“I’m a protection officer for a member of the royal family, Wendy. You know that. It was a really good show, actually.” Joe tried not to think back too fondly about it. Because that ship had sailed. “Firehouse? Why not revisit the scene of the non-crime!”
“It’s Firehouse. Would you rather I buy you a Happy Meal? It doesn’t occur to you to be appreciative that your wife is important enough to get a table at Firehouse with fifteen hours’ notice?” She was very important, of course, because nobody else could interpret the law like Wendy could. Nobody else knew how to write contacts and argue clauses that saved the super-rich from paying decent wages and corporations from paying taxes. Wendy was somebody, he knew that. “One-thirty tomorrow?”
By which time he’d be ruined.
Joe shrugged. “Right you are, then. One-thirty, Firehouse. Night-night.”
“Just be there.” And the screen went black.
Joe wasn’t sure there was much point in going to bed. It wasn’t as if he’d get much sleep. He headed to his room anyway and stripped down to his shorts. Even in the dark, the posters of straining groins and bulging arms, sultry looks and utter camp were taunting him.
You’re one of us, Sergeant Wenlock! Embrace yourself and embrace hot men too!
The men in the posters came down from the walls and as they hugged and kissed in front of him, Joe was fairly certain that he was dreaming.
So I’ve managed to fall asleep after all.
With Paloma’s black silk rose.
The thought of the rose woke Joe up. He reached under the pillow for the rose and held it tight, pressing it against his cheek.
This was all he’d have left. And a crappy suit.
Then, in the darkness, there came a very soft tap at the door and the sound of a voice, not quite Alejandro, not quite Paloma, calling gently, “Joe?”
“Mr Fuente?” Joe reached for the bedside lamp, shielding his eyes as he pushed himself up against his pillow. He hadn’t heard any noises in the house. No broken glass, no bangs or crashes. “Are you okay? Something happened?”
“Can I come in?” There was no anger in his tone. It was as small as it had been in front of Zak.
“Yeah, come on,” Joe replied, his tone softened. The door opened and Alejandro emerged from the darkness on the landing, dressed once more in his red silk robe. For a second his gaze dropped, sweeping over Joe, then he lifted it again, keeping his eyes level with Joe’s.
“Hello.”
“Evening,” Joe said with a grin. “What’s up? Are you still a bit jumpy from what happened earlier, that firework?”
“Not that.” Alejandro perched on the edge of the bed and knitted his hands in his lap. His nails were still painted gold, Joe noticed. A memory of Paloma. “You’ll be leaving tomorrow, won’t you? I’ll be getting another copper?”
Joe nodded. “Yeah. It’s for the best. Given, well, given what’s happened.”
“I just wanted to tell you that I wouldn’t ever do anything— I won’t tell.” Alejandro glanced at him again, then back at his painted nails. “It was a good show, wasn’t it?”
“The best.” Joe nodded. “Thanks. For not saying anything. It means a lot.”
“We might not think much of each other, but I’m not that cruel. Not to the man who saved Mamá.” He slid his gaze over to Joe again. “And I won’t ever forget Halloween, or tonight. I’m sorry it’s— Like you said over hot chocolate that night, it’s a big old tangle.” He rose to his feet. “I’m going to see Abuelita tomorrow for lunch. So that’ll be goodbye, won’t it? When I come out, I won’t ever see Osito again.”
It was so final. So sudden. After the fun they’d had at the studio, after the drag show, after saving Alejandro’s life and breaking his shoe in the process. That was it. “Yeah. It’s goodbye. Hey, do something for me?”
“I won’t wear that suit, so don’t ask.” He smiled. He really was beautiful. “What?”
“Don’t run away from your next CPO.” Joe leaned forwards and patted Alejandro’s hand. “Please. I don’t want to think of you being in danger.”
“I promise, Osito.”
“Thanks.” Joe gazed at Alejandro. His lips still remembered their kiss, but Joe knew only too well, there could never be another. Alejandro padded to the door, where he turned and looked back at the bed.
“I’d give you at least a nine,” he informed Joe. “Tell that to Wendy Wenlock.”
Then, with a last wink, he went out onto the landing and closed the door.
