad you're out now."

  Turner pushed the crumpled wrappings to the foot-well and reached out to her, awkward in the confined space. He put his large hands over hers, and his eyes were intense as he said, "If that little shit comes anywhere near you, or any of my family, I will see to it that he regrets it."

  Shit, there it was. "But Elaine…"

  "She hasn't seen him, has she?"

  "I don't know." Emily had to drop her gaze again as she said, miserably, "Okay, yes, she has. I'm sorry. I haven't seen him or anything but Pearl said they were… in contact. But he is the father of her children, and you've always said yourself that having a dad is important."

  "And you persuaded me that it's the quality of the dad that's important. Shit. I do need to get home and sort this out."

  "You can't."

  "She's my sister."

  "She's an independent adult, Turner. Please. Go steady. Don't make her choose between you both."

  Turner sighed and opened the door. He almost tumbled out of the car and balled up the wrappers. She watched him as he strode across the car park to the litter bins. He still moved like a panther; powerful and dangerous. She wanted to shake him, scream at him: you can't control your sister's life. Let her make her own mistakes. Settle down with me and let's shut out the whole wide world.

  But then, brothers were funny things. And she remembered again that if her brother, Matthew, knew that his sister was seeing his own client who'd just served another jail term, Matthew would be as angry as Turner was right now.

  * * * *

  Turner paused by the litter bin. He was outside! Not in an exercise yard bound on all sides by fences and watching officers. No; outside, properly outside. He threw back his head and breathed in as deeply as he could. He knew he was taking in exhaust fumes and city stench, but it didn't matter. It wasn't prison air, and that was important.