Power E-Book

Emma Calin

• Herausgeber: Gallo-Romano Media
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 333

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

TO HELP KEEP YOUR EREADER TOPPED UP, ALL TITLES IN THE SERIES ARE ON LOCKDOWN DURING CORONAVIRUS
 
A thug pulls a knife on a mean London street...
...Police constable Olivia Johnston-Denny steps up.
When irresistible American congressman Jackson T. Paine intervenes, her life is changed for ever. A spark of attraction starts an inferno of erotic heat.
Olivia is a fiery Scot. Jackson’s a cool Oklahoma boy. Feel the power of the chemical reaction.
Tipped as a future president, ruthless opponents plot his downfall, by smear or by death. Olivia and Jackson cannot risk involvement but forces of emotion and passion run out of control as they express their love in shadows.
When her lover breaks free to face down those who would destroy him, he stands alone for the final showdown.
He has one invincible weapon.
A woman in love.

Buy this book now to feel the victory of the human heart.
'Power' is another stand-alone steamy suspense romance in Emma Calin's 'Passion Patrol' series.  Read the books in any order.  No cliffhangers.  Hot cops, hot crime, and hot romance.

Leseprobe

PASSION PATROL SERIES POWER Hot Cops Hot Crime Hot Romance by Emma Calin

POWER

First published 2019

By Gallo-Romano Media

copyright © 2019 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 the author’s rights is appreciated.

All characters in this compilation are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Dedication

To the wonderful scientists at Facoltà di Agraria - Portici - Università di Napoli Federico II, Italia.

Table of Contents

Power – The Story

A Message From Emma

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About Emma Calin

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POWER

By Emma Calin

Chapter 1

It was a knife. Power had shifted and the guy facing her possessed it. Despite her uniform and the authority of the law, she was a static target of blood and tissue. Her eyes flicked between the blade and the face of what she’d thought was a homeless guy. Late thirties, dirty wild beard, eyes hard and merciless. A second before she’d been checking the street for security threats. She’d bent down to speak kindly to some ragged lost soul lying by the plastic sacks of trash. He’d turned like a cobra. She’d jumped back. She could hear the pumping of her blood. Her mouth was dry. He could lunge before she could draw her baton or deploy her CS gas spray. Defense of her body core would slice her hands and tendons. She needed time.

“Hey! How are you feeling fella?”

His face twisted. He let out a dark growl. Her hand inched toward the gas canister on her belt. She’d have to flip off the fastener, draw and aim. His eyes fixed on her hand.

“No trouble, my friend. Just wanted to see if you’re OK?” she said, calming her voice and breathing.

The guy looked down, still pointing the knife at her belly.

“It’s cool, no worries, OK? It’s all good.”

“Fuck you.”

He didn’t move, but was still dangerous. The weapon was a twelve-inch chef’s knife. More than likely he was mentally ill and wasn’t even in the same universe of perception. For the last ten seconds she’d been aware of nothing but the threat facing her. Now to her left and from behind, a guy strode in. His head was down, his right arm and shoulder pulled back, his hand a fist. Like an eagle striking its prey he swept the blade aside and drove a blow hard into the attacker’s gut. In an instant he crumpled to the ground. The stranger stamped on the hand still clasping the knife and kicked it away.

“Did he touch you, ma’am?” He spoke with a confident voice, like a movie star cowboy. “I’d tie him up, if I were you.”

Metropolitan Police Constable Olivia Johnston-Denny reached for her cuffs. All the same she was indignant that this man had intervened. She’d begun to feel in control. The suspect was groaning on the floor.

“He’s in pain,” she said.

“It’s just so great when a plan works out.”

Didn’t this guy care? Where was his social awareness?

“Look, thanks but he’s more to be pitied than blamed. He’ll have all kinds of issues with drugs, relationships, and mental illness.”

“Doesn’t alter the length of that blade, officer.”

She bent down, snapping the cuff onto a pale wrist. The backs of his hands were smeared with dirt. The prisoner flailed out with his free arm. Her savior grabbed it and bent it like a straw for her to apply the other ratchet.

“Guess that’s spoiled his day,” said the stranger with a laugh.

He really did sound like a cowboy. He also looked hot and arrogantly aware of his good looks.