Chapter Eight
Joe sat in the passenger seat. There had been no appeal from his principal to sit in the back with him this time. And there wouldn’t be again.
The sky was indistinct above them, a grey blanket that hung there, robbing the autumn leaves of their chance to shine like precious stones.
Joe’s luggage was in the boot. He’d tidied the room. Stripped the bed. Hidden Paloma’s rose in the depths of his suitcase. He didn’t leave anything behind him.
No one spoke the whole way. Seven miles of London traffic, and not a sound from anyone in the car. Joe’s throat had closed up. He wanted to say so many things, but he couldn’t have what he wanted, so what use were words?
And from Alejandro, the man who never shut up, there was nothing but silence either. He hadn’t even emerged from his room until the car arrived, then he’d descended the stairs, a vision in a suit of the brightest pink Joe had ever seen. In his buttonhole there was one white rose, once a handkerchief.
As the car swung through the palace gates tourists craned and jostled but the darkened windows afforded no clue as to who was inside. And even if Alejandro looked back when he climbed out, he wouldn’t have seen Joe watching him, wishing this were different.
Without turning towards him, Joe said, “Goodbye, Mr Fuente.”
“Goodbye.” He felt the faintest brush of Alejandro’s fingers on his shoulder before the door was opened. “Can we— Goodbye.”
And he didn’t look back, not for a moment.
Joe pinched the top of his nose, his eyes tight shut. Then he turned to the driver and said, “Time to go to the Greenhouse, then.”
“Bet that’s a relief, isn’t it?” The driver laughed. “I’ve never known anyone go through CPOs like he can!”
“He’ll find someone eventually.” Joe looked down at his phone for something to do. He took one last look at Alejandro’s Insta account.
Should I keep him? #hotmen
A gasp rose up Joe’s throat and he disguised it with a cough.
And he couldn’t shake the fear that Alejandro would break his word, that he’d slip his leash again and next time there’d be nobody there to save him. Nobody to keep him safe from rogue fireworks, from the unseen troll, from Zak, even. It felt like something was going to happen, and there’d be no hero to stop it next time. What would Joe do then? What would he do when he heard that Alejandro’s luck had run out?
He needs somebody to look after him.
We all do.
“Here we are, Sergeant, the Greenhouse.” The car drew to a halt. “Good luck with the next one. Can’t be any tougher!”
Joe grabbed his luggage and headed up to Patrick’s office. He saw Patrick through the glass partition, his eyes fixed on the screen of the tablet he was holding. As the lift doors slid shut, Patrick looked up and raised his walking stick in greeting.
“Joe, on time as ever and we have tea waiting, thanks to the splendid Trudy.” He nodded towards his office. “Come on through, we have things to discuss!”
Joe left his bags with Patrick’s PA and followed. “Yeah, we’ve got quite a lot to discuss, actually.”
He wasn’t sure how Patrick was going to take it. Joe was sure his reason for not being Peanut’s CPO any longer would sound feeble, but he couldn’t tell him the truth.
Patrick settled into his chair and shifted his china cup and saucer along the blotter until it was right in front of him. Then he picked up the tablet and said, “Your youths las
t night included the son of the Home Secretary. The Eton bad boys, eh?”
“Unlikely to be firing rockets at a duchess’ son, then?” As Joe sat down opposite Patrick, he recalled Alejandro’s story about the bullies at his school. “Or likely to and they’ll get away with it?”
“You old cynic.” Patrick laughed. “Due to the miracle of the worried rich who now populate the streets of Highgate, we have CCTV of some of the incident. And, as ever, it’s as useful as a chocolate teapot. The firework was launched from a car. Black Mondeo, fake plates, no clear image of the driver. But it was definitely aimed at Mr Fuente, or Señorita Picante, as I believe she was last night. How’re you finding him, Joe? Tricky customer?”
Joe sighed as he knitted his fingers on the desk. “I need to talk to you about that. I…I can’t continue as his CPO any longer.”
“It’s only natural that you’re shaken up, given what happened before, but we get back on the horse, old thing. You’re doing an excellent job in challenging circumstances and I can assure you that I’ll be increasing security around Mr Fuente.” He put down the tablet. “There’s been a substantial increase in the online activity after his performance last night. Really quite vile, I must say, but we’ve got our people on it.”
