Emma Gets Booked and Hooked

Closing her eyes, as she stopped walking, realising that there was no escape but to face him. She turned, as he caught up with her. God, he was so much more mature than the man she had given herself to.

His smile looked genuine, his eyes wide and glowing as he looked at her his whole face a mask of surprise. "It is you. I didn't know if it was-I didn't expect it-God, Emma, you look fantastic."

Emma tried to summon up all the pain and confusion she had felt fifteen years ago, and mingle it with the anger that his book had aroused in her. The fusion would not evolve. All traffic noise stopped as she looked into his open face. Visions she'd had of screaming obscenities at him just would not happen. In a croaking voice she could only manage a cool, "Hello, Brad."

He raised his hands as though to place them on her shoulders, and she backed away. "Hell, it's so wonderful to see you," he enthused, lowering his hands. "I have so much to tell you."

"About your success?" How was she managing to keep her voice so cool?

"No, no. Not that. About -oh, everything. There's so much-I knew this would be difficult-Can we-?"

Emma could not believe it. There he stood, all mature and good- looking, a man of some standing now. Yet he was sounding like that youthful lover from fifteen years ago, only more confused and uncertain.

His eyes searched her face, as though seeking some kind of encouragement. Well, she wasn't going to give him that, and she remained silent as she returned his gaze with what, she hoped, was disinterest.

He broke the awkward silence by asking, "You married?"

"Was."

"It didn't work out?" Why hadn't she just lied and given him no opening? He looked back at the shop window, Several puzzled faces were lined up, looking out at them. "Hell, I have to get back in there, but there is so much you should know. So much you deserve to know. Could we meet this evening?"

In a hurry, wasn't he? But, yes, she did deserve to know a few things. Yet she had no wish to make things easy for him. "You not married?" she asked.

"Never have."

A lie? Maybe. Probably too many women to conquer. So why had that news given her a lift. Control, Emma, she warned herself. Remember who this is and what he has done to you.

"Could we meet?" he asked again. "Somewhere local if you like."

Emma hesitated, telling herself that her response had to be unconvincing and without any eagerness. "There's the Dante, just along the road there." And she indicated the green sign jutting out about two hundred yards on the other side of the street.

Brad gave an anxious glance back at the shop before saying, "Fine. Seven thirty, say."

Emma nodded, and he bid her a hasty farewell and hurried back to his book signing. Feeling slightly numb, Emma used her cell phone to check with the office, and when she'd learned that nothing outstanding had cropped up, she made her way home, deep in thought.

That deep thinking lasted through the early evening as she decided how to prepare herself for their scheduled meeting. Dress, she decided should be fairly formal, so as not to give any alluring hints. A white blouse with a black skirt, the sort of thing she might wear when meeting clients. But where had all her vengeful intentions gone? Lost. The very sight of Brad, had produced that so well remembered churning deep inside her. This evening had to put things in perspective.

In the shower, she could not shake off thoughts of how he had looked. Her memories of times with him had been so deliberately eradicated, and only his damned book brought the more erotic incidents back to her. Like the evening they returned to his flat having drunk far too much wine. Just inside his front door, they tore frantically at each other's clothing, before sinking onto the stairs, still half dressed, with him way up inside her, and their hips slamming at each other in a wild frenzy.

She soaped between her legs with just a shade too much vigour at that image. Their last night together had a small corner of her memory. In his book it was all about his use of fingers, lips and tongue to bring Emily to a wonderful climax. But she had sufficient recall to know that his penis had never seemed fully erect, and all evening he had been rather remote, worried almost. In answer to her concerned questions he had insisted everything was all right. Having intended to inform him of her family's imminent movement down to London, she decided to withhold that information for a more suitable occasion. Such an opportunity never occurred.

Deliberately, she arrived at the Dante at seven thirty five. She had put a short dark jacket over her blouse, and was trying hard to build herself up for a little more aggression than she had shown so far.

Brad was already there at a table, in a dark blue suit with a light blue shirt and dark tie, he looked the picture of sophistication. As she moved towards the table, she noticed three young women at a nearby table giving him they eye. Yes, he would be enjoying that.

