Tender Pursuit

by Jennifer Taylor

  She switched off the living-room light, then made her way wearily through to the bedroom, her eyes going automatically to the framed photograph on the bedside-table. She picked it up and stared down at it, her fingers smoothing gently over the cold, hard glass, tracing the familiar features.

  It had been taken almost ten years ago now, when Paul had been twenty;, and he looked so young, younger even than she remembered him. What would he have looked like now? How would the years have changed him? Hugging the photo to her, Martha tried to imagine how his face might have changed, how the years could have altered all those youthful contours. She closed her eyes, concentrating on putting flesh and substance back on to the flat paper image, but it was impossible: impossible to take the past and turn it into the present.

  Paul had been dead three years now, and no amount of wishing could change that fact. She should be grateful that she had her photographs and all those precious memories of the wonderful years they'd been married. It was more than most people had in a whole lifetime.

  With a tiny sigh she put the photograph back and unbuttoned her dressing-gown, tossing it carelessly at the bottom of the bed before sliding between the cool crisp sheets with a soft murmur of relief. It was good to be in her own bed, to have all her own familiar things around her. It made her feel safe, secure, as though she was in charge of her life once more. What had happened last night and then this morning had shaken her more than she cared to admit. It was only now, hours later, that she felt truly able to cope with it.

  That man, and what she'd discovered about him, had disturbed her greatly, but now she had to put the whole unsavoury incident behind her. She'd already taken the first step towards doing that by handing the case over to one of her employees. So now Quinn Maxwell and all his women were no longer her immediate concern. She would keep overall control of the case, as she did with every case the agency handled, but it was no longer one of her priorities—and that was a relief. The less she had to do with that man and his unprincipled life-style, the better!

  She switched off the lamp and rolled over, pulling the covers snugly round her shoulders, but the sleep which had been so welcoming just minutes earlier now proved to be elusive. She tossed and turned, rolling restlessly round the bed, wondering why she'd never realised before just how lumpy the mattress really was. The trouble was that, although her body was tired, her brain was still annoyingly active. Maybe she should read for a while and see if that would settle her down.

  She sat up and reached for the light switch, gasping in alarm as the telephone suddenly rang, its strident tones almost deafening in the silence. She snatched up the receiver to cut off the dreadful racket, wondering who on earth could be calling at this hour.

  'Hello?'

  'Ms Clark . . . it's George.'

  'George?' For a full second Martha stared at the phone in utter confusion. George Bryant was one of her employees, but what did he want, ringing her at this hour?

  'Are you still there, Ms Clark?'

  'Yes, of course, George. What is it? Has something happened?'

  'It's that case you gave me today. Well, I've been keeping tabs on that Maxwell chap, as you told me to—not that it's been easy, mind you. He's led me a right merry dance, I can tell you. But now, well, now . . .'

  His voice trailed off and Martha felt the back of her neck start to prickle in sudden swift apprehension. George was one of her best men, an ex-police officer who'd proved time and again that he could handle any sort of situation. It was the main reason she'd put him on this case, knowing he would be equal to anything Quinn Maxwell could come up with. So what had happened to instil that note of worry in his voice?

  She took a slow, deep breath, willing herself to stay calm and prepare herself for any sort of eventuality. Maxwell had been trouble from the word go, and from the look of things had every intention of continuing to be so, but she had to deal with him the same as she'd dealt with so many others.

  'Just tell me what's happened, George,' she said firmly, pleased to hear just how calm she sounded, though inside every nerve in her body felt as though it was twanging. 'Is there some sort of a problem with the case? It seemed quite straightforward to me, just a simple surveillance. Come to think about it, what are you doing working at this time? I thought I explained that he wasn't down for twenty-four hour surveillance, and that you could finish around eight.'

  'I know that, Ms Clark, but around a quarter-to he took off, so I figured I'd better follow and see what he was up to.'

