Now we’re back to offer our weekly free Romance excerpt, and if you aren’t among those who have downloaded this one already, you’re in for a treat!
- ‘A mix of relentless, buff sexuality, uncompromising, idealistic romance, and sassy, police detective mystery’
- ‘Knockout writing and a perfect dilemma’
- ‘The language is sensual and gripping and powerful all at once’
- ‘The sex scenes are well written and actually play a part within the story rather than being thrown in for the fun of it’
- ‘Knockout will surprise you with its qualities, but do not be surprised if you put it down wishing for more. I did.’
- ‘What a page turner the plot was held perfectly with shocking twist n turns’
- ‘The story is so full of passion, it is easy to be swept along’
And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free excerpt:
Knockout!
A Passionate Police Romance
By
Emma Calin
Copyright
Knockout!
A Passionate Police Romance
copyright © 2011 Emma Calin
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the Author. Your support of author’s rights is appreciated.
All characters in this compilation are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This book is written using American English spelling conventions but with British English punctuation and grammar in order to do the impossible – to please everyone.
Prologue
Promotion had put her back in uniform. It felt good to be behind the wheel of a marked police vehicle, slowly cruising the London streets. All afternoon she’d been jargon juggling. Finally she’d escaped and taken advantage of a spare emergency response car to drive to the adjoining area for a conference on community initiatives.
She clicked on the radio. This was how her earlier career had been, among the run-down fast food shops, the loitering drivers smoking weed outside the mini cab offices, the boom of music from cars and buildings, the glitzy bill boards in the heart of dilapidation. Suddenly an urgent voice calling Met’ Police control at Scotland Yard.
“Lima Three… Lima Three to MP… we have a fail to stop… high speed North towards the city.”
She caught the familiar sound of a chase. A vehicle was fleeing a patrol car about two miles behind her and coming her way. She pulled over and listened. She need not be involved in this. This was not her job. So she’d been top student at the Hendon driving school of the Metropolitan Police. She was an Inspector now and this was not about ego or drama. She knew that. She knew that!
She checked out the siren and blue light controls. The big V8 engine rumbled playfully. She blipped the throttle and felt the tight knot of its unexpressed power. It had started to rain. And this was not her job!
“Eighty, that’s eight zero miles per hour. Driver looks about 15 years old… running red light into Brixton now… wait… wait… straight through… still at eighty.”
Her heart rate increased. These would be crowded streets in the late afternoon. Now only a mile behind her the chase was closing in. She absorbed the details. The target car was a stolen boy racer Ford. At least four joy riding kids from a delinquent home were desperately trying to escape. Again a more urgent voice…
“We have a tyre blowout. We can’t continue. Lima Three over…”
She checked the mirror. The target vehicle was approaching still at high speed – reckless speed. It screamed past, taking a traffic island on the wrong side of the road. She caught the eye of a shaven headed boy in the back seat as she hit the lights and sirens and slammed down the throttle.
“Lima Delta One… in pursuit,” she announced.
Soon she was right on the tail. She had more power and more skill. They barreled into the Camberwell New Road junction at seventy miles per hour. The target car side-swiped a red London bus but straightened up. She concentrated hard. The rain was turning the tarmac into a skid pan. She saw more police blue lights ahead near the Oval tube station. The target feinted right then tried to corner left. The tail started to slide out on the wet road. She watched in slow motion as the vehicle slammed into a street lamp. A spray of glass and the scream of tortured metal suddenly gave way to an utter utter silence. An awful stillness enveloped the wreck and nothing moved. Nobody moved. The radio carried the voice of Scotland Yard control…
“Discontinue pursuit. Repeat discontinue. Speed too high for safety. Lima Delta One – acknowledge… discontinue pursuit…”
Knockout!
Chapter 1
Anna Leyton pushed purposefully through the revolving doors. The swish of wheels on the wet London streets, the clack and shuffle of anonymous feet on Victoria Street hardly caught her attention. She looked across at St James’s Tube Station, past the constantly turning triangular sign that proclaimed “New Scotland Yard.”