“Sir, thanks. He could have hurt you I know, but….”

“Yeah, but he didn’t see me coming. He was looking at you. I mean any guy would.”

She glared into his smiling eyes. This man was pretty much full of himself, sexist and flippant.

“I’ll need a statement from you.”

“Sure. I can state right here and now that you’re from Scotland, right?”

He was getting right under her skin. Sure, she was from Scotland, but it was none of his business.

“Everyone is from somewhere, even this poor bloke.”

“Keep talking, I love that accent.”

This was ridiculous. She drew a deep breath, shot him a sharp look and took care of business. She pressed her shoulder mic’ button.

“Whisky Alpha three seven zero. Transport for prisoner. Nine Elms Lane. Over.”

A male London voice hissed back.

“This early in the morning? What ya caught, Ollie?”

“Jack the Ripper.”

“Christ! We’ve been waiting over a hundred years. OK. Van on way. Tea’s up in ten.”

She smiled. It was good to have a team around her, but she had to swallow the “Ollie.”

“I’ll wait while the cavalry comes over the hill,” drawled her companion. She didn’t mind having him there. She didn’t like his attitudes, but hell she could overlook his flaws for an hour or two. She knew it wouldn’t be professional to get into personal conversation. She was only just out of her probationary stage and her best friend was still the Met Police rule book.

“So, you think I’ve got an accent, Cowboy?”

“Sure, and how did you know my name was Cowboy?”

“Well, you’re not from Edinburgh and you’re sure not from London.”

“You—only you in this world is ever allowed to call me Cowboy, OK. That’s our little thing for the rest of our lives.”

“The rest of our lives together will be about five minutes.”

The stranger smiled a slow smile that spread like the rising sun on a cornfield horizon.

“You said you wanted a statement and I want to state everything I know to you just to hear your voice, wee Lassie.”

She couldn’t help it. She started to giggle, then laugh, pulling off her hat and letting her red hair flow free.

“Is that Lassie the Hollywood sheep dog?”

“It’s Lassie the warrior maiden of the glen.”

To be honest with herself she could just hug him. She’d been afraid and the sense of relief was surging through her body. His boyish confidence and man force just zinged to her inner woman. She was twenty-four. This man was early to mid-thirties. In the distance she heard the wail of a police vehicle siren. It was the dawn of a bright late January London day of bare trees and wind-whipped rags of scudding cloud. And Olivia Johnston-Denny, granddaughter of the Duke of Falkirk, was clinging on to everything she’d ever believed about men and about life. The prison truck pulled up, blue strobes creating the theatre of everyday tragedy. The cowboy stepped back while they loaded the prisoner. She realized she didn’t want to just slip away from this man without knowing more. She could walk away from any male, any heartless alpha mansplaining patriarch. Anyway, he’d be married with kids and a blonde wife who knitted stage costumes for their perfect children. She also ran the Ford Motor Company when she wasn’t giving TV interviews about her beauty and intelligence. You could hate a woman like that simply for submitting to testosterone dominance and the cliché of the nuclear family.

She mumbled the official statement of rights to the prisoner and jumped up into the vehicle. Cowboy was smiling.

“Better not forget the knife. Careful it’s sharp,” he said handing her the weapon, handle first, like a gentleman. “I’ll be at the embassy all morning. The name’s Jackson.”

“Like the seventh president. Anyway, which embassy?”

“Hey! That’s impressive for a Scottish lassie. The Cowboy Embassy—the big new place with the horse rail outside.”

She had to laugh. This guy really was a patronizing mansplainer. The new American Embassy was a couple of hundred yards away. She knew very well he was from there.

“If I need you, I’ll just ask for Mr. Jackson.”

“Jackson T. Paine if you want to be technical.”

“Congressman Jackson T. Paine, right?” she repeated. “You’re addressing parliament this afternoon.”

“Sure. Lucky you caught me on my coffee break.”

“I’ll call you. I guess the Cowboy Embassy has a phone line.”

“There’s wires along the railroad. You’ll get through if the sheriff’s shot all the bandits.”

An officer was pushing the doors closed. The cowboy waved and turned away. He was a chauvinist barn door hunk. His suit accentuated his body. He raked his hand back through his dark brown wavy thick hair. She hated him.

