Hidden Heart (Love Is The Law 1)

by Isabella Brooke

  Hidden Heart (Love Is The Law 1)

  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.

  Editing by Kitty Mulholland.

  Chapter One

  Squirt.

  Emily groaned as cold, muddy water shot up her leg. Manchester council had found better places to spend their money than on pavement and road repairs, and the loose paving slab twisted under her foot, sending a jet of unpleasant puddle-water to soak her ankles. She kept walking. With the rain sleeting down - typical June weather in the north of England - she just wanted to reach the cinema as quickly as possible.

  Tuesday nights were the best nights to go to see a film. The auditorium would be mostly empty, and she'd have her pick of seats. Tonight she was indulging in a subtitled Mexican arthouse flick which promised emotional trauma, dramatic scenery and at least one scene of goat torture that "viewers may find upsetting".

  The streets were quiet as office workers had now left the city centre but die-hard midweek revellers had not yet emerged.

  Oh shit. Don't look.

  She scurried past the figure curled in the doorway, refusing to turn her head. Don't be Joel.

  "Spare any change, miss?"

  It wasn't Joel and she dared a sideways glance. The figure could have been him, though, and it sent pain through her chest. Just a boy, really, thin and pale. Wrapped in coats and a sleeping bag, he huddled against the paint-peeling doorjamb, and stared at her with dull, unexpectant eyes. When she stopped walking, a flicker of surprise crossed his face, and he raised his eyebrows. His gaze skittered around her, almost in fear.

  "Sorry," she blurted out, and walked away, feeling low and mean.

  "Thanks anyway," he muttered after her, his politeness knifing her guilt into shreds.

  The film was as tedious as she had anticipated, though with an amusing slow-car-chase scene and a delightfully insane matriarch. But the image of the homeless boy and all he represented to her still lingered.

  Emily stepped out of the warm lobby onto the street and was pleased to find the rain had stopped. She glanced up and down the street. A taxi crept past but she waved it on. She saw what she was looking for, and darted across the road, decisively.

  A few minutes later, she was standing by the homeless lad again, and offering him a cheese and ham sandwich.

  He grinned up at her, hugging the stained polyester bag around his shoulders. "You think if you give me money I'll blow it all on drugs, yeah?"

  She took a deep breath. "Yes, actually."

  He laughed, which turned to coughing, and she remembered all those statistics about tuberculosis that she'd once had to dig up and write about. Her pointless fucking research. "Thanks," he said at last, wiping his mouth, and reaching out a knobbly hand for the plastic wedge of food.

  "S'okay." She turned to go but his laugh stopped her.

  "I'm a vegetarian."

  She spun on her heel. "You're what?"

  "Veggie. Sorry. Can't eat this." He held it back out for her.

  She stared at him, aghast. She bit back the unnecessary sarcasm about beggars and choosers, and through gritted teeth she growled, "well, you can pick the ham out."

  He turned the package to read the label again. "Nah. I'm a lactose-intolerant veggie."

  "For fuck's sake."

  He dissolved into laughter once again, and ripped the plastic wrapper off the packet. He pulled out a sandwich and waved it at her, his face made older, strangely, by the laughter lines around his eyes and mouth. "Priceless! I'm sorry." He seemed to notice her glare, because he reined his mirth in. "I am sorry. But look, I don't get a hell of a lot of chance to laugh, you know."

  Emily smiled. "You git," she had to say, ruefully. "You had me there."

  "I know. Your face. Brilliant. Anyway, thanks. For everything."

  She walked away, leaving him still chuckling, and shoved her hands deep in her pea-jacket pockets. A light drizzle started up again and she had a ten minute walk back to her apartment. The homeless boy had amused her, and it would be a tale to tell.

  For she was, of course, a professional teller of tales.

  * * * *

  Wednesday morning. Emily had hit the sleep button on her alarm twice, and finally unplugged the damn thing. Her phone was the final catalyst, dragging her upright in bed at about ten o'clock.