Ten years ago the very sight of the tall office block behind her would have filled her with pride. This evening it seemed no more than any other building in London. Even the city itself had lost the charisma that had filled her heart and soul with excitement as a young police recruit at the age of twenty one. Now the great animal which was the city shrugged off its joys and sorrows and ploughed on through time without a care for any flea on its back.
The afternoon had been tough. As a mere Inspector she had been a junior in a room filled with older and more senior men. The days had long gone when they would have asked why she wasn’t at home with the babies. All the same, she was a woman in a macho world. Her career was back on track although too damaged to think of the very top. Her personal life – well – she was a cop ok. She had already lived out a decade of her youth at a broken bottle edge of society – where the sharpest cuts had been to herself.
The evening was cold and pitiless. She pulled up the collar of her raincoat, tightening the belt around her slim waist. Rain began to dampen her long dark hair. As an Interpol officer, she had the freedom to wear her hair as she wanted. She cursed not having brought her umbrella. At the same time her mind jangled with the responsibilities of her new assignment. When she had graduated with a degree in modern languages and had turned her back on her family’s famous luxury motor-yacht business, her mother had declared that she was about to waste her life. Like her mother was a wasted life expert.
At the entrance to the tube station there was a growing crowd. The lattice shutters were being closed while an harassed official explained that there was a wild-cat strike. She turned away. Ahead of her lay a nightmare journey by bus to her empty flat in Kilburn. Suddenly the cold politics of the meeting, the gray loneliness of the street, the crowds of uncaring strangers, filled her with a longing for warmth and intimacy. The break from her lover, police Commander Beaumont Locke had seemed clean but had left a jagged gap of loneliness – like an exit wound. A gap where another rainy evening briefly played over and over again in her mind.
She stood on the edge of the pavement. Perhaps she could get a taxi – but with a tube strike there was small chance of that! Several black cabs beetled along, already filled. She kept her hand raised and as if by magic she saw the amber “For Hire” light of a London taxi pulling in at her side. She felt a movement from behind and heard an accented male voice:
“Zee ‘eelton ‘otel, Park Lane.”
She turned to see a tall rock of a man, moving past her into the taxi. This guy was going to have to back off. She grabbed the door. Even as she did so she saw his deep brown eyes, the dark eyebrows, one of which only partly disguised a long scar. She could never explain – even to herself – why in that instant she wanted to touch it and know how it had been caused. Her heart raced with indignation and a sense of excitement she had never expected to feel again… not since… well, just not since everything.
“This cab stopped for me!” she snapped.
“Possiblement,” growled the stranger, but smiling with slow gentle eyes, a Gallic down-turn of the mouth and a shrug of his wide shoulders.
“We can be – ‘ow you say – in the same sheep?”
“I think you mean boat – unless you do mean sheep.” she replied, unable to stop herself returning his smile. The accent was pure Clouseau. This guy just had to be some kind of fake. So much fake that any cop would hitch up for a ride just to keep in practice.
The cabbie had already started his meter.
“Anyone gettin’ in – there’s plenty of takers?”
Anna watched the stranger’s face, the thick short cut hair, the tough broad bridge of his nose. His strong hand remained on the door. Gently he brought his other hand around to her back and eased her forward into the cab. She was breathless, as if she had become merely a note in a melody that had always been playing in her head. This could not be her life. OK girl – get real, this is just some arrogant man. Just one more. He regarded her with a look that reached deep into her and stroked a sweet spot in the base of her stomach. She didn’t want this… but he was still doing it.
He indicated with his powerful hand that she should sit opposite him. Against all instincts she found herself complying. The cab moved off, nosing out into the London traffic. The wipers tapped rhythmically, the lights from the department stores spilled out melting into the gray flowing river of road and pavement.
“So – yes – we are in the same sheep,” he smiled gently, “but I must say ‘boat’ yes?”
“If you’re into sheep it’s ok with me,” she returned, wondering why she was smiling and feeling a sensation of warmth. Sure – this was some kind of grease but for a few moments it was nice to slide along.
He smiled again, showing even white teeth behind the full wide lips that pouted forward as he spoke in such a way that just possibly he really was French.
