With stiff, jerky steps she followed the route he'd taken and peered into the room. It was a bedroom, a big one, exquisitely decorated in a purely masculine blend of black and silver, with touches of deep red, and it was empty. She stepped inside, her eyes sliding over the furnishings, taking rapid stock of each item, before halting on the huge, circular bed. Covered in a black silk spread, richly patterned with red and silver embroidery, it was like nothing she'd ever seen outside of a movie, and for several minutes she could only stand and stare at it, till a movement in her side vision brought her abruptly back to her senses.
She glanced round, and felt every drop of blood rush to her head. The man was standing in the part-opened doorway to what was evidently a bathroom, staring down at a small bottle of colourless liquid in his hand. Gone were the shorts now, replaced by a narrow strip of blue towelling which left even less of his powerful golden body to the imagination. He looked up, his eyes still faintly hostile as they noted her rigid stance, then tossed the bottle to her. Martha caught it, her actions purely reflex. She clung to it for a second, like a drowning man to a tiny raft, desperate to put some reality into the whole fantastic situation.
'Right, then. Just let me get comfortable, then we can get started.'
He strode over to the bed, stripping off the silky cover before lying face down, his arms raised above his head, and Martha could only stand and stare at him, transfixed with a dawning horror. Get started! Get started on what? was the question, but she had the strangest feeling that she knew the answer. In stunned silence she stared at his naked back, the powerful curve of his flanks, the muscular line of his strong thighs—and gulped. Case or no case, this was getting way out of hand, above and beyond the call of duty!
With a jerky little movement she tossed the bottle aside and swept from the room, striding quickly along the hall towards the front door and freedom. The sooner she got out of this . . . this den of iniquity, the better!
'Where the hell do you think you're going?'
A large hand caught her once more by the arm, the same hand that had caught her earlier, and she stopped dead, swinging round to face its owner. In the half-light his face was stern, a stiff, uncompromising mask of golden planes and darker shadows, his eyes like twin silvery flames as they burned angrily down at her. She hesitated, fear and some other emotion fighting for precedence inside her.
'Well, I asked you a question, didn't I? So answer me, woman!'
The fear and the other emotion were swept aside by something stronger. Just who did he think he was, manhandling her this way, talking to her like a lackey? Fury ripped through her, and with a swift twist she broke free of his hold, her own eyes sparking with evil green temper. Usually Martha was the most even-tempered of people, able to see every side of a question, to ignore the most irritating traits in friends and acquaintances. She could usually find justification for any and every, action, but not this one, definitely not this one! She stood up straighter, her back ramrod stiff as she faced the man across the narrow width of the hallway.
'I, for your information, am going home.'
'What the hell for? You've only just got here.'
'Because there's no way I'm going to stand here and have you or anyone else talk to me like that,' she said coldly.
For a second they glared at each other, not exactly eye to eye when he topped her by a good six inches even in bare feet, but still as equal as she could make it. Then slowly the look of anger faded from his face, to be replaced by just the faintest hint of apology. He hitched the small towel a bit more securely around his hips, and Martha studiously ignored the action, keeping her eyes locked on to the comparative safety of his face and away from his disturbing body.
When he spoke, his voice was low, gruff, as though the words cost him a vast amount of effort by being unfamiliar to him.
'Look, I'm sorry, Miss . . .'
He paused, one thick brow rakishly curved in an enquiry, and Martha unbent just enough to supply the missing information.
'Clark ... Ms Clark.'
'Ms Clark.' There was no inflection in his voice, no nuance to his deep tones, yet she had the sudden, unshakeable feeling that the title had filled him with amusement. She glanced up, stormy green eyes locking briefly with silver, and saw the fleeting glimpse of it in their depths. Colour flared in her cheeks and she opened her mouth to resume her tirade, but he stepped in quickly.
'Ms Clark, I'm very sorry if my behaviour has upset you in any way, but you have to understand that I'm desperate! I really need your services today ... so, please, won't you stay and put me out of my misery?'
