Tender Pursuit

by Jennifer Taylor

  She turned to get out, then stopped abruptly as he caught her hand in a firm yet strangely gentle clasp. She turned back, ready to tell him in no uncertain terms to let her go, but fell silent as he lifted her hand, drawing her fingers gently down the side of his lean cheek. Martha was barely able to stifle a gasp at the unexpected contact with his warm, firm flesh. Holding her gaze, he drew the tips of her fingers slowly over all the hard planes and carved angles of his face, stopping just a hair's breadth away from his chiselled lips.

  'Flesh and blood, Martha, feel it. I'm just a human being, and I'm willing to admit it, but are you?'

  'What do you mean?' she stammered, almost speechless from shock and another emotion she refused to dwell on.

  'Just that you obviously believe that you are incapable of making a mistake. But one day you will have to face the fact that you can't always be right, that even you can look at the evidence yet draw the wrong conclusions. Think about it, Martha. Really think about it, before it's too late.'

  He let her go and Martha climbed from the car, her legs unsteady. She hurried inside, leaning back against the door while she tried to find enough strength to climb the stairs. In the distance she could hear the throbbing note of his car as he drove away, a pulsing echo of sound almost as loud as her rapid heartbeat.

  Was he right? Had she made some sort of a mistake, taken the facts and then evaluated them the wrong way? She couldn't see that she had, but the first tiny seed of doubt had been sown to disturb her for the rest of the night.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A heavy, noisy pounding on the front door woke Martha from sleep, a sleep which had been laced with dreams and shadows she didn't want to remember. She pulled herself upright, shaking her head to chase the lingering echoes of it away. A face had kept appearing in those dreams, a hard, tanned face with silvery eyes and a mocking smile, and she desperately tried to erase the memory of it from her mind. For a brief second she stared at the photograph, feeling strangely guilty that another man should have intruded on her dreams in that way. It had never happened before, not once in all these years.

  She almost fell out of bed, her head spinning at the abrupt awakening, and struggled to the front door, clutching the robe tightly round her shoulders.

  'Who is it?' she managed to croak through sleep-parched lips.

  'Delivery for Ms Martha Clark.'

  At this hour? Why, it was barely . . . Martha gasped as she caught sight of the clock, biting back a groan as she realised that she'd overslept and would be late for work yet again! Twice in as many days was getting beyond a joke!

  Galvanised into action by the discovery, she wrenched the door open, her eyes widening as she spotted the long, golden florist's box the boy was holding.

  'Ms Clark? Sign here, please.'

  He thrust the box and a small slip of paper into her hands, and Martha hastily scrawled her signature, too stunned to even think of refusing. It had been ages since she'd been sent flowers; who could be sending them to her now? The boy turned to go, and suddenly she found her voice.

  'Wait! Who are they from?'

  He grinned at her. 'Dunno, miss. I only make the deliveries. There's probably a card inside. See you.'

  Whistling softly, he walked off down the hallway, and slowly Martha closed the door and carried the box inside. She pulled off the lid, staring down in disbelief at the sheaf of pale yellow roses nestling in the folds of crackling waxed paper. There must have been three dozen perfect long-stemmed blooms in the box, which would have cost a fortune at this time of the year. Who on earth could have been rash enough to send them?

  She set the box carefully down on the table while she searched through the folds of paper for a card, a message, something to tell her who had sent this exquisite present, but there was nothing and she felt more perplexed than ever. Just who would go to the trouble of sending her flowers, yet not even send a message?

  Puzzling over who it could be, Martha went into the kitchen and filled a vase with water, breathing in the heady, delicious perfume of the roses. Once they were arranged to her liking, she carried them back into the living-room and set them on a side table where they made a glowing patch of colour against the plain white walls.

