Kissing Games

Charlie scanned the area. They were almost home free. This was what he’d trained for: protect lives, save lives, take lives. He was on high alert, muscles primed.

He pushed through the crowds, his body shielding hers. Through the glass front doors, the car waited, engine running.

Nearly there.

He shouldered the door open and hurried her outside.

She stopped, holding the package out for him. He ignored her, pulling the back door of the car wide. ‘Get in, ma’am.’

‘Take it.’

‘No, ma’am,’ he said, eyes fixed on the street, the people, the danger. His asset was another’s target. ‘Get in the car, ma’am.’

The woman pursed her lips. ‘Do your job,’ she hissed.

The pressure was rising. The longer they were out here, the greater the risk. ‘I am doing my job. Now get in the fucking car. Ma’am.’

She dropped the package at his feet, got in and slammed the door. He heard her shouting at the driver, then the car screeched away. He was stranded.

He bent and picked up what she’d dropped.

‘Hey, sexy!’ A group of teenage girls giggled at him. One took out her phone. He moved and they ran off through the crowds. A passing van driver wolf-whistled. He looked at what he was holding: an oversized, pink, fluffy, heart-shaped pillow, the words ‘Hey, Sexy’ emblazoned on it—a present from Olga Petrova for her oligarch husband, Igor.

Charlie sighed and strode away from the front door of Harrods. It was a fifteen-minute walk to their Belgravia mansion. Fifteen minutes to prepare himself.

Once again, he was in the shit.

Igor Petrov sat behind his desk, elbows resting on the expanse of white Carrara marble, pudgy fingers playing idly with a razor-sharp letter opener.

He stared Charlie down.

Charlie stared back.

Igor looked like a secret military experiment: part bull, part bear, and all berserker. The sleeves of his tailor-made silk shirt were rolled up, revealing thick forearms covered with coarse black hair. A Rolex glinted on his wrist. The folds of his giant neck mirrored the grooves in his forehead. His eyes were cold points of darkness.

‘Mr Hamilton,’ he began, his voice low and guttural. ‘What am I to do with you? When you disrespect my wife, you disrespect me.’

Charlie bristled. He wasn’t the fucking problem here. He remained silent. Whatever he said would be wrong.

‘I am a businessman,’ Igor continued, opening his hands wide, the letter opener gleaming with intent. ‘I choose the best and expect them to perform. You,’ he gestured to Charlie, ‘are one of the best. But…’ He sighed theatrically. ‘You came with a certain…’

Here we go.

‘… reputation. Very popular with the ladies.’

A muscle twitched in Charlie’s jaw and the side of Igor’s mouth turned up. Fuck. Charlie relaxed his stance. He’d been up against bigger bastards than this. He wouldn’t rise to the bait.

Igor leaned forward, the letter opener now tight in his fist. ‘I see the way you look at Tatiana. She is my pearl. If—’

‘I have a girlfriend,’ Charlie spat, clamping his mouth shut before putting Igor straight about the coke-snorting, vapid little pearl of a daughter who kept trying to get into his bedroom at night.

Igor turned his attention to the tip of the letter opener, using the point to clean his fingernails. ‘Ah yes, Caroline…’

What the fuck?

Igor’s dark eyes flicked up to meet his. ‘Caroline Eleanor Baskerville. A married woman.’

Charlie clenched his fists.

‘Enough!’ barked Igor, slapping the letter opener on the desk. He sighed again and sat back in the leather chair, hands behind his head. ‘Charlie, synochik. You can’t be a playboy all your life. When are you going to settle down?’ He reached a fat digit towards the intercom on the desk. ‘Because if you can’t’—he shrugged—‘the only job left for you will be policing copper mines in the Congo.’

He pressed a button. ‘Bring the car.’

Igor lifted his hips to free a phone from his trouser pocket and opened it up. He flicked his fingers in a dismissive motion at Charlie as he put the phone to his hairy ear. ‘Mischka! Kak dela?’

By the time Charlie reached his room in their mansion, his rage was volcanic. He slammed the door and kicked off his shoes. He needed a shower to wash off the filth of the Petrov family.

He knows about Caroline… Charlie shook his head at his own naivety. Of course he does.