That was it! He'd gone too far, overstepped the limit by yards, not inches. How dared he? How dared he proposition her that way? The sheer effrontery of the man was so great that for a moment Martha stood transfixed with rage—but only for a moment. Stepping back, she raised her hand and hit him hard across his lean cheek, feeling the force of the blow sting into her palm in a totally satisfying way.
'Why, you little …'
Fury shone in his eyes, showed in the sudden coiled tension of his big body, and the satisfaction waned a fraction. Maybe she had been a little bit hasty, a trifle careless in doing that. After all, here she was, alone in the house with him in that state of undress, so maybe it hadn't been the most sensible thing to do in the circumstances. Filled with alarm, Martha tried to push past him, her hands sliding over the warm, hard muscles of his chest, feeling the skin-to-skin contact in every cell of her body.
'Oh, no, you don't! You don't get away that easily!'
He caught her hands, twisting her arms sharply behind her back so that she was forced against his body with a jolt which whooshed the air from her lungs. For a moment he stared down into her startled face, and Martha caught her breath at the expression in his eyes. Time seemed to shudder to a halt as a strange tension gripped them both. Then slowly he dipped his head, his eyes locked to her parted lips, and Martha knew that he was going to kiss her. The strange thing was, there was no thought of resisting in her head. She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of his breath drift over her skin, waiting for the touch of his lips on hers.
The sound of the knocker beating a rapid tattoo on the door jerked her back to reality with a flourish. She opened her eyes and stared with horror into the face of the tall, golden stranger; a stranger whom she'd been about to kiss with every scrap of feeling in her slender body! Embarrassment flooded through her and she pulled quickly away, turning her face away from his silvery gaze. What on earth had come over her, making her act like that? She lifted her hands, easing the tangle of dark curls away from her hot, flushed cheeks, unable to meet his eyes.
He hesitated, as though wanting to say something, but a second pounding on the front door broke the moment. With a muttered oath he turned away to wrench the door open, but not before Martha had seen the betraying rise and fall of his deep chest. He had been just as affected by what had so nearly happened as she had, and she was glad. Somehow it made her feel just a tiny bit better to know he'd been as shaken by it as she had.
'Yes?' Stiff-legged, he stood in the open doorway, seemingly oblivious to the scantiness of his clothing and the icy wind blowing in from the street. Martha craned her neck to peer past him, her eyes studying the heavy-set woman who stood out on the step.
'Mr Maxwell?' she said, 'I'm Mrs Jones, the masseuse from the Fitness Parlour. I believe you are expecting me.'
She stepped past him into the hall, nodding briefly to Martha, who was still standing exactly where he'd left her, too weak and shaken by all that had happened to move a single inch.
'Shall I go through?' Without waiting for an answer, the woman walked briskly down the hall, her sensible laced shoes clumping heavily against the rich Turkish carpet, peering into each room in turn till she located the bedroom.
They watched her go in silence, then slowly Martha looked up into his face, wondering what was going to happen next. For a second he held her gaze, then slowly, very slowly, closed t
he door, his hand resting against the lock for several seconds before he turned back to face her.
'If that is the masseuse . . . then just who the hell are you?'
It was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, and Martha prayed desperately that she had the answer equal to its value!
CHAPTER TWO
'I... I…' Martha licked her dry lips and tried again, finding it strangely difficult to slip into the role she'd rehearsed such a short time ago in the car. So much had happened in these past few minutes that it felt as though it had been in another lifetime. 'I . . .'
'Mr Maxwell! I'm sorry to interrupt, but I would be grateful if you could come through right away. I'm already running late, and I still have another client to visit tonight.'
The masseuse stood in the bedroom doorway, arms folded across her ample white-overalled bosom, and Martha saw her chance and grabbed it. The stalwart Mrs Jones mightn't be everyone's idea of a good fairy, but she certainly was hers at that moment!
