She scooted over to the far side of the bed, looking anywhere but at him. If her life had depended on it, she couldn't have done that, not just then. It took an effort to find the strength to speak, but finally Martha managed it. She had to. What was done was done, and though she would regret it till her dying day there was no way to change it. However, equally, there was no way she intended to repeat it!
'Last night. . . well, last night, as you know, I wasn't quite myself. I may have acted in a way which was entirely foreign to me, but I want you to understand that there is no way I shall ever let it happen again.' She looked up, her face stiff with unconscious pride. 'I don't make a habit of sleeping with men I've only just met.'
'I'm glad to hear it,' he said, standing up so that he seemed to tower over her. 'Neither do I make a habit of sleeping with women I've only just met. For your information, I didn't do so last night.'
It took a minute for his words to sink in, like stones dropping into a pool to send out ripples.
'What do you mean?' she asked slowly, staring up at him.
He smiled, a cold, faintly menacing curl of his long lips. 'You're the detective, so you work it out.'
'You mean that I didn't ... we didn't . . .'
'That's right. We didn't.'
'But why did you let me believe that we . . .?' Colour surged up her pale cheeks and she stopped, too embarrassed and confused to continue with the question.
'Because it was too good an opportunity to miss to pay you back, that's why.'
'Pay me back?' she echoed hollowly, feeling suddenly sick. It had all been a trick, a cruel, distasteful trick.
'Of course. You didn't think you could get away with it, did you? Come here and spy on me, then get away scot-free?'
'Spy on you?' Her head was spinning, whirling with the hangover and a thousand confusing thoughts which refused to be neatly regimented and sorted into any kind of order. The best she could do was to repeat his words.
'Yes. Oh, don't try and act the innocent, there's just no point. One glance at this was all I needed to know what you'd been up to. You've been watching my house for several days now, and this is the proof of it.' He picked up the notebook and tossed it to her, but Martha made no move to catch it. She just watched as it fell to the floor, its white pages fluttering open.
'Dates, times, lists of people coming and going in the street... all those sordid little details you specialise in.' His voice was filled with contempt, and she winced, feeling suddenly and strangely ashamed of her actions. But still, if her memory served her right, she'd made no mention of any names in the notebook, nothing but dates and times which could only corroborate her previous story. It was a slim chance, but she had to take it. Anything was better than having to admit the real reason why she had come!
'Look, I've already told you that I am working on a case—-' she began, but he interrupted her, his voice hard.
'Yes, you told me all right, and what a pack of lies it was.'
'Lies? How do you know it was lies?' she asked, her tone shrill, bordering on the edges of near-hysteria.
He just looked at her, his face grim, and Martha had to steel herself not to flinch away from that damning look.
'Let me just say one word to you, Ms Clark, just one, a name—and see if it jolts your memory. Johnson. Does it ring a bell? Think on it. I'll be in the kitchen when you've made the connection.'
He left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. Martha stared after him, her eyes wide with a dawning horror. Oh, it rang a bell all right—a great big giant one, and with each peal what she'd said to him last night came clanging back to almost deafen her. She rolled over, dragging the pillow over her head, but it didn't help . . . nothing would. Almost as though she was listening to a tape-recording she could hear herself speaking, saying all those dreadful, indiscreet words, and she groaned aloud in dismay.
'You're having an affair with Mr Johnson's wife!'
Time and time again they echoed round her head, becoming ever more dreadful by the second. How could she have said them? How? Because he'd tricked her.
The answer slid into her mind and she flung the pillow as hard as she could across the room, knowing it was right. She, who had always considered herself streetwise and smart, had been outsmarted by that. . . that Lothario!
She washed and dressed in record time, then made her way to the kitchen, pausing just a step inside the doorway. Quinn Maxwell was seated at the table, reading, a pale wintry sun filtering through the small-paned window, bouncing flashes of golden fire from his downbent head and setting his dark-tanned face in shadow. For a moment Martha felt her stomach tighten, then roll with a sudden attack of the jitters.