Chapter 2

Her prisoner squirmed and cursed on the floor. It was a five-minute ride to the Wandsworth Custody Centre. A heavily built old sweat cop was her escort. She knew him by sight, but he wasn’t the type who conversed with shiny college girls just out of the box.

“Sarge won’t want this heap of stinking shit all day,” he said wearily.

She knew he was right. She nodded.

“That guy back there was Jackson T. Paine. He’s the independent congressman who’s come to give a speech at Westminster.”

“Sounds like something to miss. They’re all the bloody same. Just out for themselves. Full of wind and piss.”

His reply was just so predictable.

“He might be a bit different.”

“They all start out like that. Then the bankers and the big business crooks start pulling their strings. They need a fortune to get elected.”

“Did you ever consider a career in the diplomatic service?”

“Nah, I’m not cynical enough.” The old cop was laughing. “You did good there. That’s a mean knife.”

The compliment warmed her.

“Thanks.”

He turned his eyes to her and looked her over.

“You’re that fast-track kid with the university degree in politics, right?”

“Didn’t know I was famous.”

“With that hair no one’s going to forget you.”

Why did these unreformed men think they could make personal remarks?

“I’m a token red one. They needed to make up the quota.”

He laughed again.

“You’re OK. You’re on my wavelength. I’m Mike.”

“Olivia.”

“They call you Ollie.”

“I call myself Olivia.”

“I’ll stick with the crowd, Ollie.”

“That’s cool, Micky.”

He laughed again. The van was pulling up.

“OK. Let’s shovel shit,” he said.

So often she had to bite her lip. These old soldier types were dying out, but they’d come from a different universe where criminals were disrespected and sometimes caught a slap. She knew this wasn’t the way. She was on the promotion fast-track and soon she’d have the authority to bring better ways to these old timers. They slid the prisoner out of the vehicle face down and stood him up.

“You fucks,” he groaned.

The rest was predictable. He refused to give his name. She searched him, took his prints and mug shot, then put him in a cell. The place stank of disinfectant, human sweat, and grinding dirtiness. The police surgeon declared the prisoner was mentally ill and called another doctor. He was transferred to a secure psychiatric unit. Olivia knew the rest of the story. He’d be put on medication, he’d improve, he’d be released, and the story would repeat. At least she wouldn’t need a statement from Cowboy. She had no legitimate reason to call him. Maybe it’d be polite to thank him. Maybe she liked that little twitch he’d given her, maybe later she’d privately think of him. It was nice to have a face, a voice, a focus.

She filed the case papers and got a coffee. She needed a ride back to Battersea, her own station.

“Olivia. We need a word together.”

The female voice snapped her out of her daydream. She looked over her cup to see Superintendent Shannon Aguerri standing in the doorway of the restroom.

“Sure, ma’am.”

She followed the older woman to her office. The superintendent had only just been posted to Wandsworth and few officers had actually met her. Shannon Aguerri was a legend, a beautiful mixed-race woman of about thirty-six, a true cop’s cop, married to some sort of aristocrat. She motioned for Olivia to sit, and spoke with a smile in her voice.

“When shit hits fans you just have to be standing in the right place,” she said.

“How’s my positioning?” asked Olivia.

“It’s OK. Nothing we can’t wipe off. Look. This won’t surprise you. An alleged cell phone video in very steady pro quality HD reached the CNN news room at 8 a.m. An anonymous passerby spotted the world’s most beautiful sexy politico fighting for truth and justice on the streets of London. By 8:15 a.m. it’s gone so viral that the World Health Organization is stockpiling YouTube vaccine.”

“Jackson T. Paine?”

“How did you guess? Olivia, just tell me that you’re not part of a set-up, you’re not his secret lover, the mother of his love child or a donor to the ‘Keep It Strong, Keep It Kind’ movement?”

“Not guilty, so far. Was I set up?”

“Fuck knows, honey. He has political enemies who are already screeching so. This stuff is playing so big that he could stand for pope and win. The bad news for you is that the world of politics and the media hellhounds want to check it all out—with you, my dear.”

“Um, this could be life-changing, yes?”

“Right.”

“So, I tell them the truth.”