He stood to greet her and helped her out of her jacket, telling her how elegant she looked. "Thank you," she said, without any expression, and told herself that was the way to handle this.

When she was seated he said, "Do you mind if we order and eat before I go into explanation mode?"

His brown eyes lowered very briefly to the swell of her white blouse, before returning to her face. Get your mind off that track, Mr Sumner, no chance. But in answer to his question, she said, "It might be a good idea."

"Drink?"

Very purposefully she said, "One only, small white wine-medium,"

A half smile crossed his lips and she wondered whether he was remembering a previous occasion. However, they went ahead and ordered the meal, both choosing pork steaks in a rich sweet chilli and tomato sauce.

While they waited the talk was all small, the films they had seen, holidays they had been on. She told him of her partnership in the law firm of Parker, Furness, and Harding.

"Where are you in that. To me you were Emma Simmons."

"My married name. I was married when the partnership came along. Seemed too much trouble to change it afterwards."

He asked how long she had been married, and she told him. He nodded, and looked away. Emma was about to frame a question that would tactfully enquire about his unmarried state, when the food arrived.

They ate in silence for a while, only stopping to agree that the food was excellent. Brad finished first, ordered coffees, before sitting back, and fixing Emma with a steady gaze. Emma cleared her plate, very aware of his stare, feeling like he was trying to read her mind. Oh, you don't want to know what's going on up there, Brad, you might get hurt, she thought. But at the same time she could not define certain fleeting thoughts that she could not explain to herself.

As she watched one waiter whip away the plates and a second pour the coffees, she looked at him with what she hoped was a questioning look. Brad loosened his tie, and leaned forward. "Confession time? Or is it explanation time?" he asked, his eyes holding hers.

"Words shouldn't be too difficult for somehow who's written two books."

"Actually I've written three."

"Three?" That was a surprise.

He shrugged, "The first one was called, "Memory of a Loser." And if you had read it you might already have some insight into why I dropped out of your life-out of my life, come to that."

He took a sip of his coffee, before saying, "You know how I liked backing horses?"

Frowning, she nodded. She had never paid much heed when he talked about his gambling. It had always seemed low key stuff.

"Not about that, is it?" Emma said, trying to put some irritation in her voice, to show her annoyance. And from that moment she could only sit, amazed, as he talked of his bad run of luck in July of 1997, which lead him to borrowing one thousand pounds from a rather dubious source.

"You never said anything."

"We had only just met. I didn't want you involved in my troubles." The look he was giving her touched something inside her. It was a look that she had once called his 'little boy lost' look. Brad went on to tell her that August was just as unlucky and he was unable to repay the debt. Threatening messages ensued until the day of their last time together, and that had been a final 'tomorrow, or else.' The following evening two sinister looking black limousines pulled up across the road from his flat.

At this point his expression became almost apologetic as he told her how he hardly had time to think. He had hastily packed a bag, escaped via the rear of the block, jumped in his car and drove blindly, not knowing at first where he was headed. Eventually, because he had some ability with spoken French, the continent seemed to be the safest haven. His early efforts to contact Emma failed, and by the following day he was in Normandy.

"How could you afford to-?" Emma began to ask.

"Betting money and living money were always two different pots. But just getting there dug into my funds. I got in touch with an estate agent to sell my flat and he warned me that it had been badly trashed. However, he did manage to sell it at a greatly reduced price. That kept me going for a while."

Emma listened with some sympathy but was still not happy that there had been no contact. She told him so.

"Honestly, Emma, I was a helpless immature kid, really. You know I never had your parent's phone number. Once I was settled I used the address to find it. Without success. When I knew university term would be started I tried to get you at York, only to be told you were no longer there."

Emma told him of her father's move to London, and her own transfer. He nodded his understanding, and went on to tell her of how his money was running out. He was making a little by selling articles and some occasional stories to French and English magazines. Then in March of '98 he took a massive risk, his final gamble.

"It was a horse," he told her, and smiled at Emma's knowing shrug. Brad went on, "There is a race called the Cheltenham Gold Cup. Massive meeting. Huge race. A horse called Cool Dawn had pulled up in its last race after a couple of wins."