  Her brother Matthew was clipped and efficient. He'd probably been awake since five am and had already earned roughly her monthly income in the intervening time.

  "Emily. Morning. Not disturbing you?"

  "No, I-"

  "Good. Right. Got a story for you."

  "Okay…" Emily pulled a pillow up behind her, and leaned back.

  "Got a pen?"

  Her bedroom was a jumbled mess of cast-off clothes and piles of books. She half-heartedly leaned over and grabbed a pencil from the bedside table. "Yeah. Go on." She found a bank statement on the floor and flipped it over, finding just enough space to scribble in the margins of the threats and small print.

  "One of my clients. Just got out of jail. Got him a pretty reduced sentence, considering. Anyway. Wants to go straight, abandon his life of crime. You know what it's like. Most of them won't. This man, he's got something about him. Thought it would fit in with your social commentary stuff, make a nice case study. The Guardian like that sort of thing."

  Emily thought it through, clacking the pencil on her teeth. God knows, she needed a new lead right now. If she was to regain any credibility in the journalism world, she had to get a scoop and make it stick. But what did Matthew know about good stories? Clearly, nothing. But she humoured him.

  "Sounds okay, Matthew, thanks for this. But is there anything different about this guy? Is there some kind of unique angle or something? There's potential maybe, but I need more."

  "Just meet him. He's a charmer. Ready for the details?" Once her older sibling got an idea into his head, he would not be stopped. It had made him a successful solicitor and an infuriating brother.

  She jotted down the name and contact number. Turner Black. "Good name. He's not like a serial rapist or child molester or anything?"

  "No. Up to him to tell you about himself, though. Oh. Janey wants to know if you want to come for dinner this week."

  "Uh - let me get back to you on that…"

  "Yes, I told her you'd say no. Okay. Good luck with Turner. Catch you later."

  And he was gone, her high-flying criminal solicitor brother, off to stalk the custody suites and courts of Manchester. Emily closed her eyes for a moment and tried to get her head around his call.

  It really wasn't a story. It certainly wasn't a lead, a scoop, a blast-open-the-secret-establishment kind of feature. "Ex-con tries to go straight" - whoopee fucking do.

  But it was the only thing she had on the table right now, and they'd be repossessing that table if she didn't get started.

  She flung herself out of bed and stumbled towards the shower.

  * * * *

  Two hours later and she was ready to start work. She leaned back in her chair and ran her fingers through her long dark hair, tipping her head back so it cascaded down her back. She usually wore a dark green broad headband to keep it out of her eyes. It had been trendy when she was a student, but sometimes she wondered if she was projecting quite the professional image. She started to think about hair styles and whether to go for a cut. I wonder if that cute salon on Deansgate has any slots this week?

  Fuck. I know I'm time wasting...

  Emily usually allowed herself the first thirty minutes of a wor
king day to check emails, facebook, and general messing about online. Then, her rule was to turn off the browser and get to work.

  When she'd first graduated from University with an unremarkable degree in Media Studies, she'd worked hard to establish herself as a freelance journalist. There had been some false starts, some dodgy moments, and a well-used credit card but now, five years on, she no longer had to work nights in a pizza place or tout for agency work in offices. She was fully freelance, working from home, and living the dream.

  She sat forward at stared at the half-completed game of spider solitaire on her monitor. The dream wasn't a nightmare - that was far too dramatic. The dream had become a rather dull and mildly concerning … yawn.

  A long yawn, a downward spiral of a yawn.

  The debts had been paid off, sure, but there were mounting bills and a sliding income. It wasn't supposed to have happened this way. Onwards and upwards? Stagnation, more like.

  Right. Time to work. I need this story. But I hope to god he's got something more interesting to say than what Matthew implied.

  She flicked up a few statistics on the computer, and swore.

  Nearly 90,000 prisoners in the UK. Yeah. And this one's going to be different?

  This really wasn't going to work.