“This is truth through the prism of politics and the rainbow sure ain’t going black and white any time soon. Our back-room staff and the intelligence services are looking at the images. There’s a faint inaudible soundtrack so perhaps we can lift the voice off the background and know everything you both said. Last check—promise me you are not involved in this?”

“No.”

“OK, I’ll update the Foreign Office and the prime minister. Jackson’s enemies will do anything to prove he’s a fake. One opposing news network has already interviewed some creep who swears you’re a porn actress called Ginger Bush dressed up in police kit.”

“I can prove that’s not true, ma’am. I keep things neat, if you follow me.”

Superintendent Aguerri let out a shriek of laughter.

“Too much information and for Christ’s sake keep that to yourself. Here’s the bottom line. Until this blows over, you’re out of sight. By tonight everyone over five years old will have seen the footage. Anyone who knows you will recognize you. We need you to be invisible. I believe it’s all genuine but one of his press aides had a decent camera and saw the PR possibilities. We can’t risk any sort of suspicion that the UK government would favor this guy. His enemies are saying that he wants to help the British get a free trade deal with the USA. It’s bad enough he was invited here to speak to parliament.”

“So where can I go? What do I have to do?”

“Well, you can’t go home to your apartment in Bloomsbury. Help me out here. You’re from Scotland, I think?”

“Yeah, don’t tell me I’ve got to be a maiden in a castle tower?”

“Maidens aren’t my style. Are you joking about castles? I did hear you have an old family home.”

“Blackness Castle on the Firth of Forth. They made the Ivanhoe TV shows there. It faces the sea. It’s pretty grim in winter.”

“Grim enough to deter the press. A lot of these guys don’t like to operate too far from Starbucks or a lounge lizard cocktail bar.”

Olivia was thinking. If only she’d been wearing a body camera everything would be clear. It was just an early morning street check around the American Embassy area. She’d graduated from university with a first-class degree. She’d been top student at Hendon Police College. She’d been accepted onto the fast-track career program. Being labelled as porn star Ginger Bush would stick for the rest of her life whatever she achieved. That Jackson T. Paine had de-railed her, but it didn’t have to be a wreck. Bloody Jackson T. Paine….

“Is he married, ma’am?”

“Paine? No. I’ll be honest with you. I’ve met him socially in the USA and I like him. Politics has turned toxic and divided everywhere. This guy could pull off a new deal with his ideas and you know—reaching the female response.”

Olivia understood her. She repeated her question.

“Not married then?”

“No. Long-term girlfriend is a journalist war reporter. They split cos her editor wanted her to be politically neutral. She chose her career.”

“Kids?”

“No.”

“Girls? Lovers? Scandals?”

“Only Ginger Bush so far.”

“That guy was dangerous. It feels like Jackson’s a brave man. He didn’t move like a trained fighter. He rushed in like a regular Joe, kind of angry that…. You know.”

“Like kind of wanting to protect a woman who’s facing a piece of shit with a knife. I’d buy into that,” said Superintendent Aguerri with a raised eyebrow and half grin.

“Yeah, all that sick chauvinist male patriarch chest-beating stuff.”

“Gets in my panties every time, sugar. I’m thinking he hit your spot, but you don’t want to say it? That’s why he could be president in 2024. That’s why his followers love country music. That’s why keeping it strong, keeping it kind is a powerful message, like the man you dream of protecting and loving you. He’s not a career politico and you might have spotted he’s a sexy hunk.”

Olivia drew in a deep breath. This woman was in the stratosphere of police importance. She had influence and connections. Could she be a proper feminist or even a woman and feel this way? All the same she could be a tremendous ally in her own career climb. She bit her tongue.

“I could never fall for that hero stuff. I didn’t need him to barge in.”

“No man is an island, Olivia. Needing the other person is what makes us a person.”

“Male hero mythologies patronize and neutralize the female integrity and dignity.”

Her boss sat back in her chair and spoke with a seriousness that surprised Olivia.

“I’m guessing that’s from some university book. First or second day at police school they tell you never to treat anyone as a stereotype, right?”

“Yes,” she answered slowly, sensing a trap.

“So, don’t stereotype yourself. You aren’t a text book or a synthetic attitude. Around me, feel free to like men if they’re good. Feel free to love a man, if you do. I don’t take any shit from anyone male or female. You’ll be a better cop by having an open mind.”