  For a few minutes she studied them, noticing how they seemed to bring the room to life, to give it character and a sense of being lived in. It was hard to believe that she'd lived in this flat almost two years now, yet had left so little sign of her presence. Everywhere was neat and clean, the rooms all tastefully furnished, yet for some reason the flat seemed to lack that certain something which stamped it with the hallmark of its owner. It was her home, yet Martha knew it held little place as such in her heart. She could leave here tomorrow without a backward glance or twinge of sadness. It was just somewhere to live, to eat a meal and sleep for however many hours, but beyond that it meant nothing to her. Her office had more character than this place: she had put more of herself into those rooms than into these, which were meant to be her home. The sudden realisation disturbed her.

  Jeannie was hard at work by the time she arrived at the office, and Martha felt her face fill with colour as she saw the look of speculation on the girl's face at her late arrival. She hurried through to her room and closed the door firmly behind her, needing a few quiet moments to regather her composure. Being late not just once but twice was unsettling, breaking the neat and orderly pattern of her existence. Her life had always been so strictly arranged, timetabled and mapped out to the very last second, and there was no way she wanted that to change, no way she wanted to leave room in her life for feelings or emotion. She'd already run the whole gamut of emotions, had hit the depths of pain and despair after knowing the dizzy heights of happiness, and now all she wanted was to stay somewhere in the middle and never touch those two extremes again. She didn't think she could survive that sort of emotional upheaval once more.

  Determined to put all the unsettling thoughts to the back of her mind, she settled down and tried to work, but for some reason she couldn't seem to get a grip on what she was doing. So much seemed to be whirling round in her head, so many strange, disturbing ideas, and most of them centred on that damnable Quinn Maxwell! The sooner she finished with the case, the better she would like it, but for now she must try to find some way to get him out of her head.

  She opened a new file and read carefully through the details, making notes as various points struck her. It promised to be an interesting case, a possible fraud involving several valuable paintings, and gradually Martha became engrossed in the complexities of it. There was just something about it which didn't quite add up, if she could only put her finger on it. She turned back to the beginning of the file and reread the first few pages, seeking the elusive little clue her subconscious had spotted but her mind kept missing.

  The telephone buzzed softly by her elbow, and she slowly picked up the receiver, her mind still busy. Why hadn't the guard reported the loss sooner? Why had there been a time lapse of almost twenty minutes . . .?

  'Martha? Is that you sitting so silently at the other end of this line?'

  The low, amused voice got her attention all right, all of it! She jumped violently, scattering papers from the desk to the floor, where they lay fanned across the carpet. Heart pounding, she jammed the receiver tighter against her ear, praying she'd been mistaken in identifying the caller, but of course she hadn't.

  'Martha . . . surely you're going to answer me, sweetheart? You're not sulking about last night, are you?'

  'Don't "sweetheart" me, Quinn Maxwell. What do you want?' She drew in a deep breath, flattening her hand over the mouthpiece so he couldn't hear any telltale noises and realise just how much his unexpected call had startled her.

  'Now, is that any way to speak to me after I sent you all those beautiful flowers? I had hoped they would put you in a better frame of mind.'

  He had sent the flowers? For a few dizzy moments Martha felt her head reel at the thought, before deliberately forcing herself to calmness
. She couldn't let the shock of the revelation throw her completely off balance. It was probably exactly what he'd hoped for.

  'It would take more than a few flowers to make me feel softer towards you, Mr Maxwell. So, let me repeat, what exactly do you want now? I thought we'd said all there was to be said last night.'

  There was a sudden brief silence, and she had the strangest feeling that he was weighing up how best to continue, but there was no way she was going to give him that sort of advantage. With an opponent of Quinn Maxwell's calibre, one had to punch first and hardest!

  'Look, I'm very busy, so if you've just rung to make a nuisance of yourself yet again, then forget it. Goodbye.'

  Briskly she lowered the receiver towards its cradle, halting reluctantly as he said swiftly, 'Wait! Can't you even spare me a couple of minutes?'

  Martha glanced at her watch, checking the second hand before replying crisply, 'Two minutes, no more, no less, then I hang up.'

