Tender Pursuit

by Jennifer Taylor

  'Well, the secret is . . . that you're having an affair with Mr Johnson's wife!'

  She hiccuped, then snuggled down into the chair, feeling pleasantly warm and secure. It was good to have someone you could share things with . . . especially secrets!

  CHAPTER THREE

  Martha rolled over, groaning as a dull pain thudded through her head. She opened her eyes, then snapped them shut again as the blinding glare of daylight made them burn. She felt dreadful. Was she ill? Gingerly she rolled back on to her stomach, burrowing her face into the pillow, and sighed in relief at the smooth, cool touch of silk under her hot cheek. It felt good.

  Silk. The word slithered slowly and insistently into her mind, disturbing the brief moment of pleasure, though for a few minutes her dulled brain failed to grasp the reason why. Silk... why should that seem somehow wrong? She lay quite still, trying to find a way through the clouds of fog which lingered in her head, and then, suddenly, she had it. Her bedding was crisp polycotton, delicately flower-sprigged and extremely pretty, but it wasn't silk!

  Her eyes flew open and she stared at the smooth, black fabric under her cheek, feeling suddenly sick. Where was she? Just whose bed was she in if it wasn't hers? Pressing a hand to her throbbing temples!, she eased herself upright and stared round the room, her stomach lurching in shock as she recognised the black and silver decor at first glance. She was in his room. What was his name, now? That was it, Maxwell, Quinn Maxwell. What in heavens name was she doing in his room, and in his bed?

  She leaned weakly back against the soft padded headboard, the implications of the situation too dreadful to contemplate. Somewhere, in the deepest, darkest recesses of her mind, a memory stirred, a fleeting picture of her sitting by a warm, cosy fire sharing a drink with a man... that man! After that, it was a total blank. What had happened next? What had she said? Worse still, what had she done? Heaven help her, but she just couldn't remember anything past sitting by that fire. All those hours had passed, and yet she could remember nothing of them!

  She flung back the silky covers and half fell out of bed, swaying weakly as pain swamped her head and her knees started to buckle. It was hard to think straight with this terrible pounding in each temple, but she had to try. She had to find a way out of this house before he came in and found her awake. She had the nastiest feeling that she'd already told him more than she should have done, and in this fragile state she would be no match for him if he chose to continue his probing.

  'So, you're awake at last. I was beginning to think you would sleep the clock round.'

  He came into the room by way of the bathroom, his bare feet making no sound on the thick carpet, and Martha swung round, staggering as her head swirled in protest at the sudden movement. She stared at him, horror shimmering in her green eyes as she studied the short towelling robe he wore. Did he always parade round the house like this, half dressed? Why, she'd seen more of this man's body in just a few short hours than she'd seen of any man in years! She swallowed hard, feeling suddenly far too delicate to handle the situation.

  'Your clothes are in the closet,' he said quietly, pointing to the huge walk-in wardrobes which filled one wall of the room.

  She nodded, moving instinctively towards them, then froze as the full import of that little piece of information struck her. She glanced down, her eyes lingering in shock for one full second on the pale pink thermal underwear which was all she was dressed in, before she made a leap for the bed. Colour flooded her face and she closed her eyes, wishing she were dead! It just wasn't fair: last night and now . . . this! How could she ever live down the shame of spending the night in this man's bed, and then having him see her clad only in pink long-johns and vest?

  The sound of drawers being opened and closed finally made her summon up enough courage to open her eyes, though when she realised what was happening she almost wished she hadn't. For a full minute Martha stared at the broad, golden-tanned back, the smooth curve of naked flanks, the muscled length of his long legs, and felt herself begin to tremble in apprehension.

  'What are you doing?' Her voice was a thin croak, a reedy whistle of cracked sound, but it was the best she could manage right at that moment. Under the covers her hands locked into fists, her short nails digging deep into the soft inner flesh of her palms as she tried to stem the rising tide of panic which threatened to engulf her. If he took one step, just one, towards her, then she would scream the place down, so help her!