Petrov would know everything about him. And her. He tugged off his clothes, throwing them to the floor. He wanted to burn them—scour everything in his life touched by the Petrovs.

He stalked into the shower and turned it on, letting the full force of the cold water batter his face. Icy needles pointing out his stupidity, over and over. Resting his forehead on the wall tiles, he let the water flow down his back.

Is this my life? Always judged by my looks and what happened with Caroline? By what happened before that?

He turned off the shower and got out, staring at his reflection dispassionately. He filled the mirror. Six foot four inches of battle-hardened, gym-sculpted muscle, decorated with tattoos. His thick chestnut hair was cropped short, his green eyes hard, his jaw set tight with frustration.

Water dripped down the inked planes of his body, following the contours of his chest. Pulling a folded towel from the rail, he rubbed himself dry, watching the movement of the muscles under his skin.

In the army, he’d always wanted to be the best—the fittest, the fastest, the strongest. But his killer body also came with killer looks. ‘Pretty boy’, ‘player’. People decided who they thought he was before he’d even opened his mouth.

Then he’d met Caroline, his commanding officer’s daughter...

His bedroom door opened and closed with a click.

Tatiana. Again.

Fuck’s sake! Would she ever leave him alone? That’s what happens when you don’t lock your door, dickhead. He wrapped the towel tightly around his hips and sighed. He’d made the same mistake twice before and wasn’t doing it again. Even if he could see past Tatiana’s façade, any physical attraction he might have felt was rendered void by her personality: entitled, arrogant, stupid. Her mother’s beauty lay under the contoured layers of make-up, but she had all the charm of her father.

‘Char-lie?’ A soft, sing-song voice drifted in from his bedroom. ‘Are you in there?’

He tensed, icy fingers of fear scraping up the back of his neck. No fucking way. It couldn’t be. He glanced around the sparse bathroom. No robe. Fuck!

‘Charlie, darling.’ The voice was coming closer. ‘I wanted to say sorry...’

He wrenched open the door.

There, standing in a thin silk robe, her nipples pointing straight through at him, and holding an oversized, pink, fluffy, heart-shaped pillow, stood Olga Petrova, his boss’s wife.

‘Hey, sexy,’ she purred.

Five minutes later, Charlie was striding up Sloane Street, phone clamped to his ear.

‘Mack, I need a new gig. I can’t do this anymore.’

‘What’s happened now?’ Mack replied. ‘Tatiana jump you again?’

‘Mrs P just tried it on as I was getting out of the shower,’ he replied tersely, rubbing at his forehead with his free hand as if to erase the memory.

There was a pause, then Mack started laughing.

'It’s not fucking funny,’ Charlie huffed as his friend made wheezy whooping sounds like an owl having an asthma attack. ‘This is my life. You’ve got to reassign me.’

He could hear Mack trying to control himself, and imagined him passing a hand over his face, like a mime artist rearranging his features.

They’d known each other for years. As Charlie was entering the SAS, Mack was leaving to set up a private security business. He’d done well for himself and always tried to find jobs for people like Charlie—those who found the adjustment to life on Civvy Street hard.

‘Okay, mate, here’s the situation,’ Mack began. ‘The Arabs won’t touch you after that sheikha and her sister took a shine. Male celebs think you cockblock them, and you won’t handle females after that incident with the girl band. There’s a limit to how many Russkies need new security and the Chinese use their own. You’re burning bridges with every job—’

‘What about diplomats? CEOs?’

Mack sighed. ‘We’ve been through this. You’re too tall. Too good-looking. They don’t want someone drawing attention. They want someone unobtrusive, not a fucking supermodel.’

‘I’m just an ordinary bloke!’

‘Mate, I’m as straight as they come and even I know you’re hot. Fuck, we all thought you’d turned Rory after he grew his hair long in Afghan.’

‘I’m not a player, Mack. Come on, you know me. I’ve been with the same woman for ten years.’ He rubbed his forehead again. A headache was coming on.

His friend was silent. He’d never approved of Caroline. No one in Charlie’s life did—but he didn’t care.

Eventually Mack sighed again. ‘I know you’re not a player, Charlie. But you’ve got that rep and it’s hard to shake. There are already rumours in the media about some hot bodyguard who likes getting in trouble. You can’t have that shit made public.’