Emma shook her head," You didn't back it?"

"I did, because I read that after that race it was found to have some minor injury to his back. So if he was fit again- Anyway, I risked the French equivalent of hundred pounds on him -got 28-1. And he won."

"A hundred pounds? You're crazy."

"I was-a little. Desperate too. But it made me near three thousand pounds. I came home. Paid off the bad guys. Made another desperate search for you, without any luck. Worked for a newspaper, wrote my first book, which was about the money incident. A minor success."

Emma took a sip of her coffee, and wondered how hard he had tried to find her. Yet she was slightly mollified by his reason for disappearing, even if it was through his own stupidity. She asked ,"But you never married. A happy bachelor were you? With a little book of names."

"If you like. That's the way it would seem. But happy? You may not believe it, but I never found anyone who came near what I'd found with you." His eyes looked so wide and honest, she felt a strange eagerness to believe him. But was this his new playboy gambit? Plus there was still one matter that had to be raised.

"So to get at me you wrote this ' About Emily' book. Have you any idea how I felt in recognising all those incidents."

There was a half smile on his face as he said, "I didn't write about all of them."

"And I should be grateful for that?"

"But I only wrote it in the faint hope that you might see my name and read it. I guessed it might make you angry, but if it made you seek me out to shoot me, then at least I would have found you."

Emma's hand on her cup shook and she didn't attempt to pick it up. "You expect me to believe that you wrote that book just to find me?"

Brad's face appeared to crumble at her disbelief, "I never thought it would be the hit it has become. And I was beginning to think it was a failure-from the point of view that it hadn't produced what I wanted from it-your appearance. And it is such a beautiful appearance."

"Never mind the flattery," Emma snorted, but not feeling so sure of herself anymore.

"Listen, Emma," Brad pleaded, leaning across the table towards her, "I started writing that book, nearly two years ago. That's, thirteen years since we last met."

"So what?"

"Would you have remembered all those intimate incidents we shared, if you hadn't have been reminded by my book."

"Maybe," Emma replied reluctantly, trying to avoid the truth in what he said.

"But I remembered, and I had no book to remind me—only sweet memories."

Something clutched at Emma's heart, and there was a sensation lower down that she wished to ignore. Yet she was determined not to make things that easy for him. Yes, he looked so good, and she so wanted it to be right. "I'll have to go, I have a case to work on for tomorrow."

"Please say we can meet again." Brad said, and something in his eyes, suggested his plea was genuine, that 'little boy lost' look.

"That might be all right," she said non-commitally.

"Have you a mobile?

"Of course."

Within seconds they were exchanging contact numbers, and once again his eyes held hers, "If only we'd had these contraptions back then." He pushed his phone into a jacket pocket, "I'm sorry I can't fix a definite date, but I'm all over the place at the moment. Brighton tomorrow."

They walked outside and stood beside her Honda Civic. The evening air was pleasantly warm, and for a brief moment Emma wondered whether he would try to kiss her. The atmosphere was so right for it. But he briefly touched her shoulder, as he turned away, "I promise you'll hear from me tomorrow." He turned back, "Thank you for letting me talk." Those eyes, that full, generous mouth. Damn him, for making her feel unsure of herself.

Emma climbed into her car and sat watching, as he strode to a dark coloured upmarket model that, in the fading light she couldn't identify. When he had disappeared into the dark inside the car, she drove away.

For the rest of the night, and into the following day she was comparing her state of mind before the meal, with how she felt after his revelations. More than anything she was annoyed at the easy way he had recalled those incidents—"I had no book to remind me." Lying in bed that night she found herself rising to the challenge of recalling something that he had not put into the book

Her recall was hindered by the intrusion of the incidents outlined in the book, which she had read and reread, and were difficult to push aside. But then something came to her, something good, something that was new, different and had not been repeated, with anyone. It was Brighton, their second last week together, and he had booked a 'special weekend' in a decent quality hotel. Having walked the beach and the promenade for about two hours on a warm day, they had returned to their room stripped off, and there being no shower, had stepped into a bath of only just warm water. Even as she climbed in Emma remembered seeing Brad's penis already half erect.

