Tender Pursuit

by Jennifer Taylor

  She stepped out, feeling her spirits sink as she realised that she wasn't on a fire escape as she'd hoped, but on a small stone balcony which overlooked the back garden. How was she ever going to get down from here?

  She inched forwards, gripping the cold metal guard rail as she leant over and peered through the misty gloom, trying to assess just how far it was to the ground. It was hard to tell with any degree of accuracy, but it seemed a long way .. . an awful long way, in fact!

  Her stomach lurched and she drew back, drinking in breath after breath of air as she tried to stem the waves of panic. If there was one thing which Martha hated above anything, it was heights just like this one: a small square of space suspended above nothing.

  Senses reeling, she leant back against the rough brickwork as she tried to find something comfortingly solid to hang on to. Cold, dank night air swirled round, chilling her body, yet she could feel the perspiration trickling between her shoulderblades. She closed her eyes, willing the attack to pass, and in that instant heard the unmistakable sounds of movement from within the house. They had finished!

  Her eyes shot open and she swallowed hard to ease the choking knot of tension from her dry throat. It was now or never. She must either pluck up enough courage to make the climb down from this balcony, or she must stay and face that man, Maxwell. It was a hard choice, but something told her the climb could be the lesser of two very nasty evils.

  She crept forwards once again and leant over the rail, fighting down the nausea with a grim determination. She would get out of here even if it kill— Her mind snapped shut on the rest of that little idea!

  A heavy wooden trellis was fixed to the wall just below the balcony, its diamond pattern supporting the winter-dead remains of an old climbing rose tree, and for a second Martha studied it. It looked so fragile, but maybe it would hold her if she was very careful. She leant further over, her cold fingers gripping the top of the wooden frame as she gave it a shake to test its strength. It seemed firm enough, so should she take the chance?

  For a second which verged on eternity she hesitated, cold fear clamping the muscles in her stomach, then the roar of a curse issuing from the lower regions of the house made her mind up for her. Come what may> she was going down that trellis and now, so help her!

  Hands shaking, she dragged off her jacket and tossed it over the side of the balcony, hoping it might cushion her fall if she lost her grip. Then quickly she dragged off her boots and tossed them after it, knowing there was no way she could get a grip on the thin pieces of wood wearing them. She wiped her hands down the sides of her cord jeans, raised her eyes heavenwards in a short, fervent prayer, then cocked her leg over the rail, easing her stockinged toes into the first tiny triangle. She swung her other leg over, clinging to the lip of the balcony with the very tips of her fingers for one heart-stopping moment, then slowly began her descent.

  'Where the hell are you?'

  The low roar of annoyance came from directly overhead, and Martha froze, flattening herself against the house wall. Chunks of prickly rose bush speared into her chest, stabbing through the layers of thick sweaters, and she caught her breath as she tried to fight against the discomfort. Did he know she was there, or did he think she'd already escaped?

  For long minutes she clung to the frame, spreadeagled against the wall, scarcely daring to breathe in case he glanced down. A faint light spilled from the open balcony door, but mercifully she was just a fraction below the outer limits of its beam. If she didn't move, didn't even breathe, then maybe he wouldn't see her.

  Minute ran into minute, and Martha could feel her fingers and toes getting colder and stiffer, and knew she couldn't stay there much longer. No matter if he saw her, she would have to move soon or she would fall. Just as she'd reached the very limits of her strength, footsteps crossed the stone floor of the balcony and the light was cut off as the door was slammed with a force which made the whole house shudder. Almost faint from relief, she clung to her precarious perch, then slowly and laboriously made her way down to the ground. Her legs were shaking, trembling from exertion and reaction, and she sat down abruptly on the cold, hard soil, resting her head against her upbent knees. It mightn't have been Everest, but scaling that wall had been for her just as great an achievement!