Sitting opposite him, she could take in the full presence of this stranger. It was as if he transmitted a force – an aura of danger and a sardonic humorous innocence. She attempted to re-assert her normal senses – her ability to appraise a man, threat or situation in the blink of an eye – a skill she had honed on the streets of South London – in a world of gangs, drugs and murder. And yet – here she was, tripping over the bags that some stupid girl had left in the entrance to her brain.
“Luckily Park Lane is on the way to Kilburn,” she said with deliberate plainness.
He looked back at her, holding her eyes, then making a slow upward sweep of her whole body, like a lick of cool flame that swept through the centre line of her thighs, her belly, her breasts. He shrugged.
“It would not matter Madame – I would be your knight in sighing armor.”
Anna shook her head in disbelief at his clumsy deliberate mistake and glanced quickly at his smiling brown eyes. This guy was larger than two lives. This was pure panto.
“You laugh at a poor little French boy?”
“Not laugh – you just kinda trowel it on don’t you?”
“OK – you got me,” he drawled in relaxed Californian,“you’re a cop right. Outside Scotland Yard – you must think I’m pretty dumb.”
She scrambled for grip. This was a moment – a turning point. Why could she not, at least for a few delicious minutes, be Anna Leyton, service number – zero, rank – woman of this Earth, no police record, no medals, no blood?
“A cop – for God’s sake – do I look like a cop?” she spat at him – hoping he would accept the question as a denial. Any detective knew that a suspect answering a question with a question is beginning to struggle. He nodded seriously.
“Please forgive – I mustn’t tease! So, anyhow, what do you do?”
“I sell boats,” she stated plainly. Tie a truth to a lie – you can even believe it yourself.
“Ah yes – the London rain is very famous – did you sell a boat today?”
“Yeah – I sold two arks to a Jewish guy with four elephants.”
He threw back his head with a deep genuine laugh. She was on top now. She’d follow through the advantage.
“Have you heard of Leyton Marine Sports Yachts?”
“Of course – I saw your new models at the Cannes Boat Show last year – The Nereus 74.” Bingo! She knew this model inside out.
“That’s top of the range. Evidently you didn’t buy?”
“I just did – if you can close the deal.”
She smiled at his smoothness. He was deceiving her, she was sure of that. She was paying him back in kind. But just for a few minutes she had been free. She was out and away in a world without flashback – running in childhood meadows, not running from – just running free.
The cab pushed and swished on towards Buckingham Palace. She saw him studying the famous landmark, as if he were checking out the architecture. In profile his face looked even more male – handsome yet warm – the scar above his right eye constantly attracting her gaze. He was a brute of some kind but he could lie even with his eyes. Once again she found herself responding to him and wanting to touch that scar. In this new world of a few out of reality moments with a gorgeous stranger she could let go, becoming aware of the pulse of life in her breasts and a sense of warmth and longing deep in her stomach. She bit her lip as she consciously allowed these feelings to sweep over her. She took in his striped linen jacket, dark trousers and hand stitched leather shoes. His crisp white shirt accentuated the tanned olive tone of his skin. His shoulders were broad with hard muscular upper arms while his beautifully cut clothes proclaimed the body of an athlete or sportsman.
“So, you know what I do. Do you work in London?” she asked wondering if he would tell her the truth – since she had not!
“Oh not at all – I am here to sign some papers that’s all.”
“Papers?” she questioned too quickly, aware she could be exposing her cover.
“Just a contract – you know, boring business stuff.”
He looked at her with a caress in his brown eyes. The cab was at Hyde Park Corner, just a short way from the Hilton. Her heart hammered. Soon he would step out into the night and never see her again. It had to be that way. You could dream but your story was your story. Better just accept and live it out any way you could.
“You have to sell boats tonight?”
“No… but…”
“So sell me one over a drink at my hotel!” he urged leaning forward, “Surely you want to close on a deal like this?”
She tried to pull herself together. This was fantasy trash with an impossible guy – but what was she afraid of? She could handle this smooth operator, maybe even rough him up a bit.
“But I – I don’t have any brochures with me…”
“Then you can tell me… I’d rather look at you in any case!”