Just who was he? Who was this man who'd just turned her neat and ordered life upside-down, then twisted it on its axis? This case should have been pure routine, a well-rehearsed sequence of dates and times and numbers, yet this man had destroyed any hope of that completely.
He glanced up, his eyes part shadowed from where he sat with his back to the window, and Martha wished desperately that she could have seen the expression in their depths. It would, at least, have given her a clue on how to play the next few minutes, because that was something she needed. Never had she been in such an intolerable position before, never!
There was silence for a few long seconds, a silence which stretched her nerves and patience to their limits, then he lifted the glass coffee-pot and poured a mugful of the dark brew, pushing it across the table towards her.
'Here, drink this. You look as though you need it.'
It was hardly the most hospitable of offers to a guest, even an uninvited one as she was, but Martha supposed that it was better than that strained, disturbing silence. She sat down, cradling the mug in her hands while she sipped the coffee, and shuddered at the bitter taste. It was dreadful!
'Have you any sugar?' she asked, knowing she would never be able to drink it like this, no matter how much she needed the boost it would give her.
'In the cupboard over the fridge, I think,' he answered, without looking up from his paper. It was the Financial Times, she noted, standing up to search through the cupboard; a strange choice for a man like him. She hunted round till she found a crumpled bag of sugar right at the back of the deep cupboard, and carried it back to the table, poking at the solid crystals till she had enough free for a couple of spoonfuls. She ladled it into the drink, then stirred it briskly, praying it would take the edge off this witches' brew he called coffee.
'Well, have you remembered, then?' He folded the paper and laid it down next to his mug, and Martha felt her stomach perform a neat little somersault, complete with double tuck. It was obvious that he expected answers now, yet just what could she tell him? Granted, he'd already sussed out the real reason why she'd arrived on his doorstep, but how could she tell him the full story and betray her client's confidence? It was so unethical, so far against every principle she'd held dear since starting the company. Deep down she knew that she would almost prefer to face the rack, and a thousand other tortures, than do that with any degree of willingness. She took a long swallow of the hot liquid, feeling it scorch the back of her throat, hoping it would help her think.
'Well?'
She set the mug down, her hand lingering against its smooth, earthenware surface, needing something to cling to, something solid in a world which seemed to be slipping through her fingers.
'Yes.' Her voice was low and she cleared her throat, hating to hear the note of indecision, hating him to know just how disturbed she was by having to make the confession. 'Yes. I remember exactly what I said last night.'
'And do you think it warrants an explanation?' His face was set, his eyes grim as they studied her, and Martha held his gaze with an effort. In truth she could appreciate why he was angry, but it just wasn't her concern. Her main concern now must be to protect her client.
'I don't think that there's any explanation needed. You know the facts. You're quite right in your assumption of w
hy I came, and that, as far as I can see, is the end of it.'
'You're a cool one, I'll say that for you, Martha Clark—a real cool customer. But I'm afraid that isn't the end of it.'
'No?' She raised one slender eyebrow, her face holding just the smallest trace of mockery. 'Well, I'm afraid that's all I'm prepared to tell you, so I don't really see how you can make any more out of it.'
'Don't you, indeed?' His voice was low, almost menacing, and Martha felt a ripple of fear tingle up her backbone. Somehow, she had the strangest feeling that his words held more than just a hint of threat. She looked down at the dark liquid in the cup, tilting it from side to side so that a tiny whirlpool formed on its glassy surface. She had the nastiest feeling that his thoughts were like this: dark, bitter and, to her at least, totally unpalatable! She had to get out of the house fast before she really got a taste of what was lurking under the surface of his mind.
'Mr Maxwell, last night I came here following up on a case—and through one thing and another, things got completely out of hand. Now all I want to do is leave and forget that any of it ever happened.'