  'Getting dressed, of course,' he answered, without turning. 'Why? Have you some objection?'

  'Yes ... I mean no ... I... I.. . Why can't you go somewhere else and get dressed?' she managed at last, colour staining her cheeks a brilliant carmine with embarrassment. For a moment there she'd thought he meant to ... She drew in a shuddery breath, fighting down exactly what she'd thought he intended!

  He slid into shorts and jeans before glancing over his shoulder, his silvery-pale eyes unreadable as they studied Martha's flushed face. Then he smiled, a mocking, knowing little smile which made her wish she had something heavy close at hand to throw at him.

  'Well, well, so the lady's embarrassed, is she? Now, that is a surprise. I'd have thought you would have seen it all before in your line of business.'

  'What do you mean?' Incensed by both the words and the tone in his deep voice, Martha sat bolt upright, clutching the black sheet to her bosom—not that there was the slightest danger of her being immodestly exposed in the thermal outfit. 'What do you mean by my "line of business"? Just what are you implying, Mr Maxwell?'

  'Oh, please, call me Quinn. Don't you think that "Mr Maxwell" is just a shade too formal after last night?'

  The mockery was open now, but Martha refused to be side-tracked by it, or by that poser he'd just thrown her. There would be time soon enough to find out what had happened last night. Now all she wanted was an explanation of what he'd meant.

  'Listen, I don't care what you want to be called. Frankly, I can think up any number of suitable names for you without any help at all. I want to know what you meant by that remark.' She glared at him, pushing the tumbling dark curls from her hot, flushed cheeks with a rough sweep of her hands.

  He pulled a soft blue sweater out of a drawer and slipped it on, running his fingers carelessly through his hair to flatten the ruffled golden strands before he answered.

  'Nothing much, really, except that I should have imagined that seeing people undressed would be an everyday hazard in your sort of work. After all, aren't divorce cases easier to prove if you catch people in flagrante delicto, as the law puts it?'

  There was a wealth of scorn in his voice, but Martha scarcely heard it, too caught up by what he'd just said. How did he know that she was working on a divorce case? She'd never told him that ... had she? For a moment she tried desperately to remember their conversation last night, but it was impossible. That huge great cloud of fog was still lingering, making it difficult to remember what day it was, let alone what she'd said some ten hours previously. But she had to know how much of what he'd said was based on fact, and how much on pure guesswork.

  'I don't remember mentioning anything about any divorce case,' she said shortly, her eyes not quite meeting his.

  'Don't you? I suppose it's not surprising, really, considering the number of brandies you put away. Now, how many was it? Two ... three . . . or was it more?'

  His tone was openly mocking, and Martha felt a sudden surge of shame run through her. How could she have been so foolish as to do that? She gritted her teeth and stayed silent, knowing there was nothing she could say in her own defence.

  He moved forwards to stand next to the bed and stare down at her, and Martha forced down the sudden urge to slither under the covers and hide away from his mocking gaze.

  'Listen, Ms Clark, you've only got yourself to blame if you feel lousy this morning. OK, so maybe I could have tried to stop you drinking so much. I did think about it at one point, but frankly I doubted if you would listen to any advice I had to offer. Anyhow
, why should I have bothered? My main concern was to find out what you wanted, not worry about your health and welfare.'

  'And did you?' she demanded, embarrassment adding a touch of defiance to her voice.

  'Yes, I think I did. Just before you passed out last night, you gave me a clue to what was going on, such a good one that I scarcely needed the rest of the evidence to back it up.'

  'What evidence? What are you talking about?' she asked sharply, fear uncurling coldly inside her. What did he know? What had he found?

  'This . . . and this.'

  With a quick flick he tossed a slim leather wallet and matching notebook on to the silky cover, and for one long second Martha stared at them with wide, disbelieving eyes.

  'Recognise them?' he asked softly, his voice just a low purr of sound against the silence in the room. 'I'm sure you must do. After all, I got them out of your pocket.'