Anna gulped as the cab pulled up. This was pure snake oil and she had a juicy apple in her pocket. He looked at her with questioning eyes that ran between her and the opened door. She followed, feeling as if she had gone into free fall from a plane rather than stepping out of a taxi into the busy swirl of Park Lane. As he paid the cab driver, she composed herself. Okay, she was the daughter of Mike Leyton – owner of Leyton Marine – the makers of prestige motor yachts. Clients were always rich and often famous. The flagship Nereus 74 was renowned as fast, luxurious, beautifully sleek and exclusive. When she had last seen her father, the waiting list was at least 2 years. It was this glamorous world of racing car drivers, pop stars, sports icons, celebrity and privilege, on which she had turned her back – choosing instead the hard streets of Brixton and her own quest for respect and success.
The doorman stood aside and nodded respectfully. She caught a look of recognition in his eye as he watched them. Evidently he knew this guy. They walked to the bar. He was several inches taller than her and broad as a barn door. As she kept up with him she sensed his animal power but also his gracefulness. This was no business man – or if he was – he was completely wasted. Around him was an air of subtle expensive cologne – but beneath that a hint of male – a slight chemical whisper that had carried on the winds and tides across time and evolution. This was a lone bull with no ring in his nose.
She ordered vodka – not something she would normally drink – but so what? None of this was real! She had stepped out of her life and soon she would have to retreat like the tide. He sipped a small beer. The glass looked ridiculous in his large hand. He smiled and gave her a look that she caught and followed like a slow waltz. As he held her eyes she swallowed – realizing that warm and deep within, she couldn’t stop her physical and emotional response. She sat cross-legged, shifting slightly in her seat, pressing her legs together more firmly knowing that her awareness and focus was sharpening and despite herself she was experiencing a delicious teasing pleasure – God she was simply letting herself go! She had boarded the roller coaster and it was clicking up the slope towards some kind of ride.
“I’m Frederic – Freddie La Salle,” he told her, offering his hand to shake. She took it and felt her hand disappear into his warm palm.
“I’m Anna Leyton.”
He continued to hold her hand. She felt the strength and gentleness of his grip and did nothing to resist – could do nothing – wanted to do nothing.
“Could it be that you come from the family of Leyton Marine?”
“Well yes – you could say I’m the boss’s daughter.”
“So if I want a Nereus 74 I can go straight to the front of the line!” he joked – or maybe not joked. As he spoke she realized that his French accent had slipped again from Paris chic to a relaxed Californian. She’d already figured that one. She played along.
“I thought you were French!”
“My mother is American – I live in France and work often in the USA.”
“So all that ‘lost little French boy’ was a scam.”
“Of course,” he replied in a mocking French accent, “you cannot blame a man when suddenly from out of a clear blue sky in the pouring rain he meets such a woman who tries to muscle him out of his taxi…”
Anna laughed at the pantomime accent and coy expression that looked so out of place on his strong face and scarred brow that had to have a violent origin.
“What’s your line of work anyway Frederic – comedian – shepherd – conman?”
“Few people are what they seem – life is an acting job. Truth is a line like the Equator. To the South lies the tropic of exaggeration, to the North is the tropic of forgetfulness,” he teased with those smiling dark brown eyes.
Now – what the hell was this stuff? Philosophy – obviously well rehearsed. How could he know anything of her? Clearly he was aware of Leyton Marine and also of the waiting list for a Nereus 74. Did he know her father, or any details of her family?
“So you tested a Nereus 74?”
“Well, I went on board – she was beautiful – there was no time for a sea trial.”
“And are you still in the market?”
“Certainly – I have an important deal next month – but after that – it will be play time.”
“Who showed you round the boat in Cannes?” she asked, desperate to know what he might recall. With this type of serious client, almost certainly her father would have been involved.
“I think I met someone called Mike… yes it was Mike.”
Her thoughts raced through all the possibilities – he had probably spoken to her father and even if he had made small talk about his family, odds were that this confident self-aware stranger wouldn’t have taken it all in. Anyway, he wouldn’t have told a potential client that his daughter was a cop given that a good number of clients had no love of the law.
“If he could have sold me the boat I’d have bought it that day.”
“I’ll call my father.”
“And you will supervise my sea trial personally?”
Hang on Mister Smoothie… she couldn’t go down this route.
“There are good sales people at all our offices – I don’t have a demonstration boat in London.”