'I'm sure you do, but I'm afraid it's just not that simple. I object to you coming here spying on me, Ms Clark. I object to you monitoring my friendships and my life just because you find it an easy way to make a living.'
Easy? That was a laugh. So far she'd been terrorised, pursued and drunk herself into a stupor, and he called it an easy way to make a living! A hundred replies surged to Martha's lips, but she snapped them closed, refusing to give life to any one of them. If she started that, then there was no chance he would ever let her go this side of Doomsday! No, if she had to placate him to get out of the house, then she would do so, even if it choked her.
'This isn't getting us anywhere, now, is it?
Look, what's done is done, so where's the point in going back over old ground? I really think it would be better for both of us if I leave now.'
She pushed back her chair and walked briskly from the kitchen, her heart hammering hard in her throat as she heard the sound of his footsteps following.
'Just a minute. Before you go, I want your assurance that this whole business is going to end here.'
'What do you mean?' She turned to face him and stepped back a pace, not realising that he'd come up so close behind her. In the narrow hall he seemed to tower over her, his wide shoulders blotting out the faint light which spilled from the kitchen doorway. All of a sudden Martha felt strangely breathless as the memory of what had so nearly happened last night at this very spot came back to assail her. Just for a moment she could almost feel the warmth of his breath as it touched her skin, feel the hard, muscled strength of his chest under her palms once again. She glanced down, terrified of what he might read in her face. She might dislike this man, might feel nothing but contempt for what he was doing, yet he still had a strange ability to disturb her. It had been years since she'd felt so shaken by a man's closeness, years since she'd felt this rush of physical awareness.
'I want you to promise that you will give up this case.'
His voice was low, slightly rough, and just for a moment she wondered if he, too, was having trouble with the same disturbing memories. But that was foolish. To a man like Quinn Maxwell, that brief moment must mean less than nothing.
She took a slow, deep breath, trying to ease the lingering echoes from her mind so that she could deal with the present.
How could she promise to give up the case when she had already made a commitment to her client, or rather, clients? After all, this wasn't just one case but two: Mr Johnson and Mr Morris. There was really no way she could do it, yet she had the unnerving feeling that he would never let her go unless she gave her Word. She'd already sneaked a look at the door, and the key was still missing, so, unless she agreed, then she could find herself locked in this house for just as long as it pleased him. Suddenly the thought of being closeted in his company for much longer was more than Martha could bear. She cast round, desperate for some sort of solution, and came up with the perfect answer.
She could promise to give up the case, and she would stick to that promise, but that didn't mean that she couldn't hand it over to someone else, one of the men who worked for her. She'd been thinking about doing that yesterday before this whole crazy charade started, so she might as well decide to do it. She looked up, her green eyes clear and level as they met his intent grey ones.
'I promise that I will have no further part in watching you or your house,' she said, choosing her words with care.
He stared at her in silence for a few minutes, studying her face, and Martha forced herself not to flinch. Then he smiled, a slow, sensuous smile which made her pulse leap up and start to flutter in a wild, crazy little rhythm she couldn't control.
'Thank you,' he said softly. 'I'm sure you won't regret it. Next time we meet, then at least this won't be lying between us.'
Next time? No way was there ever going to be a next time if she could help it. It would be far too dangerous, both for her business and, more importantly, herself!
'I hardly think there will be a next time,' she said weakly, edging towards the door.
'Don't you? I disagree. I think fate led you here last night, and that same fate will have some bearing on the future. But still, only time will tell, won't it?'
He reached past her to unlock the door, and Martha turned to hurry through it, stopping dead as she found herself face to face with a woman standing on the step. She gasped in surprise and stepped back a pace, backing into the solid length of the man who was behind her. Instinctively his hands closed round her shoulders to steady her, and Martha felt her breath catch at the feel of his warm, firm grasp.
'Oh, I'm sorry. Did I startle you? I was just about to knock.'
She stepped into the hall, smiling at Martha before turning to Quinn.
