There was no reply and Emily drank her coffee while surfing a few websites and sending some exploratory emails. She hit up old contacts and found a few messages returned instantly, undeliverable. Perhaps she ought to do some footwork, get back out to the pubs and clubs, find some new leads.
What would 90,000 prisoners in the UK do on release?
She hopped from website to website, looking at arguments of every political hue. Was it really all a capitalist conceit, designed to keep an underclass so that the whole edifice of consumerism could be built from the bottom to the top? It was an interesting idea, and she was soon drawn into the debate. I wonder what Turner thinks of this? She jotted a few things on her notebook. I must ask him.
Her phone zinged with Kayleigh's reply, jolting her back to the real world. One word. WHY?
Emily thumbed through the apps on her phone, while trying to conjure up a reply in her head. None came. Because. Why not. I must. I feel. There is.
In the end, she didn't reply at all. Instead she scrolled through the list of contacts and lighted up on the editor of a national weekly that dealt with gritty, hard hitting issues. He was the one for this. She considered sending an email, but she'd worked with him before, and a phone call was often a quicker way of getting a response for a known writer like she was. She ignored Kayleigh's text, and instead rang the editor's desk.
But it was an unfamiliar female voice that answered.
"Oh, hi. I was after Julian…" Emily stammered.
"Ahh, sorry. He's on leave right now. I'm the office manager. Can I ask who's calling? I might be able to pass you on to the sub-editor."
Emily's toes clamped tightly in a curl. She knew the sub from college, and they'd never got on. He was a supercilious little prick who had not forgotten how she'd turned him down for a date. "Ahh, no, you're all right. Thanks."
"It's okay, do you want to-"
Emily never heard what the woman was offering because she terminated the call and tossed the phone onto a cushion. Whereupon it slid, once more, to the floor and disgorged its contents.
I really ought to get a cover for that thing.
Or stop throwing it around. One or the other.
What now? Julian, her best hope for this article, was away. Write it on spec? Dangerous. Could be a big waste of time.
Her future fogged over, uncertain once more. She pushed the sense of foreboding away, and sat up straight, drinking the last of her tepid coffee before turning back to her online research.
* * * *
The quayside area was different at night. Emily stepped off the Metrolink tram and walked briskly, streetwise enough to know she had to walk with the confidence that she didn't always feel. Over the past two days since her decision to keep trying with investigative journalism, she had done a lot of work and research but she was still no nearer a commission. She'd tried ringing Turner but he hadn't returned her calls until that afternoon, apologetic and claiming to have been away somewhere.
She'd suggested the meeting. He sounded non-committal on the phone, but it was hard to really tell. He was the one to suggest the quays, and she was happy enough to agree. The streets were buzzing. It was a Friday evening and already the bars were filling up with office workers who hadn't even bothered to go home and eat. They went straight from sober workplace to drunken carnage, passing only the cashpoints while on their journey to get as wasted as possible.
She had dressed up a little, and had been hesitant about how much to reveal. Now, though, as she tottered through the crowds on her three-inch heels, she felt almost dowdy next to the red lips and low tops of the partiers. Emily's usual green bandana had been abandoned, letting her hair fall in waves, and she had applied some silver eye shadow that she found lingering at the bottom of her make-up bag. Her skirt was an eighties-themed pencil one, teamed with a tight cashmere cardigan that she hoped screamed "casual sex kitten".
Though as soon as she admitted that she was even trying for the sex kitten look, she felt annoyed with herself. This was business, right?
She concentrated on hunting out the tapas bar that Turner had named, and her heart flipped when she saw his broad form waiting under the pink neon lights. He was taller than many of the people around him. In his jeans and black suit jacket, he looked like a louche James Bond, and she found her mouth had gone dry. Unlike the last time they'd met, when he was clean-shaven, now there was a few days' worth of stubble on his chin, and she just wanted to stretch out her hand and touch it.
She slowed as she neared him, but he sprang forward to greet her. She wiped her hand on her skirt, anticipating that he'd shake it like he had done last time, but he took her off-guard by planting a society air-kiss on each cheek before stepping back and grinning at her. His aftershave tickled her nose.
"Oh!" she mumbled, then, "Hello. How are you?"
"Fine, thanks. Yourself? You look nice. I like the cardigan."
He said the word cardigan with all the undertones suggesting elderly women, mumsy types and cosy, frumpy figures. She winced. "Er, thanks. Yeah. It's… retro."
"If I'd known, I'd have dug out my old lilac and green shell suit."
"Eww, really?"
"We all have secrets, Emily." He looked sideways at her, winking. "Dark secrets." Then he returned to a normal voice. "Enough of that - come on, I've sorted a table. Do you like tapas?"
"Yes, sure."
He led her through with sure, confident strides, walking just a little ahead of her and steering her to a secluded table along a side wall. It wasn't tucked in a corner but it wasn't slap bang in the middle of the room. She liked it.
Once the wine had been served, and the little dishes were arriving, she tried to steer the conversation to matters of prison in general and social justice, without referring to his past directly, but he seemed unwilling to engage.
"I've been camping," he said, surprising her, when she asked about how his job hunting was going. "I've always been an outdoorsy type, and I used to dream about being able to just go off on my own. So I've been in the Peak District. That's why I didn't answer your call. I can't stand people who go and get away from it all, and take their bloody mobiles."
"Oh. Yeah, quite." She allowed a polite pause, then tried to steer back on topic. "With this article, I think I'm going to concentrate on the jobs angle…"
He nodded but he was looking at the olives as he said, "Do you like camping?"
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 anticipat
ion 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.
Hidden Heart (Love Is The Law 1) Page 5