“Perhaps I should call Mike – um – your father…?”
Adrenalin was squeezing into her blood.
“I’ll fix it,” she said, slowly downing the last of her vodka and hoping she appeared calm.
Okay – she had lied about her job – she could cover it if her father would go along with the deception. None of this mattered. She was never going to see him again. Her father could call him and explain that she had had to sell a boat to the king of some place. Some place with a king!
“If you sell me a Nereus 74 you will be Daddy’s Best Girl,” he teased, adding a theatrical wink.
“I am already,” she fired back sharply, suddenly realizing that losing the chance to sell a cool £2.5 million cruiser would definitely not please Daddy. This guy was too pushy – as if she could be influenced by money!
“Give me your business card Miss Leyton – I’ll call you to fix all the details.”
Business cards – sure – every sales person always has a pocket full! She thought swiftly on her feet. She could hardly give him a police one.
“I was at a meeting this afternoon and handed them all out so I have none left just now… I was not expecting…”
“A rude stranger who hijacked your taxi!” he interjected.
“Not so rude,” she replied with a look at his masculine face, his tough looking jaw, his bull-like neck and those gentle brown eyes. Although his manner exuded confidence almost to a point of arrogance, those eyes shone out a deep kindness. Everything warned her off this guy. Everything she felt as a woman was sweeping her onwards – as if she had fallen into a raging river of warm seductive water where it was useless to struggle. He finished his beer. She declined his offer of second vodka… but boy did she need one.
“So, I’ll let you go and take your number?” he suggested.
She scribbled her personal cell phone number on a coaster. He took it and stood up, towering above her. His shoulders were twice the width of hers. She found herself staring at his lower stomach and waist. He had no stomach but was ridged and flat. A little lower was the bulge of his bull credentials. She forced herself to look up and then stood. As if it were the most natural thing in the world he moved beside her and placed his hand on her back.
“We must find you a taxi.”
She felt the sheer size and strength of him. Her composure wobbled on a knife-edge. However she dressed it up, she wanted him, not that he was gonna get that information. He had made no hard play for her. The most dangerous thing in a crook is patience – she knew that. It was screaming at her.
The doorman stepped out to hail a cab. Anna looked up and allowed herself to hold his eyes for a little longer than was quite polite and edged towards brazen, She felt a sweet tickle of excitement. A taxi pulled in.
“Well – thanks for the drink – and the entertainment.”
Without speaking he moved to face her and then lowered his chin to kiss one cheek and then the other. The brush of his lips jolted her, sending a current sparking and screaming down through her body, lighting up everything it touched.
“Forgive me…” he began, obviously aware of her response, “these things are normal in France.”
Bloody hell – did he think she didn’t know that? She watched his lips as he spoke, longing that he would bring them back to her cheeks, to her lips, to anywhere! God it had been so long…
“I’ll call tomorrow – it has been lovely to meet you Anna.”
“I’ll look forward to it Freddie,” she replied, hearing her own voice as if it belonged to someone else.
He turned back into the hotel and was gone. She leaned back in the taxi and let out a deep lungful of air. Dear Lord – had she gone nuts? How it had felt though – to be aware of a forgotten joy inside her. For a few moments she had pushed away from that blank plain where dark beasts could roar out of the long grass at any second. For an instant once again she was at the wheel of that car, controlling the drift into the corner. Ahead of her the bandit car spun out as a terrified kid lost control…
Freddie La Salle watched the cab pull away from behind the hotel window. He didn’t want her to see his interest. He checked the number she had given him and moved to the lobby payphone and dialed. As she answered he hung up. It was her – the correct number. He smiled and gave a little nod of satisfaction. Never had he seen such a girl. The beauty of her was a delicious ache. In her presence he had felt a surge of desire and a sense of protectiveness he couldn’t define. Something was there in her that he recognized. Some hint of his own regret. OK – he needed a girl on his arm, a girl was always part of the plan. Now she was gone there was so much more he could have said – maybe shared – maybe explained.
One day there would be a girl who could share the truth of things. Lucky she wasn’t a cop. If there were cops like that he’d have joined the force years ago. When he had seen her in the street he had had to act before she was swirled away into the gray London night.