'Look, I can see that you're busy right now,' she said quickly, edging towards the front door, 'so perhaps it would be better if I left.' She smiled at him, a nice, cool little smile, which cost a vast amount of effort, and wavered and flickered like a spent candle when he stepped forwards, pinning her with a steely glance.
'Oh, no, you don't! There's no way you're just walking out of here without some sort of explanation, lady, so you can just hold it right there. You come into my house, pretending to be someone you're not, then calmly think you can just walk on out again. Well, you can think again!'
'I came in?' Suddenly furious at the blatant untruth, Martha rounded on him, her eyes sparking. 'I came in? You mean, you dragged me in, and don't you forget it. The only reason I'm in here is because you made me!'
They squared up to each other like prize fighters, the air between them crackling with tension, then a small, discreet cough broke the silence.
'If you want me to come back another day, maybe tomorrow, if it's not convenient right now --' Mrs Jones was hastily pulling on her coat, an embarrassed flush staining her heavy cheeks.
'No. Tomorrow is no good,' the man said sharply, his eyes flicking briefly in her direction before returning to Martha, as though frightened she would disappear if he didn't watch her. 'I've already had three near sleepless nights because of this pain, and there's no way I want another. I'll be in directly, Mrs Jones, so please wait.'
He waited till the woman had gone reluctantly back into the room before he turned his attention back to Martha, and instinctively she stepped back a pace, feeling suddenly far less brave. In the dim light he looked both angry and tough, and she had a feeling that she would be no match for him in this mood. She had to do something to ease the situation, and get her out of here.
'I really am sorry if I've upset you, but you must agree that it seems to have been just one huge mistake, from start to finish. So, please, won't you just accept my apologies and let us call it a day?'
She forced a conciliatory smile to her lips, holding it rigidly in place as he continued to stare coldly at her. There was silence in the small hallway, then he raised his hands, running his fingers through his hair and down the back of his neck to knead the muscles.
'You're quite right,' he said quietly. 'I'm afraid things just got out of hand. I apologise for my behaviour. I'm not usually so unreasonable, but as I said, I've been in a lot of pain these past few days and it has left me feeling very tense. Allied to that, I've had the strangest feeling that there's been something going on; you know, that funny prickly feeling you get when someone's watching you.'
He smiled at Martha, a wry, self-mocking little smile at his own foolishness—but she didn't feel able to share the joke! She looked away, desperate to hide the alarm which tingled through her at his words, but she was just a shade too slow.
'Why do I get the feeling that rings a bell?' he asked softly, a thread of menace in his deep voice. 'Just what is going on? Why did you come here today?'
He moved closer, and Martha hastily backed up until her shoulder-blades brushed against the wall. She looked round, her eyes frantic as she searched for some way out, but there was none. He was standing between her and the door; there was no way she could get past him.
'I'm waiting,' he ground out.
'Mr Maxwell, please! I really must ask you to come now or I shall have to leave!'
Mrs Jones stood once more in the doorway, her face set.
'I'll come now,' he answered, his eyes never leaving Martha's pale, strained face. He waited till the masseuse had moved out of sight again before he spoke. 'Right, then, Ms Clark, if Clark really is your name, I think you had better wait in the sitting-room until I'm free.'
He leant over to open the door just to one side of her, his bare arm brushing lightly against her shoulder, and she jerked away from the unwelcome contact. He flicked a switch, bathing the room in a soft golden light, then stood aside with a mocking courtesy for her to enter.
'Make yourself at home. There are drinks on the side table, so help yourself. I won't be long.'
He turned to go, and Martha hastily tried to grab hold of her reeling senses. She couldn't just sit here, waiting meekly till he came back, ready to answer his every question. It was far too dangerous. She had to leave.
'Mr Maxwell,' she said firmly, 'this is just ridiculous. There is no point in me waiting. I have a lot to do and I'm sure you must have too.