“Is it all from the same troll? Or are they using more names now?” Joe bit his lip. “Look, Patrick, I can’t do this. I’m not ready to come back. I’ve made silly mistakes on this case. I should’ve known— He asked his friend Mel, Lady Melanie, right in front of me, if she was going to Vicky’s bash. It should’ve occurred to me, at once, that he was talking about Pineapple, and I could’ve put something in place. And all I was thinking was, Wow, he’s not making it secret that he wants to slip off tonight! And I keep seeing that bloody firework coming at me, and hearing the car, and… It’s too close to what happened before, Patrick. I can’t do it.”
“We can’t clap them in irons, Joe, and you did precisely what I would’ve expected a good CPO to do with a difficult chap like him. You let him go his merry way and followed along, then stayed at his side no matter how much embarrassment he threw at you.” But it wasn’t embarrassing, it was wonderful. “And when the moment came, just like before, you took evasive action and kept your principal safe. I saw that box sitting on top of the bin and—well, I didn’t think as quickly as you and I paid the price for it. You got your principal to safety. I jogged past without thinking twice and received a shattered spine for my troubles, courtesy of one of Libya’s finest bloody bastards.”
“I broke his heel in the process and he was fuming!” Joe rolled his eyes. “I just… I just don’t think I’m ready for a case like this. Aren’t there any dotty old dears you can give me, who only want to sit at home and plays cards with me?”
“If you’re determined—” The phone on Patrick’s desk rang and he ignored it, pressing a button on the array that covered the device. “I’ve had the background checks run on Mr Smythe-Unwin and our young Lady Melanie. I was at Stowe with her fath—” The phone rang again and he asked, “Do you mind if I see what this is about?”
“Sure.” Joe nodded, even though the interruption meant a delay in finding out what, if anything, the background checks had brought up on Zak and Mel.
“Trudy,” Patrick said as soon as he put the receiver to his ear, “I did ask that you hold all— Of course, right away.” He glanced up at Joe, then said smoothly, “Your Grace, good morning.”
Joe looked up. Your Grace? It wasn’t Alejandro’s dear mamá, was it? Joe examined his fingernails. No, it could be anyone. There were plenty of Your Graces about. Although he could hear the distinct musical rise and fall in the voice at the other end of the phone, the hurry and stabbing emphasis, which he knew only too well from his time working for the Duchess of Albany.
“I can assure you that there’s no cause for concern— No, I absolutely understand that the material online is upsetting and—” Patrick winced and moved the phone just a little farther from his ear as her voice grew louder. “I’ve increased the security detail but Sergeant Wenlock has asked to be reassi—” Another wince and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m afraid this isn’t Stalin’s Russia, Your Grace, I can’t compel him to do anything. He’s here with me—”
Joe wondered what time it was wherever the duchess was at that moment. Late evening? She’d be reclining with a cocktail in one hand, phone in the other. A CPO would be in the room with her, relieved that she wasn’t talking to them.
“Of course, Your Grace.” Patrick held out the receiver and whispered, “The Duchess of Albany would like a word, Sergeant.”
Joe took the receiver from him and prepared for the barrage he was about to receive. “Good morning, Your Grace.”
“José? Darling, how are you? India is so grey without you to make me laugh!”
Joe couldn’t help but be pleased when he heard her. “Hola,” Joe said. “You wanted to speak to me about something?”
“Alejo. My little Paloma, my jewel,” she said. “All I have heard from him is Joe, Joe, Joe. How happy he has been with you! How he has kept his beautiful nose thanks to you. Who is throwing firecrackers at my boy? Thank God you were there, José. That dreadful Zachariah creature is terrorising him, you know. It’s too much!”
“We’re looking into Mr Smythe-Unwin’s background, Your Grace.” Joe glanced up at Patrick. The worst of it was, Joe couldn’t even act as a witness to seeing Zak strike Alejandro. “Look, I was doing my job, Your Grace. And to be honest, I’m not sure Alejandro has been all that happy with me.”
He had plenty of reason not to be.