  'So what happened? Did you lose him?' Annoyance echoed briefly in her voice at that idea, but the man was quick to reassure her.

  'No way, though it's been touch and go a few times, I can tell you. We must have driven a couple of hundred miles around town tonight, just going up and down back streets, but I'm still with him. It's just that... hold on, will you? I'm in a pay phone and I'm going to run out of money.'

  Martha chewed on her lip, forcing herself to wait patiently while he fed more coins into the slot.

  'Sorry about that, Ms Clark.'

  'That's OK, George, but go on. You say you're still with him, so what's the problem? Where exactly are you?'

  There was a brief, tense silence, and Martha had the strangest feeling that the man didn't know how to answer the simple question.

  'George!' she snapped out, suddenly losing patience.

  'Outside your flat.'

  'Outside my . . . what on earth do you mean?' she demanded in astonishment.

  'Just that. We drove round and round as I told you, going in circles most of the time, then he took off and drove like a madman right across town. I couldn't believe it when he pulled up outside your door. I've ho idea what's going on, maybe you have, but I thought I'd better warn you.'

  'You did quite right, George, thank you. Where are you phoning from?'

  'The box on the corner. What do you want me to do now? Wait and see where he goes next?'

  'No,' she said slowly. 'No, you go on home. I'll handle this myself.'

  Martha replaced the receiver, then sat quite still, trying to absorb this new piece of information and make some sense of Quinn Maxwell's actions. Just what did he want? It couldn't be coincidence that his night-time drive had led him there.

  She slid out of bed, dragging on her robe as she walked quickly through to the living-room and eased the curtains open just a fraction. The window overlooked the front street, and for a few minutes Martha stared down, her eyes lingering on the half-dozen or so cars parked along the kerb. Which one was his? She couldn't tell from this distance.

  Lower down the street a car pulled out and drove slowly past, and she frowned as she realised it was George's. Obviously he was following her instructions and going home, so now it seemed it really was down to her to sort the whole crazy situation out.

  She ran back to the bedroom and dragged on jeans and sweater over her nightgown, tucking the silky folds inside with scant regard for the oddly bundled shape they made of her slim figure. What she looked like was of no importance now, when she had this other pressing problem to deal with. All she wanted was to sort it out, and get rid of that man as fast as possible. It made her feel strangely vulnerable to think of him parked outside her home.

  She let herself out of the flat and ran down the stairs to street level, opening the front door quietly to peer out. The road was quiet at this hour and she hesitated for a few seconds, somehow loath to leave the safety of the doorway. Then, chiding herself for being foolish, she stepped out and walked briskly along the pavement, checking each of the cars in turn.

  He was in the third one, a long silvery saloon which must have cost a small fortune from the look of its sleek lines. Martha stopped dead when she came level with it, her green eyes shooting sparks as they met his mocking grey ones through the tinted windscreen. She pounded on the side door, waiting with a mounting fury while he pressed a button and the window slid down a couple of inches. A blast of warm air seeped out of the car and she shivered, wishing
she'd stopped long enough to find a jacket before she'd rushed out. However, mere cold was the very least of her worries.

  'What the hell do you think you're doing?' she demanded hotly.

  He smiled at her, his eyes gleaming as he noted the fury on her face. 'What does it look like?'

  'It looks like you're sitting outside my home, causing a nuisance,' she snapped back.

  'Does it?' he replied easily, not a trace of discomfort on his face.

  'But why? Why are you here at this time of the night?'

  'Oh, just testing out a theory.'

  'Theory... what theory? What are you talking about?'

  'My, my, you are in a temper. Does it bother you so much, the fact that I'm here?' There was a note of speculation in his deep voice which made Martha flush when she heard it.

  'Of course it bothers me. It would bother me no matter who it was out here, not just because it's you! Exactly what right have you to be here?'

  'Same right as you have to be outside my house, I imagine,' he answered, his voice suddenly hard.