  For a few moments she allowed herself the luxury of just sitting there on the cold but beautifully firm ground, then she forced herself to her feet and scrabbled round in the undergrowth for her jacket and boots. The jacket, draped over a nearby bush, was easy enough to locate, as was one of the boots, but the other just refused to be found. Muttering to herself, Martha crawled on hands and knees across yard after yard of cold, muddy earth, her hands searching squeamishly through the debris of fallen leaves and broken twigs while she tried desperately to find it. It had to be here, not far from the other one, so where on earth could it be?

  'Is this what you're looking for?'

  The voice was deep and soft, vibrant with amusement, and so shockingly familiar that Martha stopped dead, too stunned to even try and stand up. Slowly she raised her unwilling eyes and stared up at the man who towered over her, one large hand raised aloft, dangling her missing boot from his lean fingers. She swallowed hard, fighting down the bitter, harsh taste of failure. It mightn't be a glass slipper, and he was a million miles away from being Prince Charming, but the outcome was still the same... he'd just found the woman he wanted!

  'Let me go! You can't keep me here. Let me go, I say!'

  She struggled, drumming her stockinged heels as hard as she could against his shins, but apart from a low groan of pain and a tightening of the vice-like grip round her waist he didn't give an inch. Using his shoulder, he pushed the door open and carried her through to the sitting-room, dropping her unceremoniously on to the sofa. Martha gasped as she hit the cushions with a jolt, then rolled to her feet and rounded on him, her green eyes spitting venom.

  'If you think you can keep me here like this, then you can think again. I'm going to ... going to ...' For a brief, dreadful moment she couldn't think of a single thing to threaten him with, so she just stood and glared at him, like a small cat which had just been cornered by a large and vicious dog, yet refused to give in.

  He closed the door, leaning back against the solid wooden panels while he crossed his arms across his broad chest, and just for a moment Martha's attention wavered. Even dressed in worn jeans and thick knit sweater, he was riveting, his dark golden hair gleaming with a burnished sheen, his tanned face like something from a painting. When had she ever seen such a handsome man before? Annoyed at the way her thoughts were wandering, she stood up straighter, pushing the matted dark curls from her hot, flushed cheek, smearing a trail of mud up the side of her face. Her hands were filthy, rims of dirt showing under her nails, the pads of her fingers stained brown with soil. She didn't need a mirror to tell her that she looked a sight, and the knowledge was like a fan to the flames of her anger. He looked like the embodiment of some Greek god and she looked like some filthy, unkempt vagrant. Was there no justice? Hands on hips, she faced him squarely.

  'Listen, Mr Maxwell, if you don't let me out of here then I am going to --'

  'To what?' he interrupted softly, pushing away from the door to cross the room and stand just inches from her. Instinctively Martha stepped back a pace, Intimidated by his height and the solid width of his shoulders. 'Just what are you going to do, Ms Clark? Call the police? Well, there's the phone, so please help yourself. Frankly, I'll be interested to hear what you tell them—what reason you have for coming here tonight.'

  His silver eyes were mocking as they stared down at her, and Martha would have given every single thing she possessed, even the much-needed holiday, just to throw the challenge back in his smugly confident face, but she couldn't. She couldn't call the police and explain why she'd come, because, quite apart from the fact that it would be betraying not one but two clients' confidentiality, the police would take a very dim view of how she'd gone about things. The polic
e were rarely in favour of private detective agencies, and never those run by a young and usually attractive woman. There was no way she could risk running foul of them and having her precious licence revoked! In grim, sullen silence she glared her dislike at him, not that it seemed to have much effect on his composure.

  'Not going to take me up on the offer, I see. Now I wonder why? Still, we'll leave that till later. Why don't you sit down, make yourself comfortable, and tell me the whole story?'

  He crossed the room to pour brandy into two crystal glasses, his back towards her, and for a second Martha stole a glance at the door. Should she make a run for it, try and get to her car? Would she make it? Her legs were still shaky, and he was obviously superbly fit, so did she stand the slimmest chance of escaping?