  She looked down at the scrawled number, and reached for her phone. Another dead end? Another pointless conversation?

  She was getting so tired of this dream life. Her thumb swept over the smartphone and she scrolled through the contacts.

  "Hey, Kayleigh!"

  "What are you avoiding now?"

  "Harsh, very harsh."

  "I've known you for too long to think you're ringing me out of love, affection or our deep and lasting friendship. You want something or you're avoiding work. Deadlines?"

  Emily grinned. It was so good to hear her old mate on the phone, and even the distance between them didn't matter. "No deadlines, and that's the problem."

  "Oh Ems. What's going on, petal? I thought you sounded a bit low last time we spoke. I miss you. Can you come over to see me? Have a little break? Belgium's not far, really, on the train."

  "Ha. And how do I buy a train ticket?"

  "Is money that bad? I thought you'd got sorted and your feet were on the ground now. Things had been going well. You've had some regular commissions - what's happened?"

  "I messed up the last one, remember?" She couldn't help recalling the face of Tom Khalil, and shuddered. She ought to print out "never ever ever get involved with a subject" and stick it to every surface in her flat. She shook her head. Kayleigh had endured some very long, late night conversations picking that little disaster apart.

  "Anyway," she continued, "I spent so much time on that commission because I thought it was The Big One that I just didn't send out any pitches, so now I'm stuck without any work."

  "So, do like you did when you started. Get out and find some."

  "I dunno. I'm losing heart. This freelancing thing, it's like an endless chase. At least you're properly employed."

  "Maybe you ought to look for a staff writer's position."

  Emily slumped lower in her chair, and grimaced at her faint reflection in the monitor. "Maybe. Huh. Anyway, darling brother Matthew has just rung me with a potential story. Well, what he thinks is a potential story anyway. One of his clients, no less. An ex-con wanting to go straight or something. I was actually supposed to be ringing him to arrange to meet him… and somehow I rang you instead."

  "Avoiding work - yup, I was right."

  "Mm-hm."

  "Admit it!"

  Emily wrinkled her nose. "Yeah okay. You were right."

  Emily could imagine Kayleigh punching the air in triumph. Then her friend said, "Hang on one minute, you daft mare. You're arranging to meet this chap? This, um, criminal?"

  "Yeah, just to talk and see if he has a story."

  "Back up one moment, petal. Listen to yourself. You're arranging to meet this criminal?"

  "Matthew said he was okay."

  "With all due respect," Kayleigh spoke slowly and pedantically, "I've met your brother Matthew, and he is as clever as a box of monkeys and thicker than a breezeblock, all right? He'd happily send you into a private room with a known con because he doesn't think further than his next Law Society dinner."

  "Oh yeah." Emily had slumped so far now that her bum was on the edge of her frayed office chair and she started to rock it back and forth. It creaked on the old springs alarmingly. "Shit."

  "Even after all these years I have to look after you." Kayleigh sounded exasperated. "Oh, Ems. Ring him up and ask for a meeting together, not on your bloody own. Look, I want to chat but I have to go - some of us work for a living - can you call me tonight, maybe?"

  "Sure." Emily straightened up in her chair and they exchanged a few pleasant insults before signing off. Then she glared at her phone, as if it was responsible for all the mess, and called her brother.

  * * * *

  Matthew was testy on the phone and the entire call took about forty seconds. Emily stuck her tongue out at the smartphone's screen as it faded to black. Whatever.

  Okay. Focus. Focus, Emily. She picked up her folder of papers and notes, and started to flip through her jottings. It was a mish-mash of ideas, contacts and thoughts about stories. She'd ended up specialising in social justice and activism issues quite by accident, and for some reason she'd stayed writing about those things.

  Not entirely by accident, perhaps. There'd been another homeless man, years back, as she was finishing her degree. She'd intended to write about entertainment - books, films, and the theatre. Instead, she'd fallen onto a story that had got her national exposure and she'd ridden that wave for as long as she could.