How a split second in life could change everything. How well he knew the joy and sorrow that could flow from a chance moment. He took out his cell phone and called his driver. The poor guy was probably still waiting for him outside Scotland Yard.
Chapter 2
The phone jolted her from the nightmare. She thought for a moment to ignore it. Few people had her personal number – other than her family and of course her ex-lover Commander Beaumont Locke of Scotland Yard. As the caller clicked off, she pushed the mobile back in her pocket and rested her head on the seat. Probably a random wrong number. If she had time tomorrow she would check it out.
On and on the lives of unknown strangers rolled and swarmed along the Edgeware Road and Kilburn High Road. She was tired but had never felt more alive! By chance she had met this ridiculous chancer and experienced a brief out-of-body experience. Just in an instant her perception of life had changed. She’d always been inclined to rash decisions. How well she knew the price. Now things were real and she had to organize her actual life and career and maybe deal with the consequences of her deliberate dishonesty.
She paid the driver and took the stairs to her flat. Even though it was going to cost her twenty years salary and took half her pay each month, it was only a tiny flat – four small rooms above a tanning salon. She had refused all help from her family. What she had was her own. It wasn’t much.
She slipped out of her coat, poured a good glass of Pinot Grigio and headed for the bedroom. She wanted to think and to strip off the grime and gray of the London day. She would shower and then get an early night.
She let her charcoal business suit and cream silk blouse fall carelessly to the ground. She sat down on the bed wearing nothing but her ivory satin underwear. She released her bra and let her full firm breasts fall free like a sigh. For a moment she lay back and swung her legs onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. She ran her hands comfortingly across her belly.
For all the urgent complication of the jingle-jangle day, she was flesh and a beating heart. For the first time in nearly a year she felt herself alive and warm, aware of the pulse and thrill of the life that was in her body. She thought of the enigmatic Freddie, some kind of con man she knew but still with his laughing eyes and strength. No man had ever touched her soul in the way that he had. Everything about him was like a rhythmic stroke – his cheesy humor, his powerful hands – creating a soft force that pushed everything aside and caressed her feminine core. The wine and the vodka shook hands in her empty stomach. Ok – she was drinking too much.
How she hated this loneliness knowing that at any moment her mind could flip back in time. She had no lover although often enough men had told her of her beauty or at least wanted to get in her knickers. No one had ever got this close, not reached the power of her responses that she knew she possessed, yet withheld. This man had no concept of knocking on doors. He had a key and would walk right into her, would know her rhythms, would dance and burrow within her, pulse and share ecstasy with her. This she knew now as if she were the first ever woman to know true oneness with a man. Her loneliness oppressed her and for a few moments she could lose herself. She felt the jolt of her own touch as she focused on her pleasure. This had always been her small secret delight until the crash had wiped out her desire. Now she was flying in circles up and up and up and losing control. It had been so long… just so bloody long.
The pleasure sank away into nothing, like a beautiful wave crashed onto sand, disappearing without a trace. She felt the chill of the air and found herself in tears. Sounds rose from the street and shadows of street lamps patterned her solitary room. She let the tears come silently and turned her face into her pillow. She had always held herself above fully giving in to a man, and now she had let the image of a stranger overwhelm her. No one would ever know. He would never know. She tried to analyze her feelings. Sure she had felt a strong sexual response – but she had felt a longing not only for sex, but for love mixed with her own need to give love. She dreamed briefly of his face – how she had wanted to touch him tenderly and know his soul and being. The absence of him left her reaching out and finding nothing. Now she felt empty. This was not her – not the Detective Inspector Anna Leyton of Interpol.
She got up and switched on the TV. She needed the sound of its company, but rarely watched. She pulled the curtains, showered and fixed a sandwich. A sense of barrenness drifted like an encircling mist around and within her. She wrapped herself in her dressing gown and put on her slippers. She brushed her long raven hair and cleaned the make up from her creamy skin and deep gray blue eyes.