  'Don't forget the deadlock,' he said quietly, without even turning, and she ground her teeth together in annoyance. How had he known what she was thinking? Her eyes fired a hundred thousands darts of hatred at his broad back, but he seemed impervious to them. When he turned, he just smiled at the open hostility on her face and held the glass out towards her. For a second Martha hesitated, loath to accept anything from this wretched man, then common sense made her reach out and take the glass from him. Her knees were still knocking, despite her anger, her insides quivering with both fright and reaction, so maybe she'd be as well to have something to steady her. It might help her to think and find a way out of this whole, dreadful situation ... if there was one.

  She tipped the glass and took a long, deep swallow of the drink, then choked as best ten-year-old brandy hit the back of her throat with all the impact of a karate chop. Tears streamed from her eyes and she gasped, wheezing and coughing as she fought to get air into her lungs. He stepped forwards, catching her firmly by the shoulders, then thumped her hard in the middle of the back, making her lungs whiz open and accept the much-needed air.

  'All right?' He still held her, his big hands warm against her flesh, and Martha nodded before easing herself free from his grasp. Rather abruptly she sat down on the sofa, forcing herself to breathe slowly and evenly in a steady rhythm, keeping her face averted from his too discerning gaze. Surely it had just been the shock of the brandy which had made her feel so unsteady and shaken, not his touch?

  He sat down opposite, sipping the amber liquid in his glass with obvious pleasure, while his eyes studied her flushed face, and Martha wriggled uncomfortably in the deep leather seat. She felt like a specimen, something to be studied and viewed under a microscope—and, quite frankly, it wasn't pleasant. She buried her nose in her glass, sipping repeatedly at the drink, feeling the heat curl down into the pit of her stomach in a rather comforting way.

  'Would you like another?' He held the bottle up and Martha stared in surprise at her empty glass, then nodded, watching the thin ribbon of liquid pool into the crystal. In the light from the open fire it shone a pale, entrancing golden brown, and she took a quick, appreciative sip, wondering why she'd never realised before just how good brandy was. Why, she was feeling better already.

  'Now, then, Ms ... what on earth is your first name? I can't keep calling you Ms Clark all night, it's quite ridiculous.'

  'Why not?' she asked belligerently, then felt her face flush as she realised just how foolish she sounded. What did it matter what he called her: Ms Clark, Spot or Rover? The outcome would be the same whatever.

  'It's Martha,' she said shortly, her eyes lifting to study his reaction to this bit of information. He stared at her quietly for a few seconds, his silvery-pale eyes tracing over her small' pert features, then he nodded, a faint smile curving his long chiselled lips.

  'Yes, it suits you,' he said softly. Just for a moment Martha had the strangest feeling that he'd meant it as a compliment, but why? Why would he want to offer her a compliment when he so obviously disliked her? It was yet another puzzle to add to all the others which were crowding her brain. She drank again, then wriggled deeper into the soft leather chair. So he wanted to ask her some questions, did he? Well, she didn't mind that; frankly, she could handle anything he cared to throw at her. Suddenly Martha was brimful with confidence that she could cope with anything at that moment: run marathons, scale mountains, fight dragons . . . anything, so a few little questions weren't going to bother her. It was all thanks to the restorative powers of this wonderful drink!

  'Tell me, Martha, why did you come here tonight?'

  He smiled at her, his voice low and softly sensuous, and Martha swallowed, feeling the impact of it ripple through her whole body. She drew in a deep breath while she tried to get her thoughts into a nice logical order and remember her story word-perfect, but somehow it was strangely difficult. A warm, hazy fog seemed to be drifting through her head, blurring the details of everything but the truth, and she couldn't tell him that. No, sirree, she couldn't let the cat out of the bag!

  'I can't tell you.'

  For some reason the words sounded funny, slurred, as though she hadn't said them correctly—but of course she had. She sat up straighter and took another swallow of the drink, a flicker of regret running through her as she emptied the glass. She picked up the bottle and poured a scant inch of liquid into her glass, hating to see it looking so horribly empty. She took a dainty sip and smiled; that was better.

  'Are you sure you can't tell me, Martha?' he asked quietly. 'You can trust me.'

