Unbound, p.1
Unbound, page 1
A Dedication, of Sorts…
This book is dedicated to each and every one of you who kept believing in me when I did not. You know who you are. To those who messaged me with words of encouragement and love and kept me writing, even when it was a handful of words a day - especially Marely, Katrina, Rachel and Nora, who were with me from the start, Cathy and Marisa my amazing witches, and Shannon Steed, who - I hope - is smiling down at me because I finally got this one done.
To the amazing bloggers who support independent authors and do so much to promote a vibrant and thriving industry; special thanks to Jenny and Gitte, the fabulous women at Totally Booked, who sent The Tied Man into the stratosphere and became friends as well as kick-ass bloggers.
To Arijana Karčić for my gorgeous first cover and to Jenn McGuire for my stunning Unbound cover.
To Lewis for his generosity and knowledge of psychiatric nursing, and just for being a lovely fella.
To my lovely Dad and Wickid Stepmum for reading my work and not disowning me afterwards.
And finally, to my absolute rocks: my husband James, proofreader extraordinaire and gentlest of men, and Ella-Joy, my stunning, feisty daughter who will always be my Lieutenant of Mayhem. Thank you for the time and trust and space you have given me, and the support, the love, and the undying faith.
I am a fortunate woman.
Chapter One
Finn
On a sullen, bitter day in March, Lady Blaine Albermarle stood in the dock at Newcastle Crown Court to be told, through painful experience, what I already knew: that she was guilty of all charges against her. I stood at the back of the public gallery just long enough to hear the judge inform her that she was being sentenced to 18 years in HMP Low Newton at His Majesty’s Pleasure, then I quietly made my escape from the chamber before the uproar began.
Lilith
“Good result, doll.” Jay, my bodyguard, said. “The boss’ll be over the moon when I ring ‘im.” Both he and his twin brother Al were on loan from my friend Gabriel James, currently on a sell-out tour of America – or ‘Singin’ and Shaggin’ Duty’, as he had so typically put it. It appeared that his highly-publicised persona as my Knight in Shining Armour had done wonders for both his ticket sales and groupie collection.
“In the absence of the death penalty, it’ll do, I suppose.”
Jay held out my scarlet wool coat for me and I slipped my arms into the sleeves. “The paps ain’t goin’ to miss you, wearing this.”
“Well that’s the general idea.” I cinched the belt tightly around my waist. “Right. Let’s do this, shall we?”
With Jay’s comforting bulk at my side, I stepped out of the imperious calm of the courthouse and into a world of pandemonium. The imposing redbrick building stood on the banks of the River Tyne, and a knife-sharp wind blew across the water, driving a flurry of biting sleet into my face.
My lawyer had already released a statement that explained in no uncertain terms that I would not be making any comment regarding the verdict, so naturally the moment I appeared on the steps outside the courthouse, our path was blocked by a mob of reporters. Cameras flashed, and ranks of microphones were thrust at me. A hundred variations on Are you happy with… and How do you feel about… were yelled at me as though I might stop to give a civil reply as long as the question was hollered loud enough.
We were jostled and shoved from all sides, and the myth of professional conduct was entirely forgotten. I was by far the smallest person in the scrum and I had to fight against my asthmatic’s instinctive panic at the sudden enclosure. I told myself that I was so nearly there; a mere fifty yards away a black Mercedes parked by the quayside with its engine idling, ready to drive me away from this insanity, and all I had to do was reach it unscathed.
“So where’s your Finn got to?” a mocking voice called out. My Finn. I wanted to slap whoever had dared utter the name in such a familiar way. As if they knew him. As if I might ever reply. Jay clearly sensed my agitation and used brute force to begin to move us forward through the throng, creating a protective cage with his massive arms so I was as sheltered as I could possibly be.