  It was too much! The final straw after all she'd gone through last night and then this morning. Martha rounded on him in sudden fury.

  'How dare you? How dare you go through my things? How dare you invade my privacy like that?'

  'Invade your privacy?' Naked anger shone in his eyes, and unconsciously Martha shrank back against the headboard, feeling her heart start to pound in sudden terror. He was staring at her with open dislike now, his face hard, his eyes the colour of cold steel, his big hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, as though he was making a tremendous effort to keep them off her. In a flash she knew she had to do something to defuse the situation before it got totally out of control.

  'Now, look here, Mr Maxwell—oh!'

  The gasp tore from her lips as he leant down and caught her wrist in a harsh grasp, wrenching her forwards so that their faces were bare inches apart.

  'No, you look here, Ms Clark. If there was any invasion of privacy last night, it was done by you . . . you! Not me.'

  'I can explain that, if you'll just let me.'

  Desperately she tried to twist free from his grasp, but he just held her tighter, his long fingers locked round the slender bones, making them ache from the pressure. Tears sprang to her eyes, but with an impatient toss of her head she blinked them away. There was no way she was going to give him the satisfaction of making her break down and cry. She stared back at him, her green eyes stormy in her now pale face. For a second he held her gaze, then slowly loosened his hold on her wrist and stepped back a pace, turning his back on her as though he needed a moment to grab hold of his composure. When he spoke, his voice was still harsh, roughened by anger, but more controlled.

  'Right, I'm listening. So let's hear it, your explanation.'

  Martha drew in a deep breath, fighting for some composure of her own before she spoke. Those last few minutes had near scared her witless, making her realise just how vulnerable her position was. But still, if she could just come up with some sort of plausible explanation, then maybe she could ease herself out of this dreadful situation.

  'I...' Her voice faded and she swallowed hard, forcing herself to continue. 'As you've already discovered from the identification in that wallet, I am a private detective. I came here last night because I'm working on a case at the moment, and some information I'd been given led me to this address. I'm actually trying to locate some missing property,'

  'I see. And what is it exactly that you're looking for?'

  He'd turned back to face her, leaning almost indolently against the wall, but Martha could tell from his expression that there was nothing really indolent about his attention. He was listening to her every word, listening and weighing up its merits. Please heaven she could invent something plausible enough to convince him, because, if she couldn't, then the consequences might be too awful to contemplate. In a year filled with sticky situations, this had to be the stickiest and trickiest of them all! She cast rapidly round in her mind for something which would hold the ring of truth, and came up with the case she'd been working on only last week.

  'Diamonds and pearls. Half a million pounds' worth, to be exact.'

  He raised an eyebrow. 'Half a million, eh? Well, well! It appears you work in the big league, then, if you're handling that sort of a case.'

  There was a note of disbelief in his voice which Martha just had to quell, right now.

  'M.C. Investigations handles many cases of that size. Insurance claims mainly.' There was a note of pride in her voice, but she didn't care who heard it. She'd worked both long and hard to get the company to where it was today, and there was no way she was prepared to dismiss it.

  'I am impressed. But how did your investigations lead you here? Surely you don't think that I have half a million's worth of jewels hidden in my cupboards or under the floorboards, do you?'

  There was more than a trace of sarcasm in his voice, and Martha flushed, biting her tongue to hold back the hundred or so snappy answers she'd really like to give him. She couldn't afford to do that, to antagonise him further. She had to stay calm, play everything down, and make him think that this whole miserable charade had been one huge mistake from start to finish. If she could do that, then there was just the slimmest chance she would get away with it. M.C. Investigations' whole future could depend on how she played this next scene, so she would have to swallow any insult he cared to throw at her just to protect it.

  The business was her lifeblood, her family, her baby . . . and, like any mother, she would do anything in her power to save it from harm!