Olivia nodded. She guessed she’d been mildly admonished. For certain she didn’t want to argue with her superior. All the same, this woman was from the bloody stone age. Maybe, despite her rank and reputation, she’d never been to university? Her mind flicked to Jackson T. Paine and the tiny tingle she’d felt around him. How could Superintendent Shannon Aguerri know him socially?

“Ma’am, thanks for your frankness. It must have been cool to meet him.”

“Yeah, my husband has a lot of business in the States. Politics needs a lot of cash and Jackson’s team was running a fundraising rally. He hasn’t got the big biz backing. Basically, he’s a farmer.”

“A real cowboy on a horse?”

“Well, that’s the image. Now, let’s hope some other big news story knocks this one off the top. Your knife man has gone off to a secure mental hospital, so you don’t need to contact Mr. Paine. So, don’t, OK.”

Her tone was firm. Although she had no interest in him, Olivia swallowed her disappointment. After all, if people were talking of him as president in 2024, he’d be quite a guy to know. The last thing she wanted was to let her boss know she cared.

“I don’t think I could bear all that big handsome strong and kind man stuff. I mean, that’s so obviously just PR for the naive masses. Educated people know masculinity is so, so toxic. I can’t believe sophisticated folk would buy into that stuff.”

Shannon Aguerri smiled.

“Not everyone is as sophisticated as you, Olivia. Those naive masses are the people we serve so it’s suited me well enough to stay on the same wavelength. I hope you don’t mind me saying you could lead quite a lonely life.”

Olivia avoided eye contact. This interview hadn’t gone well.

“So, what happens to me now?”

“Olivia, look you’re a good cop—a brave cop—and I’m proud to have you on the team. Jackson doesn’t want any chance of a smear and there’s plenty of enemies out there with buckets of shit. We’ll get you back to your place in Bloomsbury so you can pack a bag. We can hide you or you can slip away to your castle. While there’s any chance of some story about porn star Ginger Bush with the congressman there’ll be big budget hounds out there hunting you down.”

“So, this is what fake news looks like from the inside.”

“Honey, it’s all just news. This is our world. Just maybe there’s a guy out there to bring us all back to sense and maybe decency.”

Olivia smiled faintly. Surely her boss wasn’t some dumb fan of a guy like this? Sure, he was handsome and had some sentimental old days charm, but a modern woman wouldn’t allow herself to be seduced by that.

“I’ll call my folks; I’d rather go there.”

“Great. I know Jackson will be grateful. We live in a world now where no one, man or woman, with any sort of past can ever escape. There’s always going to be an ex or a jealous would-be out there to dish some dirt from school days or even childhood.”

“So how can these folks live a proper life?”

“They can’t.” Her boss smiled, stood up, and walked to the door. As Olivia reached her she was surprised to receive a warm hug. “Thanks for taking this on the chin. Being a cop isn’t a normal life. If you don’t mind me saying, you’ve got a very special look with those big brown eyes and hot red hair. You made a big impression on the future president.”

Olivia was speechless. Could she compliment her boss on her flawless coffee skin and blue eyes? She thought not.

“Thanks … thanks,” she mumbled.

She felt completely out of her depth. It was weird that a homeless guy had sprung up so fast, like he was muscular and fit. What did it matter? A crazy guy with a knife was the easy part of being a cop.

Chapter 3

She slumped into the front seat of the black Jaguar XF waiting in the police station yard. Several thoughts were colliding in her mind. Had the whole deal been a set-up to gain kudos for Mr. Cowboy? How had Superintendent Aguerri known that he’d liked her hair or look or whatever? She’d said she’d met him socially. Was this kind of stuff normal? There was a lot to research, maybe starting with the political movement Kick ’n’ Kiss —keep it strong, keep it kind. She glanced across at her driver. Another bloody female! Secretly she wanted the company of a male, just to see how she felt in light of what Shannon Aguerri had said. Maybe she could relax her attitudes a little; with the right kind of man of course. Her blonde companion was wearing a pinstriped pants suit that looked expensive, possibly Italian. Her hair was spiky and short, almost aggressive.

“Olivia, hi. I’m Kaitlyn. I’m going to ask you to move to the back seat. The rear windows are darkened one-way glass. The idea is to keep you out of sight, and we don’t want any photos.”