“Probably down the docks, earning his fare home,” a photographer saidas he shoved his camera in my face. Without stopping to think I hooked my left foot around his ankle, and as the crowd surged again he tumbled to the pavement. His camera hit the ground at the same time, and several thousand pounds’ worth of Nikon’s finest technology shattered into fragments across the wet stone. “You fucking bitch!” the man howled. ‘I’ll sue your fucking arse off!’
I said nothing as Jay grabbed the flailing paparazzo by the elbow and hauled him to his feet. “You pushed her, mate,” he stated “I saw you. And that’s assault. Then you tripped, you clumsy twat. Now pick up that mess you’ve just made and piss off.’
A veritable orgy of reporters and photographers clamoured to get a shot of their fallen comrade, and Jay used the distraction to guide me safely through the throng. He opened the passenger door of the Merc for me, and as the catcalls and yells and camera flashes faded from the most determined of the scavengers sprinting alongside the car, I was finally chauffeured away from the mayhem. I took two welcome gulps of my inhaler then shut my eyes and leaned back against the cool black leather seat. There was only one person I wanted to be with now.
*****
Within fifteen minutes we were out of the city. Another ten and we had pulled up outside a neat, whitewashed country pub, surrounded only by trees, fields, and a few dozen disinterested sheep.
The clusters of daffodils that bordered the car park were still in tight bud, waiting for a little more warmth before they bloomed. In the sheltered haven of my garden in Spain the jasmine would already be blossoming, and not for the first time that day I ached to be back there.
My plan when I’d left hospital had been to take Finn and hide away in the calm and warmth of Santa Marita until all was well again, but that had come to nothing; instead we’d had mere days in my home town before returning to England for weeks of giving evidence, answering questions that had tried to dissect our very souls, and trying to stand fast in the face of it all.
A handwritten sign pinned to the door announced, ‘Closed today due to family emergency. Apologies to my regulars. Nev.’ Jay rapped his knuckles five times against the solid wood.
“Who is it?” a man with a strong Geordie accent called from within.
Jay smiled at me. “Special delivery for Mr Strachan.” There was the firm thud of a heavy bolt being pushed back, and the door opened.
It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the relative darkness of the room, and my first thought was that my plan had failed and he hadn’t got here, that he’d been caught in the same mêlée that I’d just faced.
Then, “Hey, you.” A soft Dublin brogue called to me from a shadowed corner, and my fears vanished as a ridiculously beautiful, long-limbed young man stepped forward to meet me. He had shared my life for nearly a year now, and he could still leave me without words when I so much as glanced at him. Jay left my side as surreptitiously as a mountain in human form could manage to join his brother at the bar, and I was finally alone with Finn Strachan.
“Hey, you,” I responded, and slid my arms around his slim waist so that my head could rest against his chest. “You got here.”
“It appears I did, yeah. Al had me spirited away before the wolfpack picked up my scent, and then I’m guessing your grand exit did the trick and stopped them playing ‘Chase the Pikey’ – we’ve been here the best part of twenty minutes, so you’re already two rounds behind. You’re not the last, mind – we’re still waiting on Ed to join the party.”
“I’ll catch up,” I said, and then, as Finn’s touch began to return the warmth to my chilled bones, I let out the breath it seemed I’d been holding all day. “Oh God Finn, we did it.”
He planted a gentle kiss in my hair. “You did it.”
“We can argue about that later. Again. Right now, just keep hugging me please, because I’m still frozen. Bloody English weather. Actually, just ‘bloody England’, full stop.”
“You’re so damn cute when you’re all posh and pissed off.” Finn gave me a grin that was still slightly lopsided due to the newest of his countless scars – a three-inch welt that ran down his left cheek courtesy of a near-fatal showdown with Coyle O’Halloran, Blaine’s pet thug. For a blissful moment we could pretend that we were just another courting couple meeting up for a date, flirting and joking and entirely without care.
“What’ll it be, hon?” Nev, the landlord, asked, and I finally let go of Finn so I could unbutton my coat and hang it on a stand by the door. ‘Brandy, please. A treble, preferably.” I had naively imagined this might be a day for celebration but instead I found myself craving anaesthetic.