Charlie’s stomach rolled and his step faltered. If that happened, he’d lose Caroline forever.

‘Look, mate, there’s always new opportunities coming up. I’ll keep my ear to the ground. In the meantime, try and be cool with the Petrovs.’

He gave a non-committal ‘hmm’ in response, a ball of lead sitting in his belly.

‘Oh, and one more thing,’ added Mack. ‘Do us all a favour and use the fucking deadbolt on your door. Okay?’

Chapter 2

Half an hour later, Charlie sat in a chic coffee house on Kensington High Street, waiting for the love of his life to arrive. He took a corner seat, back to the wall, and surveyed the scene.

Well-dressed upper-class women with sleek brown locks brayed at each other and cooed over poodle crossbreeds. Men with floppy hair, Gucci leather bracelets, and skinny red chinos fist-bumped and called each other ‘homie’. This was the world he was born into but never felt a part of.

Charlie’s happy place was in the field: camo paint on, weapon to hand, surrounded by men you could trust with your life. Men who would die for you.

He reflexively touched his shoulder, feeling a thin ridge of scar tissue under the shirt, then dropped it back to cradle Caroline’s latte, keeping it warm.

Where is she?

His leg bounced impatiently. She was always late, but any later and her drink would be cold.

His phone lit up and he grabbed it. Tabbie. His older sister. She only ever rang to give him a bollocking. He rejected the call.

In his peripheral vision he saw a flash of gold. He stood, heart thumping. Caro. She was finally here.

Caroline Baskerville, née Fitzroy, was tall, slim, and stunningly beautiful, with straight blonde hair, pale-blue eyes, and high cheekbones. She was dressed in a long fawn cashmere coat, a matching scarf hanging down her front.

Charlie’s chest expanded. He’d fallen for her the first time they’d met, at a formal dinner. He had the honour of sitting at his commanding officer’s table thanks to a favour his father, another officer, had called in. Charlie rewarded both men by sweeping his CO’s daughter off her feet and straight into bed. It could have been perfect: the joining of two upper-class military families. But it had gone tits-up from day one.

‘Caro.’ He reached for her, but she turned her head to the side and his kiss grazed her cheek.

She pulled back and sat, putting her phone on the table. Charlie looked instinctively at her left hand, but she was wearing gloves. She made no movement to take off her coat. Not a good sign.

He pushed the latte towards her. ‘I’ve got your favourite.’ Liquid sloshed over the sides. ‘Fuck, hang on, let me get a napkin.’

He stood, banging into the table, sending more coffee spilling out. He grabbed the mug before it tipped over completely.

Fuck’s sake! Hold it together, dickhead.

He forced a smile. ‘Let me get you a fresh one.’

‘No, it’s fine. This is fine.’ Caroline took the mug, sipped, then frowned. ‘Has this got milk in it?’

‘Tall, skinny chai latte. Right?’ Unease uncoiled like a snake in his stomach.

She put the mug down. ‘No, I’m lactose intolerant.’

‘Since when?’

‘Over a year. Remember when my tummy was bad on that weekend in the Lake District?’

The snake inside started to bite. ‘We’ve never been to the Lake District.’

Caroline’s cheeks reddened and she dropped her head.

He held his breath, willing his emotions to crawl back under their rock.

‘Caro,’ he began quietly. ‘You said if I left the army you’d leave him. I’ve been out for over a year now.’

‘I…’ she began. ‘It’s complicated.’ She looked wretched, the fingers of her right hand twisting what he guessed were the rings under the glove of her left.

‘Is it? We love each other. You only married him because I wouldn’t leave the army. You don’t love him. You’ve never loved him.’ He rubbed his forehead in frustration. ‘Fuck’s sake, we were in bed again two weeks after you got back off honeymoon.’

Her head darted around. ‘Charlie!’ she hissed. ‘Shh!’

He lifted his hands. ‘Why? I’m not ashamed.’

‘You know I never wanted to be an army wife.’

‘And I left.’

‘It’s just more of the same, Charlie.’

‘No, Caro. It’s not. I’m babysitting rich people. I choose my hours and where I work. I’m in London for you. I’ve done everything you asked me to do. What have I missed?’