Wouldn't it be simpler if I left now, and we forgot the whole incident?'
She took a couple of steps towards the door, halting slowly when he made no move to get out of her way. He just stood there and smiled, if one could call the rather nasty curl of his lips a smile, which was doubtful.
'Oh, I disagree. I think there's every point in your waiting. There is something going on, Ms Clark, something you seem to know about, and I want an explanation. So, please, just for me, won't you wait and make my day?'
'And what if I won't? You can't keep me here against my will!' Anger rippled through her, closely followed by a few cold quivers of fear. Would her story hold up under examination? Suddenly she was less than certain that it would be showerproof, let alone water-tight!
'Refuse to wait. No, I don't think you will do that.'
'Why? What makes you so certain?' she demanded sharply.
'Because you obviously came here tonight for something important, something you were prepared to go to almost any lengths to get. I think you'll wait, but just to be certain, I think I should point out that there's a deadlock on the front door, and that I've taken the precaution of removing the key.' He held his hand out, palm upwards, and Martha just had chance to snatch a glance at the small brass key before he closed his fingers over it with a low, deep laugh.
'Believe me, there's no way you're going to get out of here tonight unless I let you. So make yourself comfortable and try to come up with a good story, because believe me, lady, you need it!'
He closed the door quietly behind him and Martha stared after him, her eyes wide with shock and anger, both at him and at herself. What a mess she'd got herself into; what a terrible, awful mess!
On leaden legs she crossed the room and sat down on the hide-covered sofa, closing her eyes, but that was a mistake. As soon as her lids blotted out her surroundings, the memories returned with a vengeance: memories of those strange tense moments when he had held her in his arms! She groaned, her eyes shooting open to sweep round the room. She just had to find a way out of here, and fast.
The room ran from front to back of the house, with windows at either end, and for a second Martha studied them, her mind racing. Was there just a chance she could climb out of one of those windows and escape? She hurried to check them, but one glance was all she needed to knock that little idea on the head. The windows were quaintly cottage styled and completely charming, but there was no way even a cat could have squeezed through their narrow openings, let alone a person. She would have to think again.
She stared round the room, d
esperate to find something to help her out of this predicament, but at first glance it wasn't encouraging. It was just a comfortable sitting-room, expensively furnished in an attractive combination of rich brown and palest cream, with the same predominantly masculine air she'd noticed in the bedroom. About half-way down the room, a narrow spiral staircase wound upwards, and for a second Martha's eyes lingered on it, following the twisting curl of cream-painted metal and oaken treads. What was up there? Could there be a way out?
Heart hammering with a renewed surge of hope, she ran across the room and up the stairs, clutching hold of the banister rail as her booted feet slid on the polished treads. At the top there was no landing, the stairs led directly into a room, and she gasped in amazement as she looked round.
The room was huge, encompassing the whole of the upper level of the house, as though several smaller rooms had been knocked together to form it. One side was entirely devoted to a full range of exercise equipment, while the other side was equipped as an office.
Rather stunned by this unexpected discovery, Martha walked slowly across the bare, polished-plank floor and stared at the expensive computer system, the bank of telephones and teleprinters, her green eyes filled with confusion. What on earth did that man need all this highly sophisticated equipment for?
It was a puzzle, all right, but one she knew she didn't have time to solve at this moment, so she stored it away for later. What she had to concentrate on now was getting out. She glanced round the room and then she saw it—a door, right at the very back; a door which, from its position, could lead nowhere except outside. Could it be some sort of fire escape?
She ran down the room and turned the handle with urgent, shaking fingers, stepping back in amazement when the door opened and a blast of cold air flooded into the room. For a second Martha stood rooted to the spot, so surprised to find it wasn't locked that her brain seized up. Then common sense returned with a flourish. How long had it been since he'd left her? She didn't really know, but instinct warned her that it must nearly be time for the massage to finish. She had to get out of the house!
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