  His meaning was unmistakable and Martha stepped back a pace, wondering what to do next. She cast a frantic look up and down the street, wrapping her arms tightly round her body as the icy wind knifed through her sweater. Just what could she do to make him go away? She would never be able to rest, knowing he was out here.

  'Here, get in before you catch your death.' There was concern in his voice now as he swung the car door open, but she hesitated, somehow loath to entrust herself to him in that small, confining space.

  'Well, please yourself. It'll be your funeral.' He leant over to close the door, but she wrenched it back and slid inside, trying hard not to shiver as a delicious warmth spread through her numb body. She tucked her hands under her arms and clamped her teeth together to stop them chattering, then stared at him, determined not to let him see just how much he disturbed her.

  He was wearing a thick leather flying-jacket, the collar pulled high around his well-shaped ears, and in the dim light from the dashboard his hair was like rich old gold, his eyes like burnished pewter. For a few minutes Martha studied him in silence, feeling a ripple of regret course through her that behind all this male beauty should lie such a devious and treacherous nature.

  'Well,' he said softly, 'are you going to sit there all night and stare at me, or are you going to ask me what I want?'

  Martha's face tightened as she heard the sarcasm in his voice, her full lips compressing into a flat line.

  'So, what do you want?' she snapped at him.

  'So gracious,' he said with a mocking little laugh. 'Your manners, my dear Ms Clark, leave me speechless.'

  'Let's forget my manners, shall we? Yours are nothing to write home to Mother about, believe me. What exactly do you want? What is this "theory" you mentioned?' She half turned in the seat to face him, the dim light playing gently over her fine pale skin, so that for a moment she looked far younger than her thirty years. He looked at her in silence for a few seconds, and Martha found to her surprise that she couldn't think of one single sharp and scratchy thing to say to make him look away. Why was he watching her like that, staring at her as though he found the experience pleasant?

  She squashed down the urge to run her fingers through her untidy curls to make herself look less dishevelled. It was just tactics, that was all, a trick to make her believe he found her attractive and thereby soften her up, but it wouldn't work. She was no poor, lonely, middle-aged woman, unsure of herself and worrying over her waning youth. She was her own person, a capable, determined businesswoman, who had stood on her own two feet for years!

  'Look, Mr Maxwell, you can just cut out all those smouldering looks. They don't work on me. I'm immune to you and your brand of charm.'

  'Are you? I don't suppose you'd care to test that out, would you?'

  He moved closer and Martha stifled a gasp as she huddled up against the door. She scrabbled round for the door-handle, but despite her efforts the door refused to open.

  'Central locking system,' he said briefly, an amused glitter in his eyes. 'There's no way you can get out until I let you ... yet again.'

  'Now, look here --' she began hotly, anger flaring inside her that she had fallen for the same old trick once again. He held his hand up, his face suddenly hard as he interrupted.

  'No. You look here, Ms Clark. This morning you promised that you would drop the case, yet what do I find this afternoon? Only that there is one of your men parked outside my house!'

  'How can you be sure of that?' she asked quickly. 'It could have been anyone. After all, I'm sure there's quite a few irate husbands dying to know what their wives are up to. So why do you think he was one of my men?'

  He grinned, a taunting curve to his long lips which sent a shiver of unease tingling down her backbone. 'Because you're here.'

  'Pardon?' she said, puzzled at such an ambiguous answer.

  'Surely it's obvious? Look, I spotted this man around six o'clock but decided to give him the benefit of the doubt in case I was getting paranoid after last night. However, when he was still there at seven-thirty, then I knew that my suspicions must be right. So I took him for a little drive, then made my way here. I figured that if he really was one of your men, then he would waste no time in contacting you. So... here you are, and it seems that my theory was right.'

