Free Protection by Carla Blake

that someone, once, had actually liked her enough to fuck her.
    Opening the fridge door, she helped herself to a cola and wandered back to the television, wincing at the sight of yet another animal veterinary programme.
    The way the presenters cuddled up to some cute, fluffy kitten, cooing over it and getting all watery eyed, made her feel sick! Who gave a toss about a stupid kitten? It wasn’t as if it was going to die. Hundreds of offers of a ‘good home’ were probably flooding in right now. The daft creature destined to spend the rest of its days in total, bloody luxury in case someone off the programme decided to make a surprise visit at a later date to see how little, ‘ fluffy, wuffy’ was getting on.
    Pity the kid’s home couldn’t have adopted a similar policy.
    She could see it now.
    â€˜ Can you give little Henry a home? A playful chap, he can often be found pulling the legs off spiders or with his finger shoved up his nose, but he is adorably and look how friendly he is. Wouldn’t you just love to tuck him in?’
    â€œNo, I bloody well wouldn’t.”’ Isobel muttered and snatching up the remote control, started to channel hop. A car show. A cop show. The news. Boring!
    Leaving the news on, she turned the volume down low and gathered up the now empty takeaway dishes, stacking them on the floor before ripping open the popcorn and pulling the tab on her cola. On the screen the reporter dripped with rain and smiled tightly, clearly unhappy at being stuck out in such appalling weather.
    Isobel watched with indifference. Only half paying attention as the picture showed a flashy limousine pulling smoothly up to the kerb and a huge, black guy getting out of the drivers side to open the rear door. Two women dressed to kill in long, evening gowns then climbed out, both of them smiling prettily as they faced a sea of flashbulbs and Isobel Pearce, watching from her scruffy bed, nearly choked on her popcorn.
    It was her! It was bloody her! What the bloody hell was she doing, dressed up like that? What the fuck did it matter? It was her! It was definitely her! She’d recognize her face anywhere! Christ, after all this time!
    Lunging forwards, Isobel hit the volume button, completely forgetting she still had the remote, and the voice-over thundered into her ears. The stars were gathering for a charity ball. A lavish event expected to raise a considerable amount towards aiding the Third World..
    Tutting, Isobel waved impatiently at the screen. Bugger that, she wanted a name. A single name to confirm that what her eyes were seeing was true. But that information seemed to be restricted to whomever the camera was zooming in on at the time and the confirmation she sought was not forthcoming. Not that she particularly cared.
    How could she ever forget the first and only person she’d ever made love to.
    The dress, now hanging on the back of her bedroom door, drew her eye and lying in bed, Andrea’s gaze roamed over the scarlet fabric, her mind re-playing the evening’s events. The charity ball had been a complete success. The three million pounds raised bringing startled gasps and applause from the great and the good, the sheer razzmatazz of it all making it difficult for Andrea to stay focused, aware that she was becoming dazzled by the splendour of the occasion and the perfumed whirl of star spotting, and relieved when she was called upon to deal with the paparazzi. Skilfully guiding Carrie away from their suffocating presence before they could crush her in their desire to take the ultimate picture.
    But as assignments went though, it had been both easy and pleasurable and if she closed her eyes, she could still imagine the heat from Carrie’s skin on the palm of her hand…
    Shuddering, she opened her eyes again and stared at the dress. What the hell was she thinking? She couldn’t fall for the boss even if she was totally gorgeous, successful and genuinely