  'OK, I suppose I'll have to take it if it's the best you can offer. I sent you those flowers partly as an apology for disturbing you last night, and partly in the hope that they would soften your rather hard-nosed attitude towards me. We need to talk, Martha, to really get down to the basics and work out some sort of sensible compromise.'

  'Compromise? I have no intention of making any sort of compromise, and by the way, you have seventy-nine seconds left!'

  'Thank you. Look, you can't still believe that ridiculous theory about me! Surely you've realised that you've made a mistake now you've had chance to sleep on it? I mean, do I seem the sort of man who would allow a woman to keep him?'

  'Yes, I do ... no, I've not made any sort of mistake, and yes, as far as I am concerned you fit the bill exactly!'

  'So you've no intention of reconsidering and maybe dropping the case?'

  'None whatsoever. Forty seconds.'

  'What if I threaten to go to Margaret and tell her what's going on?'

  'That's your decision entirely,' she said, her heart sinking at the thought of the trouble it would cause with her client. Mr Johnson had been so adamant about the need for discretion, and there was no way he would consider she'd fulfilled that request if he found out exactly what had happened. It could damage her reputation irrevocably. She had to know if Maxwell intended to do it. She swallowed hard, forcing a cool disinterest to her tone. 'Will you?'

  'No.'

  'Because you're frightened of losing a valuable meal ticket,' she scoffed, and heard him draw a deep, furious breath.

  'No, damn you! I won't tell Margaret because I don't want her to get hurt by finding out in such an unsavoury manner that her husband doesn't trust her.'

  Just for a moment, his answer threw her. He sounded so sincere, as though he really meant it, but then of course he would, wouldn't he? Sounding sincere was his stock-in-trade.

  'A fine sentiment, Mr Maxwell. It would do you credit if I was silly enough to believe it. Now, I think your time is just about up. Thank you for calling, but don't bother to do it again. I shall be out in future.'

  'What if I need to engage your services at any time?'

  'Then I suggest you call my secretary and let her fix up an appointment. I'm sure I'll be able to fit you in some time in the next ten years.'

  He laughed softly, lightly, a ripple of sound which made something in Martha curl up in unexpected pleasure.

  'I'm not going to give up, Martha Clark. Somehow I'm going to convince you that you're wrong about me, and do you know what?'

  'What?' she asked, suddenly wary.

  'It's going to be a pleasure, a real pleasure. I'll be seeing you, Martha. Soon. Take care.'

  'Now look here . . .'

  He'd cut the connection. For a few seconds Martha sat and stared at the phone till the dull hum of the dialling tone broke the spell. She replaced the receiver, feeling more uneasy than ever. What did he mean, he was going to convince her? She didn't want convincing. She wanted to believe all the bad things she could about Quinn Maxwell because it was the only way she could protect herself from the man.

  She was right about him . . . right, right, right! The word echoed round and round in her head time and again, yet instead of gaining strength from the repetition it seemed to take on a hint of desperation. She was right about him; she just had to be!

  Lunchtime came and went, but Martha stayed at her desk, ignoring the hungry growlings of her stomach. Most days when she was in the office she walked down to the delicatessen on the corner for a sandwich and coffee, but today she didn't feel like going out. She wanted to keep her mind busy, keep it so occupied with work that she wouldn't have time to dwell on what Maxwell had said over the phone. He was George Bryant's problem now, and she had to remember that, but it was a strangely difficult task. If she just let her mind wander for the tiniest moment, then he had a way of sneaking into her thoughts again. He was driving her mad!

  So hour after hour she sat at her desk, keeping her mind centred on her work with a steely determination, till finally she knew she just had to go home. Her head was throbbing from the constant strain, her body aching with tiredness she could ignore no longer. Like it or not, she would have to stop work now, or she would be in danger of cracking up, and there was no way she would give that tiresome man the satisfaction of making her do that!