The background hum of chatter and laughter filled the silence between them. Caroline’s phone lit up. Charlie read “ICE Gareth Baskerville” before she rejected the call. In Case of Emergency. That prick was her emergency contact?

‘Caro, I left my career for you, I—’

‘I’m pregnant.’

Yes, yes, yes. Oh god, yes. He didn’t question how it could have happened. Finally. Light filled his chest and tears pricked his eyes. He blinked the blurriness away.

Caroline crossed her arms over her stomach protectively. ‘She’s not yours.’

She? ‘What?’

‘She’s not yours,’ Caroline repeated.

‘But, but…’ Charlie stammered. ‘You weren’t sleeping with him.’

She stared at her hands, then tugged off her gloves impatiently and touched her wedding and engagement rings as if for reassurance.

‘It has to be mine, Caro,’ he whispered.

She shook her head. ‘I conceived in the Maldives. We had the twenty-week scan yesterday. She’s Gareth’s.’

Invisible hands closed around his neck, choking him.

She pocketed her phone and sighed. ‘I didn’t know how to tell you, but I think it’s for the best. This …’ She gestured between them. ‘Was never going to work.’

He was being squeezed into nothingness.

‘Caro—’

‘I’m sorry, Charlie. I am,’ she replied, her voice wobbling. ‘I know we’ve had our ups and downs, but we don’t really know each other. We’ve always wanted different things.’

‘I wanted a baby,’ he managed, his voice hoarse. ‘I wanted this with you.’

She didn’t reply, but her eyes filled with tears.

How could he fix this? His heart was breaking into a million pieces, but he still believed their love could glue them back together.

Caroline dabbed carefully at the corners of her eyes with a napkin, then stood. ‘I’ve got to go.’

He got to his feet, reaching for her again. She shook her head and stepped back, her gaze everywhere but on him.

‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated before walking away.

Charlie couldn’t remember leaving the café. He walked on autopilot whilst his mind shut down. Even when Caroline dumped him and got married it hadn’t hurt in the same way. He knew the marriage was meaningless. This was so different he didn’t know how to process it.

The sound of his phone cut into the emptiness and he pulled it out.

Rory. The Earl of Kinloch and his best mate.

They’d met in the army and joined the SAS at the same time. Rory had left the forces a year before Charlie, to take on a dilapidated castle in Scotland and an estate on a financial precipice.

Since then, his new girlfriend, Zoe, was helping him turn it around. As Charlie hadn’t spoken to Rory in a couple of months, he had no idea what was going on.

‘Mate, you there?’ Rory rumbled down the line.

He grunted in response. The fact that neither of them was a great conversationalist was perfect for a time like this. Charlie didn’t want to talk to anyone right now.

‘I need your help,’ Rory continued. ‘Brad fucking Bauer is shooting a film at the castle, and I need you to keep an eye on him.’

At the words ‘Brad Bauer’, Charlie was jolted enough out of his fug to respond. ‘What?’

Brad was the Hollywood superstar who’d made Death Party, a film about the Afghan conflict. Charlie and Rory’s unit found it so offensive they’d put Brad’s picture in the centre of their regiment dartboard.

‘Yeah, he’s making Braveheart 2. It’s a load of bollocks, but we need the money. The problem is, I’m out of my depth and don’t trust him farther than I could kick him. He’s got this weird thing for Zoe, and I can’t be everywhere at once. I need a second pair of eyes. Someone I can trust. Can you come up?’

Charlie sighed. ‘I don’t know, man, I’m really stacked right now.’

‘If it’s about the money, don’t worry—I’ve got it covered. You’ll get paid.’

‘I’ll think about it. When do you need me?’

‘Soon as poss, mate. He’s already here, swanning about like he owns the fucking place.’

Charlie let out a short, hollow laugh. ‘Have you punched him yet?

‘Not yet, but my fist is itching all the time. Will you think about it? It’ll only be for a few weeks.’

‘Will do. I’ll let you know.’

Charlie ended the call and looked where his feet had brought him.

Dave.

It had been nearly two weeks since his last visit. He stared at the austere Victorian building: the bars on the lower windows, the layers of peeling paint. He rang the buzzer to gain entry.