Description:

Journalist Emily needs a story, and ex-con Turner Black says he's got one. Against her professional judgement, soon she's falling for him. Turner says that she's a woman worth going straight for, but can he truly outrun his past? As events unfold, Emily wonders if he really wants to shed his bad-boy image, or is he still addicted to danger…
--extract--
She found the tapas bar that Turner had named, and her heart flipped when she saw his broad form waiting under the pink neon lights. He was taller than many of the people around him. In his jeans and black suit jacket, he looked like a louche James Bond, and she found her mouth had gone dry.
She slowed as she neared him, but he sprang forward to greet her. She wiped her hand on her skirt, anticipating that he'd shake it like he had done last time, but he took her off-guard by planting a society air-kiss on each cheek before stepping back and grinning at her. His aftershave tickled her nose.
"Oh!" she mumbled, then, "Hello. How are you?"
"Fine, thanks. Yourself? You look nice. I like the cardigan."
He said the word cardigan with all the undertones suggesting elderly women, mumsy types and cosy, frumpy figures. She winced. "Er, thanks. Yeah. It's… retro."
"If I'd known, I'd have dug out my old lilac and green shell suit."
"Eww, really?"
"We all have secrets, Emily." He looked sideways at her, winking. "Dark secrets." Then he returned to a normal voice. "Enough of that - come on, I've sorted a table."
He led her through with sure, confident strides, walking just a little ahead of her and steering her to a secluded table along a side wall.
Once the wine had been served, and the little dishes were arriving, she tried to steer the conversation to matters of prison in general and social justice, without referring to his past directly, but he seemed unwilling to engage.
"I've been camping," he said, surprising her, when she asked about how his job hunting was going. "I've always been an outdoorsy type, and I used to dream about being able to just go off on my own. So I've been in the Peak District. That's why I didn't answer your call. I can't stand people who go and get away from it all, and take their bloody mobiles."
"Oh. Yeah, quite." She allowed a polite pause, then tried to steer back on topic. "With this article, I think I'm going to concentrate on the jobs angle…"
He nodded but he was looking at the olives as he said, "Do you like camping?"
He was keen to talk about anything else. "I've only slept in a tent when I've been at festivals. Does that really count as camping?"
He snorted and made eye contact, sending a fresh shiver down her spine. She was transfixed by his lips as he swallowed an olive, and licked the oil from his fingers. "Nope, it does not."
She waited, wondering if he were about to invite her on a camping trip. He said, instead, "I needed to get away. Good olives! Have you had one?"
She picked up a tart green one. While she chewed, he looked around the room, one arm casually draped over the back of his chair. The slight twist in his upper body made his jacket hang open and she couldn't help but let her eyes linger on the way his tight tee shirt clung to his well-formed pecs. She dragged her gaze away as he turned back to face her, but she wasn't sure that he hadn't caught her peeking.
She crossed her legs, uncomfortably aware of the proximity of his knees to hers under the table. "Yes, they're tasty. Look, I don't have a definite commission but the editor I want to work with is on leave, you see. I think I might start this on spec."
Turner worked his way through some calamari. "Sure. Go right ahead."
"So we need to talk about the direction."
"You're the writer."
"I need your input."
He remained silent and Emily felt a lurch of fear. It was like he was slipping away from her, and she didn't like it. She took a stab. "And you need the money, right?"
"I need the money now, and that's not going to happen."