  His face was calm, his voice deeply reassuring, and for a second Martha was sorely tempted. It seemed such a pity to have to keep a secret from him but, after all, she couldn't betray a client. She shook her head and groaned as the room began to spin in lazy, colour-filled circles. She closed her eyes, willing the whirling sensation to go, but it took quite a while. When she opened her eyes again he was watching her, his grey eyes intent, and she had the strangest idea that he knew just how she'd felt, but of course he couldn't: he couldn't have known that she would have such a strange attack of giddiness.

  'Well, if you can't tell me exactly why you came, then can you tell me if I'm supposed to know you?'

  'Oh, no,' she answered clearly. 'You don't know me, same as I don't know you. That's why I came—well, one of the reasons,' she added as an afterthought, 'to find out your name. What is it?'

  'Maxwell,' he said, 'Quinn Maxwell.'

  'Thank you,' she said with utmost politeness.

  'You're very welcome, but why do you need to know my name?'

  'I can't tell you that. It's a secret.' The words twisted themselves into a little knot, then unravelled in a very strange way, but he seemed to understand what she meant.

  'Yes, I know it's a secret, honey, but whose secret is it? Yours?'

  'Oh, no, course not. Mr Johnson's and Mr ...'

  Her mouth snapped shut as she realised just a fraction too late what she'd done. She looked at him in horror, but there was nothing on his face which even hinted at disapproval. He just smiled at her, and Martha basked in the glow of that smile.

  'I don't think I know any Mr Johnson,' he said quietly, a hint of puzzlement in his voice. 'Can you describe him to me?'

  Martha thought about that one for a few minutes, resting her chin on the rather dirty heel of her hand. The fire was hissing and spitting softly in the grate, a faint smell of apples coming from the burning logs. Everywhere was so quiet, so beautifully peaceful, not at all like she'd imagined their promised confrontation would be like. Had she been a little bit foolish and hasty to run away like that? Her lids began to droop and she caught herself up, jumping as she felt herself begin to drift into a little sleep. She still had a question to answer, didn't she? What had it been? For a moment her mind struggled through the fog, then she remembered . . . Mr Johnson.

  'Mr Johnson is . . . like Mr Johnson,' she said clearly, then giggled at her own cleverness. He grinned, the light from the fire flickering over his handsome face and Martha sighed. He really was the best-looking man she'd ever seen. What a shame he had to be involved in all this.

  'What's a shame?'

  Martha's heavy lids
flicked wide open. She hadn't realised that she'd spoken her thoughts aloud, but she must have. She stared at him, then said slowly, 'You . . . it's a shame that you are involved in all this horrible mess.'

  'What mess, Martha? What exactly am I involved in?'

  'Can't tell you,' she muttered. 'It's a secret.' She felt so tired, as though everything which had happened had suddenly caught up with her. All she wanted was to put her head down on this nice soft cushion and fall asleep.

  'Is it Mr Johnson's secret?' he asked, his voice a bare, soft whisper, and she nodded, too tired to bother with a proper answer.

  'Just Mr Johnson's secret?'

  'And Mrs Johnson's,, as well, but I promised I wouldn't tell anyone. My lips are sealed.' She pressed a grimy finger to her lips to emphasise what, she'd just said.

  'I understand, of course I do. You wouldn't betray a secret, but you can tell me, sweetheart. I won't tell anyone else.'

  'Well. . .' She hesitated, her sleepy green eyes lingering on his face.

  'Please,' he whispered. He reached out to catch her hand, his long fingers stroking gently over her flesh, and Martha bit down a sudden urge to purr in pleasure. 'You can tell me, Martha; it will be our secret then, yours and mine.'

  His voice was gentle, soothing as the wind on a summer night whispering through the trees, and Martha smiled. Surely there could be no harm in telling this gorgeous, handsome man a little secret, not when he was being so kind and understanding? It would be something for them to share, a tiny link which would bond them together.

  'You mustn't tell anyone. Promise, cross your heart . . .'

  'And hope to die,' he finished for her, his fingers making a cross just above his heart.