  He sat back in his seat, a smugly complacent look on his face which made Martha itch to reach out and smack him. He made it all sound so easy, absolute child's play, yet she knew for a fact that George was the best when it came to surveillance work. Quinn Maxwell must be far sharper than she'd allowed for; she would have to watch out. Mind you, was it any surprise that he'd developed his instincts for self-preservation? In his line of business, it was a basic necessity! Playing for time, a few precious minutes to work out what to do next, she said shortly, 'And how did you know where I live?'

  He shrugged, his big shoulders moving briefly under the thick leather jacket, brushing against hers in the confined space.

  'I checked your licence last night. I had a feeling I might need to know a bit more about you, and it seems I was right.'

  How could she have been so careless? Martha made a mental note to never carry such revealing information next time she was out on a case. There was no way she wanted her address being disclosed like this, handed out to any Tom, Dick or Harry. In some cases it could prove to be very dangerous; it had proved to be—well, rather hazardous in this one. She looked up, her green eyes steady as they met his across the few inches which separated them.

  'So, it seems you've caught me out. What happens next?'

  'That depends on you.'

  'In what way?'

  'All you have to do is call off your hounds, then we can either go our separate ways ... or let our relationship develop along friendlier lines. I know which I'd prefer.'

  There was no mistaking what he meant, and Martha flushed, filled with a fresh surge of temper.

  'We don't have a relationship and, as far as I'm concerned, shall never have one. I despise everything you stand for, Quinn Maxwell. Despise the way you prey on silly, vulnerable women in this manner. This car, for instance, it must have cost a packet. Which one of your lady friends paid for it?'

  'Which one of my...? Just what do you think I do for a living? Tell me!'

  'I should have thought that was obvious,' she snapped back, annoyed that he should pretend such innocence.

  'Oh, it is, but just let me get it straight and check the facts. You not only believe that I have affairs with married women, but that I live off them, do you?' His face had tightened, turning into a mask of anger, so that for a moment Martha half regretted stating her views so plainly.

  'Well --'

  'Listen, lady, I earned this car, for your information. Earned every penny it took to buy it.'

  'How?' she snapped back, suddenly too incensed to be cautious. 'By taking those poor women to your b ... oh!' Her head snapped back on her slender neck as he jer
ked her forwards, his long fingers locked round a clump of her sweater.

  'You have a very nasty mind, d'you know that, Martha Clark? A very nasty, evil mind. How I earn my money is between me and my clients, no one else. I might explain it to you some day, but don't hold your breath!'

  She pulled back, fighting to break free, but he wouldn't let her go. She rounded on him, furious at her own helplessness.

  'I don't want to hear any explanations you can ever give me. I know what you do for a living; Mrs Johnson was quite clear about it this morning. I just don't know how you can live with yourself!'

  Her voice was harsh, and just for a moment a trace of indecision crossed his face. She had the sudden strange feeling that he wanted to tell her something important, but she didn't want to hear. She twisted round, wrenching the soft wool of her sweater out of his fingers.

  'Will you please open the door?'

  'Certainly, when you promise to call off your men. Oh, I appreciate the tactics -you've employed: you promised to give up the case and I suppose that you, personally, have done so, but there's no way I'm going to put up with being watched day and night by someone else.'

  'No? So what are you going to do about it?' she asked defiantly, loath to give an inch. 'Abduct me, sell me to white slave traders, or just keep me locked up in this car for the next ten years?' She glared at him, a mutinous set to her face. There was a moment's silence, then he seemed to come to a decision.

  'No, I suppose that would be unrealistic, wouldn't it? No matter how tempting a few of those options seem. I suppose I shall have to let you go and try to find some other way to convince you that what you're doing is wrong. Actually, I have the idea it could be quite enjoyable, really.' He flicked a switch and the door clicked open. Martha opened it wide and shivered as a blast of wintry air flowed over her skin. She stared at him, desperately wanting to know what he meant by that last little comment. In the dim half-light his face was shadowed, his eyes unreadable, and she knew the only way to find out would be to ask him, but she wouldn't do that, not even to save her life! It would sound like she was admitting defeat.