  The thing about waves was that they fell as well as rose. Was she thinking of Joel as mere flotsam and jetsam now? And what was the difference, anyway? Her finger twitched as she started to google what is flotsam.

  Focus!

  Dammit, it was no good. She pushed away from the computer desk and stood up, stretching. She padded through to the small kitchen and set the kettle on to boil. While she waited she leaned on the window frame and looked out over the arrow-straight terraces of Manchester that cut red-brick lines in a rigid pattern five stories below.

  A text from Matthew brought her back to her senses.

  My office three pm.

  The kettle clicked off and Emily stared long at the message. This Turner Black had better have a damn good story for her.

  * * * *

  At least the rain had stopped. Emily vacillated in front of her wardrobe, unsure whether to go with smart-and-professional, or quirky-casual-journo.

  It's gotta be the black trousers, cream shirt and red silk scarf. It's not this Turner Black that I need to impress; I need to show Matthew I am getting on in life.

  Even as she dressed, and primped, and preened, she felt a little false. She shouldn't have to feel the need to put on an act for anyone anymore. Still, she painted in her eyeliner with a steady hand, and smoothed her hair with Argan oil. Her figure was still trim, but she laid a hand on her waist and felt an unfamiliar roll of flesh just beginning.

  I can't carry on with a student lifestyle, fast food and bad hours. Not anymore.

  Oh well. Diet… tomorrow.

  She loved living in the middle of Manchester and it was a short walk to the offices where her brother was a partner in a criminal law firm. She always felt a little odd, walking in through the glass doors, as if people might think she was there for her own crimes. It was stupid, really, being bothered by the imaginary thoughts of complete strangers, but her shoulder blades itched as she clattered over the tiled floor to the reception desk.

  The unfamiliar young woman looked up, and Emily said, "I'm here to meet Matthew Carrera. My brother."

  "Of course; he's expecting you. Just one moment, and I'll buzz him." The receptionist nodded and smiled warmly.

  To her surprise, Emily found her palms were sweaty as she turned to
greet her brother. Matthew matched her with his dark hair and pale skin, but he was tall and lean rather than short, like she was. He descended on her like an efficient spider, grabbed her arms, and pecked on her cheeks, one-two-one, then stepped back and assessed her.

  "Very smart," he commented, almost with approval. "Turner's waiting. Come on."

  She trailed along after him, sighing inwardly. It was no use getting upset at his lack of small talk or polite conventions. Matthew just didn't do social niceties. They strode down a long corridor. She glanced at the art on the walls, looking to make conversation, but the dauby paintings were too terrible to remark upon - she'd probably insult them and then discover he had chosen them himself. Instead, she said, "That receptionist was nice. Pleasant manner, I mean."

  "Of course. Why wouldn't she be?"

  Emily huffed. "I just meant… oh, never mind."

  She had hoped for a moment privately with Matthew, to ask him more about Turner, but he didn't even pause and knock at the closed door. He barrelled straight in, and she had to follow.

  The interview room was small and comfortable, all freshly done in tasteful pastel shades of pink and cream. But when the broad-shouldered man stood up to greet them, he filled the whole space. He'd clearly used his prison time in the gym, and though he was dressed in a white shirt and jeans, he looked huge. Almost like a cowboy. His hair was closely cropped, and his eyes a startling orangey-brown.

  But apart from his bulk, he didn't look like the typical prisoner of her imagination. He was clean, and trimmed, and his eyes danced with light. She smiled, tight-lipped, as he extended his hand.

  "Hiya. I'm Turner."

  "Emily Carrera." She half turned to her brother but he was already backing out of the door.

  "Okay, I'll leave you to it."

  She glared but he was gone. Fuck's sake, Matthew! Why did you think I wanted to change the meeting? You can't leave me alone with him. Oh wait. You just have.

  "Don't worry. I'm not going to rip off your head and do unspeakable things to your windpipe."