“Bloody hell. Does anyone care who or what I am?”

“Yup, they sure do. It’s not about you. It’s about a cowboy who could break the mold of politics. There’s plenty of ruthless folk who want him destroyed.”

“And plenty of stupid swooning women who want him, well, want him in some way.”

“Like in bed,” laughed her driver watching Olivia in the mirror as she put on her seat belt.

Olivia sighed. What was this? Another female, the same trouble in her panties around this man.

“Would you want that?”

“Sure, if I wasn’t fixed up. How about you? Even if you’ve got a boyfriend I won’t tell.”

Olivia did not have a boyfriend. So far no one had penetrated her outer perimeter fence. Sure, she’d had a go at sex but only in order to fulfill the expectations of society. She rested her head back as the car moved away. She could be the queen or a government minister behind the dark glass. No one could know what she was thinking. Yes, she would like Jackson T. Paine in bed. Yes, he’d liked her look and the news had thrilled her. Yes, she felt a little bit sexy, that ridiculous little flutter of need in her belly, that little tension with a face to focus on, that could build her up, urge her to release while they kissed….

“Well, don’t tell me you wouldn’t.”

Olivia jolted out of her thoughts. The driver had asked her a question.

“Yeah, I would. I would.”

There, she’d done it. Admitted it. She found herself smiling.

“Are you a cop or a government chauffeur?”

“I used to be a cop but these days I kind of freelance. I keep busy. Today I’m a getaway driver. First, we head for Battersea Police Station and then on to 42 Cartwright Gardens WC1. That’s a pretty swanky address for a foot soldier.”

“It’s only a studio flat. Just room for me and Spike.”

“Will your boyfriend cope with you going away?”

“Should do. Spike’s a cactus, but he’s got more conversation than a lot of men.”

Kaitlyn stiffened at the wheel, adjusting her ear piece.

“Shit. Hold on,” she snapped.

“What’s up?”

“Someone’s taken a pot shot at your cowboy. Sounds like a secret service agent returned fire. This is fucking crazy. This was bound to happen.”

Olivia was lost. This whole show was unreal. Her driver seemed far more involved than just a regular worker.

“What the fuck? What was bound to happen?”

“For two weeks they’ve been promoting this bloody speech. This messiah of new political hope was going to be at parliament at a certain time. Any idiot would know where to be and when, if you wanted to take him out. The FBI knew it. Shannon Aguerri knew it.”

“Is Jackson OK?”

“Sounds that way. Met police have liquidated the shooter. Luckily it should end up as a news management problem. There were teams deployed and ready.”

Olivia needed to sit down quietly with a notepad and think things through. She was bright enough to realize there was far more to this than she knew. Why was this man so important for Christ’s sake?

“Do you know Superintendent Aguerri?”

“Shannon, sure. We’ve worked together before.”

“Look, I’m a basement cop. I’ve done two years and a lot of very routine duty. Excuse me if I seem stupid but what the hell is it with this man?”

“Olivia, this innocent big dope of a man who thinks everything is simple has vowed to smash organized crime, turn politics kind and honest by being strong and certain about what is good. Oh, and then in the afternoon he’s going to re-make the financial system of the world to spread the wealth so folks don’t fight over it. Normally no one would give a shit. He’d be some student idealist or religious nut. This man has looks, courage, and charisma. He’s also honest and clever. The bad half of the world wants to take him out before he gets to be president.”

“He’s just a man....”

“Yeah, like the song from J.C. Superstar. The history of the planet is about powerful individuals. Individuals. Everyone from Cleopatra to Winston Churchill has written their names on the same list. No committee ever ruled the world.”

Olivia took a deep breath and sighed. In a couple of hours everything had changed in her life. At university she’d been a top student. She’d taken on all the modern ideas. She’d felt a certain sense of importance. In the police she’d jumped the hoops and followed the rules. She’d learned a lot about life but had tried to ignore many clashes between her education and the realities of existence. Suddenly she’d run into a man who’d bulldozed all her attitudes, and two women who were just on a different level. They operated with a suave sense of power and confidence and for sure they knew far more about most things than she did.