  'Of course I don't think that, Mr Maxwell,' she said with a charming little laugh. 'Why, it's obvious that there's been some sort of a slip-up and that you're not involved.'

  'Is it? Why?'

  'What do you mean, why?' she snapped, then forced a smile to her stiff lips to soften the abruptness of the question.

  'Well, if you believed that I was involved last night, then what has made you change your mind?'

  'Well... I... obviously meeting with you and talking to you has made me realise that you couldn't possibly be involved in anything like that.'

  It sounded lame even to her own ears, but Martha refused to dwell on it. There was no way she could afford to let even the tiniest flicker of doubt show on her face, not when he was watching her so intently. She sat up straight, forcing herself to meet his eyes. There was a brief silence, a tiny moment of peace, and then he spoke and that peace was shattered completely.

  'Thank you. It's nice to know that what we shared last night obviously influenced your viewpoint. It had a profound effect on me, too.'

  His eyes were warm now, no longer hostile, but Martha was too shocked by what he'd said to appreciate it. An icy-cold finger seemed to be stroking down her spine, making her shiver in sudden fear. What did he mean? Just what had they shared that had been so earth-shattering? She licked her suddenly dry lips, desperately wanting to ask the question, yet somehow terrified of hearing the answer.

  'You do remember last night, don't you, Martha?' he asked softly, pushing away from the wall to sit down on the side of the bed. 'All of it? Every wonderful moment?'

  The mattress dipped under his weight and she slithered helplessly towards him, feeling the tension race through her body as her thigh came to rest against his. Even through the layers of bedding she could feel the hard warmth of his flesh, and desperately she tried to inch herself away. This whole situation was getting way out of hand and she had to do something, but what?

  'Oh, surely you're not shy, are you, sweetheart? I don't believe it . . . not after last night.' He reached out, catching her hand gently between both of his to pull her closer, so close that she could smell the faint, tantalising smell of soap and cologne which clung to his skin, feel the sweet, moist warmth of his breath cloud on her cheek. She closed her eyes, fighting for some measure of calm, fighting to make some sense out of this whole crazy situation. Just what should she do, what should she say, faced with this ... a totally unknown quantity? Last night was like a huge blank canvas, yet even now her imagination was starting to paint some outlines on it: outline
s which threatened to blow her mind and destroy her life completely!

  She pulled back, managing to set a few precious inches between them before he stopped her, his big hands closing gently but firmly round her slender fingers. She glanced down, staring at her hand, so pale and fragile against his. She could struggle, she supposed, could try to make him free her, yet some instinct warned her that would be a mistake. In a test of strength, there was no doubt as to who would be the winner! No, what she had to rely on now, pin her hopes on, was logic, ice-cold, diamond-bright logic. She'd talked herself out of some tight corners before, so she could do it again.

  'Mr M . . .' The words dried up as he bent forwards to gently press one long finger against her lips.

  'Quinn,' he ordered softly, staring deep into her eyes, 'please.'

  She swallowed hard, trying to ease the huge great knot of tension which threatened to choke her, then tried again.

  'All right, then, Quinn. I'm sorry, but I really don't know what is going on here. I don't remember anything about last night.' She tried to keep her voice level, but it wasn't entirely successful.

  'Nothing?' He raised one thick eyebrow, a gleam in his eyes which brought a sudden rush of colour to her cheeks and robbed her of any further ability to speak.

  'You don't remember me carrying you in here, undressing you, putting you to bed?' His voice was low, sensuous, and Martha bit back a moan of utter misery. Minute by minute, and second by second, everything was getting worse instead of better! Dumbly she shook her head, too distraught to find the right words at that moment.

  'None of it? You don't remember lying here in this bed with --'

  'Don't!' she cried. 'Please, don't.' She clamped her hands over her ears, desperately trying to cut out his silken voice. She couldn't bear to hear one more word, to have him fill in the detail on all those vivid pictures her mind had just created. If she lived to be a hundred she would never understand how she could have spent the night with this man yet not remember a single thing about it!