'I hope I'm not too early, Quinn, dear, but I thought we could make an early start today as I have a WI meeting after lunch. I can come back later if you're busy, though.'
'No, not at all, Margaret,' he said easily, letting his hands slide from Martha's shoulders and down the length of her arms in a light touch which burned a trail of fire down her flesh. 'Martha is just leaving, so I have plenty of time.' He smiled at the older woman, his grey eyes warmer than Martha had ever seen them. 'Allow me to introduce you two ladies—Margaret Johnson, I'd like you to meet Martha Clark.'
He stepped back, and Martha stared round her in something verging on panic. This couldn't be happening, it just couldn't. To come face to face with the woman here—why it was like the darkest point in some dreadful nightmare!
'I'm pleased to meet you, Miss Clark.' Mrs Johnson held out her hand and Martha was forced to take it. 'Why, your hands are like ice, dear! Surely you're not going out without a coat on? You'll catch your death on a bitter day like this.'
'I . . . I . . .' Martha stuttered and stammered, then found her voice, though it sounded as though it belonged to someone else. 'I must have left my coat somewhere,' she said lamely, looking round.
'It's in the bedroom. I'll get it.'
He walked unhurriedly down the hall, and for a second Martha stared after him, feeling desperate. Pure common courtesy demanded that she should say something, make some attempt at conversation, but what? However, the ball was taken out of her court as the older woman spoke.
'Have you known Quinn long?' There was a note of speculation in her voice, and in a trice Martha realised what could have caused it. She flushed, the colour surging under her pale, fine skin as she acknowledged just how damning it looked to have left her coat in his bedroom.
'Oh, no. No, we only just met last night,' she said quickly to put the record straight, then realised that was even worse than saying nothing! 'I mean, I . . .'
The older woman laid her hand gently on Martha's arm, her face filled with understanding. 'I know exactly what you mean, my dear, and I can't blame you. He's quite a man, isn't he? So handsome and so charming. He could sweep any gi
rl off her feet.'
Well, maybe the description wasn't quite what Martha would have chosen for him, or at least a major part of it. He was handsome, all right, almost too handsome, but charming? She'd not had a single taste of that, had she? Unable to agree or disagree, she merely smiled, wishing he would hurry up finding her jacket. It seemed to be taking him an inordinately long time.
'Yes, my life has certainly changed since I met Quinn, Miss Clark, become fuller, richer. I feel years younger, in fact. I must say it's been worth every penny, every single penny.'
The words filtered through her embarrassment, though for a moment Martha failed to grasp the full implication of them. Then suddenly it hit her, just what the woman had said, every single revealing word of it. She turned round, her eyes wide with a dawning horror.
'You pay him, pay him for his . . . services?' Her voice was shrill, echoing down the narrow hallway like a whistle through a tunnel, and she winced, glancing quickly along the hall, wondering if he'd heard her. However, there was still no sign of him returning with her coat.
'But of course I do, dear. Why, we all do. After all, it's the way he makes his living, and he is so very good at it.'
Mrs Johnson smiled at her, a gentle, faintly amused little smile, but Martha wasn't looking at her now. She was staring past her, her eyes locked on the tall figure walking down the hall. She felt numb, shocked to the core, rigid with a horror so great that her brain was finding it hard to function. Yet one word was trying to ease its way through the shock, to wriggle into her consciousness, a word so old, so scarcely used, that it conjured up immediate pictures of tents and harems and dark-eyed men like Valentino. She stared at Quinn Maxwell as he came closer, stared and stared and couldn't take her eyes from him, the 1980s version of a kept man... a gigolo. A professional lover!
CHAPTER FOUR
It had been a long day. Martha swallowed the last of the hot milk, then left the cup on the table, too tired to even make the effort to wash it. Though it was barely ten o'clock, all she wanted to do now was to get to bed and put the whole of this miserable day behind her. As days went, this could win an award for the worst one ever!
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