It was a short stop at Battersea Police Station. Sniper units and dog teams swarmed all around the American Embassy. She ditched her uniform and threw on her jeans and leather biker-style jacket. She picked up on the story so far. Jackson had exited the embassy in an armored Cadillac. A gunman in the back of a stolen London taxi had fired several rounds from a heavy caliber machine gun bolted to the floor. A secret service agent had exited an escort vehicle to return fire into the side window of the black cab. His courage had saved Jackson’s life. The shooters made off but ran into an armed Scotland Yard unit which had neutralized them. The armor on the Cadillac had done its job even though it had been shot to pieces. Jeez! Someone really did not want Jackson T. Paine in politics.

The Jaguar XF cruised away into the swirl of London traffic. She was headed for her studio flat and then she was travelling back to Scotland—even though she hadn’t even called her folks. She pulled out her cell and made the call.

“Mum, it’s me.”

The Scottishness of her mother’s accent and style jolted a smile in her soul.

“Ay, is that my bairn? The wee porn starlet Ginger Bush?”

“Ay, that it is. Obviously you’ve watched the news.”

“Not exactly, lassie. I’ve two police officers from Glasgae taking a wee dram in the kitchen wi’ your father. They tell me you’re paying us a visit.”

“Mother, I was hoping—”

“Och! Get yourself up here child. I’ve told your bosses I’ll be keeping you for a Burn’s Night haggis, or it’s no deal.”

“What did they say?”

“They said to save some haggis for them and enjoy the break. We love and miss you, Olivia. We never wanted to lose you to London….”

Her mother’s voice trailed off in emotion. Her family had accepted her separation from them for her education, but had always craved her return. She knew the nights her mother woke in fear imagining the dangers of a London patrol cop miles and miles away. Yet this was her own life, the hard streets of crime and the opportunity of a career, maybe to the top. Often her mother had sent her text messages and she’d forgotten to reply in all the bustle of her big city life. Now she felt alone, vulnerable and out of her depth. Many of her educated beliefs had lost their certainty. She wanted to reset her factory settings, restore her default positions. In shameful unsophisticated uneducated human terms, she wanted to go home. She wanted to go home.

“Love you, Mum.”

She clicked off, seeing her mother’s face in her mind. She was still beautiful. In fact, her beauty had deepened over her fifty years. She’d qualified as a lawyer, but had spent much of her life bringing up three children and following her father’s career as a globetrotting professor of economics.

“Home sweet home,” said her enigmatic driver as the Jaguar pulled up in the elegant terraced street. “I’ve got a short meeting at Scotland Yard. Fix what you’ve got to fix. You’ve got at least an hour, but not two. Do not place any call or answer your phone to anyone. I’m trusting you. Capisce?”

Olivia nodded. This Kaitlyn was some odd species of driver. She was obviously used to giving orders. What kind of meeting could a low-level chauffeur have at Scotland Yard?

“Sure. How am I getting to Falkirk?”

“I’ll tell you that when I come back. Now go.”

Kaitlyn’s do as you’re told tone was final. Some fucking women were so bossy. This wasn’t the time or place to bite back.

Olivia stepped out into the early dusk of a January London afternoon. A world of cultures and dress paraded on the pavement, wheeling suitcases to and fro the luxury four-star Judd Hotel a few yards from her modest apartment. Even through her fatigue and confusion, she took in this ad hoc carnival. So, this would be the world that a man like Jackson T. Paine would try to unite with strength and kindness. That would be quite a job. That would take quite a man. Bloody man. Didn’t a man like that realize the complexity of things? Didn’t he understand the fluidity of identity and gender where modern people lived? Good and bad were relative and uncertain and the greatest evil was to be judgmental. How the hell could life be just about a stupid woman wanting some man with a hard cock—a cock hard for her? Some stupid jerk with a hero complex, with some pathetic caveman need to project his ego by protecting a woman? Thank heaven she was above all that shit.