  Jeannie had left some time before, so Martha locked up the office, then made her way slowly through the near-deserted building to the back street where she'd left her car. She unlocked the door and slid inside, resting wearily back against the seat for a few seconds before starting the engine with a sigh. Somehow the prospect of going home to her quiet flat with only her thoughts for company was strangely unappealing, yet the alternatives were even worse. She didn't want to sit in a restaurant or cinema by herself while all around her people were together. It would only make her feel more alone than ever.

  She drove slowly across the city, glad that most of the dreadful rush-hour traffic was gone. She didn't feel up to coping with that sort of hassle tonight. When she got home she went straight in and ran the bath, adding a generous measure of bubble-bath to the steaming water. Hopefully a long soak would soothe the headache away and revive her enough to see out the evening. She'd eaten nothing all day, and she knew she should really make herself a meal, or at least a sandwich, but somehow it all seemed like too much of an effort. Maybe she'd feel like it after the bath.

  Leaving the taps running, she walked through to the bedroom and stripped off her clothes, pulling a soft fleecy robe over her chilled body. The central heating had been switched off all day and the flat was cold, but it wasn't only that which sent these icy shivers racing down her backbone. It stemmed more from this horrible feeling of aloneness which threatened to overwhelm her. It had been ages since she'd felt like this, and it made her feel so very vulnerable to experience it again.

  She crossed to the mirror and brushed her hair back from her face, catching it up at the sides with two tortoiseshell slides, then paused to study her reflection. In the stark glare of the overhead light her face was very pale, dark shadows staining the delicate skin under eyes which were almost feverishly bright. Just a week ago her life had been running smoothly, yet now she felt as though everything she'd striven for was in danger of crumbling around her. If that happened, then she would be left with nothing: nothing but the emptiness which had haunted her for years since Paul had died, and there was no way she could face that again. Somehow she had to get a grip on herself and not allow that to happen.

  Turning away from the mirror, she retraced her steps to the bathroom and slipped off the robe, ready to climb into the steaming water. The doorbell rang and she cursed aloud in sudden annoyance. Why did it always have to happen just when she'd run a bath? She could go weeks without a caller, yet as soon as she went to step into the bath, either the doorbell or the telephone would ring. Well, tonight she wasn't going to answer it. Whoever it was could just go away. She was in no mood for visitors tonight.

  She stepped into
the water, murmuring in pleasure as heat flowed through her cold limbs, making them tingle. She leant back and closed her eyes, then snapped them open again as the bell rang a second time, longer, louder, as though the uninvited caller was becoming impatient. Martha's face tightened with annoyance, her green eyes sparking. Couldn't they take a hint and go away? Determinedly she slithered deeper into the water, feeling the bubbles brushing softly against her chin. Sheer bliss!

  The bell rang again, long, strident rings, demanding attention, and with a snarl of anger Martha hauled herself to her feet. She patted herself roughly dry, then dragged on her robe. So help her, whoever was leaning on the bell like that was going to be sorry! She stormed through the flat, tracking wet footprints across the carpet, and wrenched open the front door.

  'Yes! What do you want?' Her voice was sharp with anger and the man standing outside took a hasty step backwards, obviously startled.

  'Er . . . Ms Clark?' he stammered nervously, consulting a piece of paper in his shaking hand.

  'Yes,' she snapped, glaring at him.

  'Dinner.'

  'Pardon?'

  For a long second Martha stared at him, wondering if he'd gone mad or if there was something wrong with her hearing.

  'Your order for dinner,' he repeated patiently, motioning sideways with his hand. Martha's jaw dropped as she suddenly spotted the laden dinner trolley with its gleaming crystal and wafer-thin china. For a moment shock robbed her of the ability to speak, but it was only a momentary affliction.

  'I didn't order any dinner. There must be a mistake.'

  Her green eyes were cold, her voice icy, and the man flinched, shooting a desperate glance at his paper, then at the flat door.

  'This is number eight, and the name is Clark, isn't it?'

  'Yes and yes! But I repeat, I didn't order any dinner, so you had better take it away.' She stepped back to slam the door, then stopped as he spoke, words which made her go rigid with a dawning comprehension.