“Say you will stay with Alejo?” the duchess implored, sweet as Paloma. “He is like…a rose. He seems all thorns, José, but he is sweet at heart. I wouldn’t trust anyone but you to care for him. I cannot bear to think of him alone with that boyfriend creature.”
Joe chewed his thumb, contemplating. He could risk his career going back to Alejandro. But at the same time, maybe he was the best person to protect him. He wasn’t fazed by the dragging up, except for the memories it evoked of that kiss. He hadn’t been bothered at all by Alejandro decorating for him the gayest bedroom seen since Oscar Wilde hung up his velvet jacket. He’d really enjoyed watching Alejandro at work in the studio and, unlike everyone else, Joe saw him as an artist, not an overgrown spoiled brat.
And he cared about him. He cared that Alejandro was stuck in an abusive relationship, and he cared that some arsehole, Fuckface, as Alejandro called him, was terrorising him online.
What stopped him from going back?
The fact that he fancied Alejandro something rotten and was scared they’d be caught out.
What if they weren’t caught out?
Joe scrubbed his hand through his hair. “Okay. If you trust me with your only child, Your Grace, then…then I’ll go back.”
“Pepe!” she exclaimed, loud enough for Patrick to hear. He gave a wry grin and opened his desk drawer, taking out one of the buff folders that everyone else in the service had long since abandoned. “Is there any wonder that I adore you, darling? I shall sleep safe again! Put your man on the phone, I shall say goodnight to him and to you. Goodnight, Pepe!”
Avoiding Patrick’s glance, Joe said, as the duchess had taught him, “Buenas noches y dulces sueños.”
“Buenas noches!” she called as Patrick held out his hand and took the receiver back. He listened again, nodding, caught in her ramble once more.
Finally he was able to say, “Of course, Your Grace— Goodni— No, I quite understand. Good night, Your Grace.” He replaced the receiver with a click and said, “Wobble restored, Joe? Back on the horse like a good soldier?”
Joe threw him a sarcastic salute. A weight was off his shoulders. “If you say so, Commander. And don’t worry, I don’t normally go around wishing my principals sweet dreams. Although if you’d like to have some, feel free.”
“They’d certainly be very welcome just now!” He pushed the folder over the desk. “Lady Melanie an
d Mr Smythe-Unwin, or Zac Su, as he prefers to be known. Lady Melanie has led quite the saintly life, other than a little drunken silliness in the Serpentine when she was celebrating the end of exams. Mr Su is likewise disappointingly staid, when one considers his image. It’s all in there but nothing too worrying. A few episodes of being the worse for alcohol or the old wacky baccy, six points for speeding and a slapped wrist for possession of class A’s. Questionable as to whose they were, apparently, but I think the presence of Lord Bray’s son at the same gathering probably oiled the wheels of the Met on that one!”
“He’s hit Peanut.” Joe had to say it. He’d seen it with his own eyes. “Are you sure there’s nothing in there from previous partners? Or are they all too scared of him to say anything?”
“Got it in one.” The commander opened the folder, then immediately closed it again. “And if a chap isn’t out, as they say, he can hardly tell the bobbies that his boyfriend’s given him a thick ear!”
Joe examined his fingernails again. It was suddenly very warm in the room. “If I can encourage Peanut to report Zak, then…? I’m just concerned that Zak could be the troll. Only yesterday, at Peanut’s studio, I saw some dreadful behaviour and it’s clear that Peanut’s terrified of him. He’s a bully. Wants everything his way, wants the spotlight all to himself. I can see him being jealous enough to post all that abuse online aimed at Peanut. Can’t you?”
“I wonder where he was last night when that firework was launched. You leave Mr Su to me.” Patrick swirled his teacup. Where indeed? “Peanut’s out and proud, as well as he should be, but that brings other sorts out too. And then we have to step in. Poison pen is one thing but fireworks to the face? I take that very seriously.”
Joe steeped his fingers in thought. Something had occurred to him. “I think Zak sees Peanut as a meal ticket. Which makes me wonder… Online abuse is one thing, but that rocket could’ve maimed or killed Peanut. So would Zak really shoot fireworks at him?”
The Reluctant Royal Page 11