“No problem.” To my relief he reached past the cheap bottom-shelf bilge and pulled down a bottle of Rémy Martin and poured two inches into a glass without using a measure. “There you go – on the house, hinny. Another Jameson, lad?”
“Please.” Finn picked up an empty glass from the nearest table and took it over to the bar, where Nev gave him a similar measure to mine.
“Hey, doll,” Jay called, from where he and Al had been watching the television at the other end of the bar, “You’re on the telly!”
Finn and I joined the twins for the breaking news that ‘Bloody Lady B’ – just one of her tabloid nicknames – had been found guilty. The footage showed me leaving the courthouse with Jay as my battering ram. As we watched, one unfortunate photographer appeared to tri
Finn laughed. “Jesus, that was you, wasn’t it, you ninja?”
I took a demure sip of brandy. “I couldn’t possibly comment.”
“What the fuck did he say to you?”
“I can’t remember,” I lied. “It was all a little ‘heat of the moment’.”
“Anyway, reckon we’ve just seen the best bit,” Jay said, and changed the channel to some anodyne daytime chat show. “Oh, and before I forget – your costume change.” He pointed to two black holdalls on the banquette seat behind him.
Throughout the trials of both Blaine and Coyle, I had dressed as Lilith Bresson, Controversial British Artist; vintage Yves Saint Laurent, Dior and Chanel, bright red lipstick and sleek, freshly-bobbed black hair. Finn, who knew all too well how to wear a disguise, had alternated between Hermés and Versace suits, and had been completely bewildered to receive countless offers of Sunday supplement fashion shoots from the moment the first images of the ‘Prisoner of Albermarle’ attending court had been released. Hilary Silverman, my agent, had spent weeks declining every single invitation on his behalf, and being far too polite in advising against any further intrusion.
It meant that the internet sites and gutter press columns that critiqued every detail of our appearance could only ever judge two carefully designed constructs, and each evening we could shed these costumes as if they were diseased skins and become real again. It had been a largely successful strategy except for one horrendous day when Blaine’s defending counsel had been intent on laying bare every vile detail of Finn’s ordeal and accusing him of being a willing participant.
That night, he had got blind drunk, taken his suit out onto our hotel balcony, doused it in lighter fuel, and ceremonially torched it.
“Cheers for this,” Finn said, and turned to me. “Will you be okay if I disappear for a couple of minutes?”
“Sure I will,” I reassured him. He finished his whiskey, picked up the bag and left to get changed. If a stranger had been there to watch him walk across the room they might have guessed that he’d stepped straight off a Milan catwalk, but he still limped from an unhealed knee injury, his perfectly-cut suit hid a frame that was a full stone lighter than it had been at the start of the trial – weight he could ill-afford to lose – and the royal purple silk tie had already been loosened so that it no longer placed any pressure on his throat.
I had to acknowledge the bitter truth: Finn Strachan was currently held together by nothing more than temazepam, nicotine and sheer bloody-mindedness.
Finn
Whatever that unfortunate photographer had said, it had been about me. Lilith could no more forget a detail like that than she could fly. Some lowlife had made an ill-advised wisecrack, and Lilith Bresson had dispensed swift retribution.
I knew how much Lilith detested the paparazzi who’d circled the courthouse like starving jackals since the first day of Blaine’s trial, and I felt as guilty as all fuck for letting her draw fire long enough to give me the opportunity to run. I’d tried to talk her out of it – like that had ever worked for me – but we both knew that I was still in no state to face that kind of ruckus, and that gave me the opportunity to hate myself just that little bit more.
I pulled a chair into the toilets and jammed it under the handle, then stepped into the nearest cubicle. I stood in silence until I was satisfied I was alone and shrugged my jacket off my shoulders. I knew my actions were not those of a rational adult, but that knowledge didn’t help me any. There were currently four other people in the whole place. Jay and Al had guarded us through the whole fuckfest of a trial, and as for Lilith, she had held my entire soul in her hands for the last ten months without dropping it once. That left the landlord, and that’s when my mind began to unravel with the complexity of it all.