She had cried – for the first time in months she had allowed feelings to surface. It had been almost a year since her split with Beaumont Locke. At last she felt as if she had moved on and that she could begin to put away at least one episode of her life. Her mind flashed back five years. There had been a murder – and if ever a murder could ever be routine, this was as close as it got. A story of drugs and gangs on the streets of South London had left a youth stabbed and dead on the pavement. She had been a young Detective Sergeant for whom this had been just another file. No one doubted who had done it, but as always a wall of silence and fear sheltered the killers.
Just at this time, questions of gang crime had been raised in Parliament. Police bosses scrambled to get their names on TV and their own heads off the block. Commander Locke of the Scotland Yard murder squad travelled down to South London with his entourage and personal driver. Anna first saw him on the steps of Brixton Police Station with his handsome face to camera. His hair was graying at the temples but otherwise dark and wavy, touching his collar. He wore his uniform for the media but removed his peaked cap so that the public could see his strong suave features, his smile, and accept his unctuous assurances that Law and Order would always prevail. It looked like he believed it – but he’d not spent much time behind a riot shield. Once you’ve seen a mob running wild, human life is a different concept. Once you’ve nicked an old dear dragging a fridge out a broken shop window you really understand the psychology of the impulse buy.
As the cameramen and journalists fled with their scoops “Brixton Cops Baffled – Yard Called in” Beaumont Locke made for his temporary office and changed into his double-breasted pin-stripe suit, white shirt with blue collar and matching blue handkerchief flopping from his top pocket. A few minutes later, Anna was seated in his office. She smiled at his name – Beau Locke…he looked too serious to follow her drift.
“You don’t want me here, I don’t want to be here – let’s solve this and go home,” he boomed in an upper class English tone, “full report Sergeant – Shoot!!”
Anna bridled at this arrogant monster, yet at the same time was drawn to his sheer self assurance. She gave her report while he leaned back in his chair, appraising her, taking in her willowy beauty and mysterious gray blue eyes. When she had finished he looked at her directly.
“Good girl,” he exclaimed with an irritating and patronizing clap, “You’re going a long way in your career my dear… or should I say ‘Cher’, looking at your beautiful hair – dinner together at 8.”
“Well…” she began.
“Well Sir!” he corrected.
“Well Sir – 8 will be fine,” she said, swallowing her anger.
Within a month they were lovers. Commander Locke – a man destined for the top. 35 years old, Oxford graduate in law and politics, was already divorced from his high flying lawyer wife.
The affair had been just that – an affair – wedged between their careers and egos. For her it had been a release from a detective’s life – the tyranny of piss stench stairwells, the halitosis of lies. She knew that she had never been an equal partner – had always been at his command. He had never asked to be called Sir in bed – but if he had, it would not have surprised her.
Then came that day. That day. That second. That lifetime of “if onlys” that would play and play again in her head. How she had been proud of her promotion to Inspector, even though it meant a return to uniform service for a year. She had had no need to chase those kids…no need to push them to… to their death. There she had said it again. Beaten herself with it again. And what a failure he had been! How she had needed him and how he had rowed away from her sinking ship when it looked like his career could be tainted by her troubles. She had stood alone when the mob had brayed for her head. He had scrambled away down the back stairs.
Her mind turned back to Freddie – the silly jokes, his philosophical remarks about truth, the arousing lick of his glance, his wounded brow and gentle brown eyes. That place in her soul that she had sought herself and wondered if it even existed – he had known and caressed in an instant. Something had been released within her and she would never be the same. And hell – she had lied, maybe damaged her father’s business and could even have compromised her career – and all because for a few moments she had wanted to be just Anna.
Chapter 3
She slept fitfully, disturbed by fragmenting images of Freddie La Salle and her father. She imagined them together discussing the Nereus 74 motor cruiser over a glass of wine. He was telling the younger man about his detective daughter who had turned her back on the family business, preferring to fight criminals on the streets of London. How she had sat alone in the cells awaiting the verdict at the end of her trial for manslaughter…
She awoke with a start. It was 4 am and outside the traffic still bundled and buzzed through the night and into the dawn. The harsh light from the street lamps patterned her room. The wail of sirens brought her mind back to her real current life. How often she had floored the throttle of a patrol car hurtling through the streets of London… just that once too often. She saw the flames, heard the screaming voices. Maybe she should talk to someone… maybe she should get on with her job… maybe this guy…
In a few hours she would be at a briefing for her new assignment. An international squad had formed to combat the many headed monster of organized crime. In its latest incarnation, the internet allowed billions of dollars to be laundered through anonymous gambling. The money hatched in the swamps of drugs, prostitution, people trafficking and illegal weapon sales was set to work in pursuit of even bigger gains. Sports events could be fixed, players bribed or intimidated, officials corrupted. Huge amounts of cash flowed around the worlds of sport. Players could become the property of criminals. Just in the last few weeks football, cricket and tennis had been hit with revelations and scandals. The London Olympics were scheduled for 2012. The British and International governments wanted not only a level playing field, but also a clean one. She would know more after the briefing, but broadly their task would be to identify the criminals and infiltrate the networks inside sport.