"He looks expectant," she had laughed.

"Doesn't know what he might find under the water," he returned her laughter.

"There's a plug-hole he might find accommodating."

"No, there'll be something better than that," he affirmed, and as she settled in the water, she jerked as his fingers passed over her labia. God, she could remember all the detail, it seemed. "Something much better."

Avidly, they soaped each other's bodies intimately. His hands on her breasts had been exquisite, and she knew that the moisture between her legs was not just bathwater. His penis was no longer semi-erect, as her fingers smoothed over and around it, while his fingers reached to probe and find her clitoris. Pure liquid heaven.

Emma had leaned back and looked down. The tip of Brad's penis pushed up through the surface. "Save me," she had cried. "Is it a whale or a torpedo?"

"You better test, before it goes into action." His eyes glowed with passion, as Emma leaned forward and down to place her lips on the purple, shiny head, and her tongue tip ticked at it, bringing a prolonged, "Aaah," from Brad's lips.

Then Brad had reached for her hips to draw her closer. After much giggling and splashing, as they struggled to get their legs into a comfortable position his penis had slid so smoothly up into her eager grasping vagina. They sat there, joined at the crotch, but she leaned the rest of her body away from him so that he was able to pass his hands down over her breasts, and onto her clitoris. It only took a minute of that kind of stimulus, for her to be heaving and gasping, her frantic reactions bringing him to rapid climax. For Emma it was total, as she wanted that ecstatic surrender to go on and on, and as they heaved wildly together the bathwater came perilously close to swilling over the side of the bath.

As they relaxed, Emma struggled to turn her glowing body so that she was lying with her back against Brad's chest, and she even recalled feeling the thudding of his heart, while his arms wrapped around her, hands clutching her breasts. In a surprisingly short time she felt a familiar and welcome twitching at her coccyx, as Brad's penis aroused itself.

"Wet or dry?" he whispered in her ear, his fingers drifting down over her belly..

"Mmm, dry, I think."

In no time they were out, dried and tangled among the cool sheets on the bed.

Remembering that episode gave Emma some satisfaction, but at the same time it was reminding her of just why recall had been so difficult. After Brad's disappearance hadn't she slowly, unwillingly yet deliberately tried to shut her whole time with him out of her mind? Only the arrival of that book had reopened long locked cupboards of her mind.

She lay for a long time wondering how long she would have to wait for his phone call. Of course, she had his number, but calling him might show an unwarranted degree of desperation. Come on Emma, you know you want to see him again. The flame was not totally dead, and had been revived by what he had told her.

The call came at 3.15 the following afternoon. Emma had just come out of a meeting, when her phone buzzed. She had taken several calls all day, all business, so she did not hold out much hope when she looked at the screen, and her heart bumped her ribs when she saw the name 'Brad'.

"Sorry I'm late." His voice sounded deeper over the phone. "Look, I have two tickets for 'The Jersey Boys' at the Prince Edward Theatre. Would you care to share them with me?"

Her breath juddered in her throat. It sounded like a real date. Is that what she wanted? Yes, it certainly was. And she'd been longing to see 'The Jersey Boys'. But play cool. "I haven't seen it. What time?"

"Well, the show starts at 7.30. but I thought we could have a meal before that. Plenty of eating places around there."

Arrangements were quickly made, and Emma had quite a task keeping the enthusiasm out of her voice. Her intended iceberg approach had all but melted. She could barely believe she had moved so rapidly, from damning Brad to yes, longing to have his arms around her—and more than that. Just the sound of his deep brown voice on the phone had set her juices flowing. She was dwelling in dangerous waters, where hurt could lurk, she knew that.

The theatre evening went so well. A well chosen restaurant, good food, easy conversation in which he showed interest in her work, and he spoke of the rumours about a film of his book.

"Still unconfirmed talk," he told her.

They both found the show exuberant and foot tapping. It was as they stepped out into the drizzly evening air that he asked, "Would you like to see my London apartment?"