Apparently Nev was a friend and former colleague of Ed, the police officer who had saved my sorry-assed life not once but twice, and whose judgement could therefore be trusted, and so far he’d supplied me with a pint of Stella Artois and nearly a quarter of a bottle of very decent Irish whiskey, but I’d only just met him and I’d known men with the same genial exterior who’d left me bleeding from more than one orifice on a bedroom floor just for the sport.
So many variables, and I was too exhausted to work them all through. Easier by far to step into a cubicle and slide the lock across before I did as much as unfasten a single button.
*****
I swapped my suit for jeans, white t-shirt and a red and black plaid flannel shirt, slid my feet into a pair of battered Converse boots, then removed the makeshift barricade so that I could get back to Lilith’s side. I’d managed the entire transformation without looking in the mirror once.
Lilith was already back at the bar, dressed in her travelling outfit of trainers, a threadbare grey jersey sweatshirt, and a pair of black yoga pants that made her backside look pretty damn amazing. She was hugging a portly, middle-aged man, the last member of our little party to arrive. As I approached, Ed Newton gave me a broad, genuine smile, put his pint down and held out his hand for me to shake.
At least I was spared my usual pathetic, private trauma of touch, or don’t touch? Ed was one of perhaps half a dozen people on the planet who understood that particular game, and despite his recent retirement from the police force he had attended the trial each day, just to support me and Lilith. I let myself return the handshake.
Ed released his grip after no more than a second, with a contained, “Well done, lad.”
I frowned. “What the hell for?”
“You got her.”
“Nah, not me. It’s Lili’s victory if it’s anyone’s.”
Ed pulled a stool from under the bar table and sat down. “Finn, that bloody woman’s counsel put you through a living hell for the best part of a week and you played a blinder, every single day of it. You deserve a medal, lad.” He shook his head in disgust. “If she’d have just gone ‘Guilty’ from the off…”
I didn’t want to think about it anymore. “It’s done now,” I shrugged.
“Aye, reckon it is. And more than time for the pair of you to get your life back, I think.”
I decided not to share that I’d settle for not waking up and puking with sheer dread every single morning. I picked up my whiskey. “To gettin’ our lives back. Sláinte,” I said, and Ed, Lili and I touched glasses.
“So when are you folks heading home?” Ed asked.
“Eight o’clock tonight,” Lilith said. “Gabriel’s lending us his new toy, so we get to travel by Lear jet from Newcastle straight to Alicante. No crowds, no hassle – just a three-hour hop in the privacy of our own cabin.”
“Alright for some,” Ed smiled.
“Yeah, he's a flash little git, but he’s a generous flash little git, I’ll say that for him,” I said. In truth, I was inordinately grateful to Gabe, seeing as I’d recently discovered that flying was yet another activity to add to the list of ‘Things That Scare Finn Strachan Shitless’. If it got any longer, it was going to be easier for it to read ‘Just Fucking Everything’ and be done with it. I surreptitiously patted the top pocket of my shirt and heard the reassuring crackle of a plastic strip, all ready for the trip back to Spain. For a moment I was tempted to palm a few of the tiny white capsules straight away, just out of habit. Instead, I steered my craving towards the packet of cigarettes that sat next to my glass.
Lilith
I watched Finn as he talked to Ed; saw his delicate fingers run through his dark blond hair then move to his pocket to check that his lifeline was still there, then return to the tabletop where they began to drum out his subconscious desperation. Saw the tiny muscles around his mouth begin to tighten. Once he’d begun to gnaw at the inside of his cheek, I’d had enough. “Finn, just go for a bloody cigarette.”
“Nah, I’ll wait...”
“I’ll be alright, I promise. Ed’s here, and he’s got Jay and Al as backup in case things get heavy.”