As she took the tube to Vauxhall she was both excited and apprehensive. She was about to meet the other members of the team who would be from all over the world. She had dressed in a neat dark blue suit with a white blouse. In the end she had chosen high heels, to show off her legs and somehow to reflect her new awareness of herself. For the same reason she had selected her sexiest underwear and had paid detailed attention to her makeup. She told herself it was all because she was meeting the new team. Deep down she knew that it was for someone else – someone she would never see again.
It was a short walk to the National Criminal Intelligence Service offices just off the Embankment in Spring Gardens, near to Lambeth Bridge. The first leaves of autumn drifted along the footway. The pushing tongue of the Thames licked around the pillars of the bridges. Instead of focusing on the meeting, her mind turned to Freddie. Of course he would never phone her. She was just a woman he had met by chance in the street. His looks, easy confidence and obvious wealth would mean that there would always be admiring females on hand. How could she let herself dream that there had been a special spark between them? For one stolen hour she had come to life and now it was time to get back to business. She smiled at the way he had put on the heavy accent, took a deep breath and bit her lip as she recalled the maleness of his presence when he had kissed her cheek. She looked out at the sunlight catching the muscle of the river currents, thinking of his large powerful hands and the depth that hinted behind his brown eyes. Everything around had reminders of him. For a minute she stopped and took in the view. She let the picture of him fill her, feeling her body begin to respond. This was crazy! She had met this guy for about an hour and for sure he had some kind of dangerous agenda. He had swept her defenses aside and had simply invaded. The thought of him was like an urgent profound stroking within her body that wouldn’t stop.
She was first to arrive at the office, grabbed a coffee from the machine and took it directly to the conference room. She rarely bothered with breakfast beyond an espresso doppio. Next to arrive was a pretty bottle blonde woman of about her own age. For a couple of seconds they looked at each other in disbelief before letting out a shared squeal.
“Judy… Judy… I don’t believe it, I thought your were on maternity leave for another couple of months?”
They hugged and stood back. Anna’s thoughts raced back to Brixton Police Station where she and Judy had been the first all girl crew on the emergency response area car Lima 3.
Judy had… well… gone blonde and expanded a little since those days! Anyone taking her for a plump Earth Mother would be making a big mistake. She could drive like a demon and toss a violent man over her shoulder.
“Anna – Ma’am… err,” Judy stuttered.
How she hated to be called ‘Ma’am’! She had not designed the police rank structure and she had no time for self importance.
“Anna… plain old Anna or mate for God’s sake,” she beamed, “it will be great to be on the same team again – but I had no idea.”
She continued delightedly. Quickly she got an update on the baby, the three year old and her husband Brian who was a community cop.
“I spotted the assignment at the last minute and managed to rearrange childcare, so we could work together on this new squad. I only heard a couple of days ago that I’d got the job and thought I’d surprise you!”
Other members of the team drifted in. Some were shiny new detectives just out of the box. A couple were world weary old cops, glad to get out of the trenches for a while. The FBI had provided a bank of bright young analysts and a posse of special agents. Around the conference room conversations sprang up in French Italian and American. Anna joined in, well – she knew she was showing off, warming to her role as an Interpol liaison point between all the various groups. Finally the room fell silent. She looked up to see a familiar figure taking his place at the head of the table. Her heart sank and she found herself choking back rage. This had not been billed as part of the show! Her new boss was none other than her rejected ex lover, Commander Beaumont Locke.
Continued….
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