Her studio was small. An adequate bathroom to the right and a double bed straight ahead. A small cooker, a fridge, a toaster, a wardrobe and just about room to take four steps. Even so in twenty-first century London, this was unaffordable luxury for most citizens. Her family had helped her and for that she was grateful. She had a last look from the window. The open area of the crescent was laid out as hard tennis courts where residents could play. She pulled the curtains and stripped off. Bloody hell she was damp and betrayed by her body. Her thoughts of that man, the knowledge that he’d liked her, had seeped into her, thrilled some primitive nerve in her gut. Weakly she’d let herself think of him—OK, think of her own need for something male around her. Some other sea to swim in outside of her solo identity. Some warm sea where she was desired. Where she excited a man, where a man would crave her juice and his cock would swell with longing for her. She snapped her mind back to the present. She had to pack a bag, clean up, and be ready when Kaitlyn returned. A half-drunk bottle of red wine was on the worktop. It would be a shame to waste it. She poured a glass and sat down. The alcohol hit her empty stomach. She liked the feeling, that feeling of separation from constraint. What was it the Latins said? In vino veritas—in wine the truth. She shouldn’t drink. She liked it too much. After a drink she was someone else. She’d kept her panties on. It wouldn’t matter if her hand rested on the fabric. She took another drink, got up, drained the bottle, sat back down. Her hand pressed a little. Yes, she kept things neat, extravagantly waxed. OK she liked the feeling of her flesh against the silk. It was a harmless secret pleasure. She finished the wine. She jolted as her hand slipped inside her panties. They’d explained at university that masturbation was a feminist act. It was her power to deny the male, to be her own power of self-love. God, she was wet. She soothed her swollen inner lips, pressed against her clitoris. That need, that need not to stop. So wet, so wet. That bloody man had made her wet. That man, that man. She spread her legs and eased a finger into her inner heat. That cock, that fantasy of his hard cock spurting out his juice, that deep-voiced groan, the pulsing gushes of seed. She needed to release. Her fingers were inside, pushing forward. Her other hand circled her clitoris. This wasn’t her, the wine was her. She needed, she needed….

Her orgasm grunted out of her throat. The cock was hard in her pussy, pulsing out its ecstasy in rhythm with her spasms. She sighed, feeling the tremors still rippling in her belly, still tingling in her thighs. Her hand still soothed the silkiness of her own flesh. This was self-love, self-awareness of her female form. She withdrew her hand from inside and brought it to her nipple. The truth of life, its nurture and continuance was the female. This self-love was independence, self-pride, self-admiration, self-acceptance. There was still a tension in her groin, her woman shaft still hard and twitching at her touch. No bloody man this time—except his eyes, a kiss, his tongue, his mouth at her breast, his tongue in her hot groove. God, she was coming, trembling out shudders of physical abandon. She’d never come like this. She’d never come at all with a male. Waves of physical joy shivered through her. She was biting her lip, feeling so free, so naughty, so greedy. All men brought themselves off. For sure Jackson would be no different. He’d touch himself. Did men have to think about a special woman? A hot cock needing to come, shoot out his cum, straining, his hand moving faster. She could hear the sound of her own wetness. His cock was wet with juice, his cum was nearly there. His face was focused as he held on for the moment. His groan was an animal passion of pouring release. Her hand responded to her vision. That hard button, her stiff little shaft about to burst like an opening bud, bursting, bursting. She held her pelvic tension tight, holding on, holding on. Oh God, oh god, now. The joy of release swept through her like an avalanche. She let out some primal sound, but she didn’t care, keeping her hand firm as she almost sobbed out her jerks of lust. This was new territory. Three times. Bloody man.

She took a deep breath, showered and packed her case. She lingered at her underwear drawer. Should she take Ronaldo, her intimate silicone comforter? She’d never have bought him herself. She’d attended the lectures on feminism and sex toy politics. One professor had rejected them as corporate business products promoting patriarchal dominance. Another had seen the dildo as a means of seizing feminist control, a personal political act neutralizing and castrating the strutting penis possessor, the male. She’d discussed the conflict with her friend Rena who’d laughed and done no more than order a life-like vibrator on the internet then and there. A couple of days later she’d handed her the package with a wink and the words.

“When a cow’s got an itch, it finds some way to scratch.” Rena studied biology and had a matter of fact approach to life. She didn’t identify as a woman. She was a woman and received the attention of males to confirm it. She packed him just in case and closed the lid. To travel she chose jeans, trainers, and a warm fake fur-trimmed ski jacket. She liked her casual look and she felt good. There was a new sense of joy in her bones and in her belly.