'I'm sorry, madam, but this is definitely the address Mr Maxwell gave us, so I can't see how there's been any mistake. Could it be some sort of a surprise for you?'
'Maxwell,' she repeated slowly, her mind suddenly numb. 'Quinn Maxwell?'
'Oh, so you do know him. Good.' There was an expression of deep relief on the man's face now, a relief which faded the instant Martha spoke again.
'Know him! Too right I know him. The sneaky, low-down, good-for-nothing --'
'Tut, tut, Martha. Is that any way to talk about the man who not only sends you flowers but dinner as well?'
The low, mocking voice cut her off dead. Martha spun round, her eyes widening as she spotted Quinn Maxwell standing in the hallway. She'd been so incensed to learn that he was behind all this that she'd never even noticed him arriving. Now she rounded on him, her green eyes spitting venom.
'Now, you look here, Quinn Maxwell, if you think you can keep this up, harassing me this way, then you can think again! There are laws to stop people like you, d'you hear me?'
'Now that is interesting: laws to prevent harassment. I must get my solicitor to look into that, Martha.'
His voice was cold, crackling like chips of ice, and Martha hesitated. The last thing the agency needed was a law suit and all its attendant publicity. It would scare away any prospective or long-term clients faster than the plague. She snapped her lips shut and glared at him, wondering what was going to happen next. For in this instance there was no doubt that he was calling all the shots.
'Well, I'm glad that you've decided to be sensible.' He nodded to the hovering waiter. 'Please take the trolley in.'
With a marked ill-grace Martha stepped aside while the man wheeled the trolley inside and laid out cutlery and china with a haste which spoke volumes. Within minutes he had finished, and Quinn Maxwell closed the door behind him. He turned to face her, his grey eyes unfathomable as they studied her across the width of the room, and all of a sudden Martha realised just what a sight she must look with her hair snatched back and her face devoid of any make-up. She pulled the robe tighter round her damp body, quite unaware of how the fabric clung to every soft curve and line. Her mind was racing, skittering first this way then that as she tried to work out how to handle the situation, but there didn't seem to be any easy answers.
'You look nervous, Martha.'
His soft mockery was just what she needed to whip her senses into order; and she stood up straighter, her eyes flashing.
'Just tell me what you want and then get out. I've had all I can take of you today, one way and another.'
'Have you, indeed?'
His voice was a low purr of soft sound and Martha moved nervously, something about the tone of his deep voice making her wary. She stared back at him, flushing as she met his steady gaze. There was something in the depths of his eyes, a flicker of awareness, which made her want to run from the room and hide. He might only be doing this to scare her off, make her change her mind about handling the case, but the way he was watching her told a different story. He wasn't seeing her as the enemy at this moment, but as a woman, and the realisation terrified her.
There was silence in the room, a deep, tense silence which Martha couldn't seem to find the strength to break, no matter how much she wanted to. They just stood there, linked by a strange invisible bond of tension, an awareness of each other as man and woman. Then he spoke, mundane words which broke the spell.
'Why don't you sit down and eat before the food gets cold?'
The pent-up breath eased from her body in a jerky little flow, and she thrust her chin out at an unconsciously belligerent angle.
'I'm not hungry, and even if I were, I wouldn't touch a mouthful of that meal.'
'Pity.' He crossed the room to lift the silver-domed lid off the serving platter. 'Marcel's is one of the best restaurants in town, and it smells delicious.'
A fragrant waft came from the trolley, and Martha felt her stomach knot up ready to rumble in appreciative hunger, but there was no way even a morsel of the food would pass her lips.
'If it's so good, then take it home with you. I don't want it. I'm sure I can find you a bag to put it all in. Now, I repeat, what do you want? I was taking a bath.'
'So I can see,' he murmured, his eyes tracing over her slender figure in the clinging robe with a devilish sparkle in their silver depths. Instantly Martha wished she'd never drawn attention to herself that way. Warmth stole under the fine pale skin of her throat and she looked away, unable to handle this sort of baiting. Sexual banter was something she knew little about and couldn't handle. It made her go hot all over to realise he knew she was wearing nothing under the robe, as though she was allowing him liberties she'd allowed no man apart from Paul.
She thrust her hands deep into the pockets of the robe to hide their trembling. She wouldn't allow him to see just how much he affected her. It made her far too vulnerable.
'I have no intention of standing here playing games with you like this. If you can't tell me why you've come, then I suggest that you leave.'
She started towards the door, halting as he made no attempt to move out of her way. He just stood his ground, his eyes tracing slowly over her, a strangely gentle expression on his face.
'Why are you afraid of me, Martha?' he asked softly.
'Afraid? Of course I'm not afraid of you. Don't flatter yourself.' Her voice was strangely high-pitched and breathless, quite unlike her usually controlled tones, and she bit her lip in vexation. He laughed, a low, deep laugh which sent a tingling curl of sensation up her backbone.
'Oh, come on, Martha, why lie? I can see it in your face. You're afraid of me, but why? You know quite well that I won't hurt you physically.'
He stepped forwards, narrowing the gap between them, and Martha felt her pulse race at the gentleness in his voice. She looked down, staring at her bare toes peeping from under the hem of the long robe, wishing she were dressed.
Maybe she would have been able to handle the situation better hidden behind the barrier of clothes, but then again, just who was she kidding? She would need armour against this man, nothing less.
'Why, Martha?' It was obvious that he had no intention of letting the matter drop, so she would have to answer.
'Of course I'm wary of you,' she said haltingly. 'Who wouldn't be, after all that's happened? I just can't understand what you hope to achieve by all this. Do you really think that you can make me change my mind by bribing me with flowers and dinner?' She deliberately whipped up her anger, taking refuge behind it from a situation which was far more dangerous than any she'd encountered.
'Perhaps. I don't know. Maybe I just wanted to show you that I'm not the sort of man that you think I am.'
'Well, this won't achieve anything. The best way of convincing me is by stopping seeing Mrs Johnson and the others. Then I can call a halt to this whole thing.'
'And what happens to all the reports you've already made? All those dates and details, notes of people coming and going at my house. Will you destroy them, even give them to me, or will you pass them on to whoever's paying your fee?'
'I . . .' For some reason she couldn't understand, she couldn't lie to him, even to save a scene. 'I shall have to pass them on, of course.
The information isn't mine, it belongs to my client.'
'And what if he then decides that his wife is having an affair with me? What will you do then? Sit back and let it destroy their marriage?' There was an icy, biting contempt in his voice which was so unjust that it made her furious.
'I am not ruining their marriage, you are!'
'So you say, but what's the evidence? A few visits to my house, the suspicions of a man who is obviously more prepared to believe the worst of his wife than trust her?'
'Surely it's only natural for Mr Johnson to be suspicious? If his wife has nothing to hide, then why doesn't she tell him about her visits and explain the reason for them?'
'Why should she? Surely she's entitled to some privacy, entitled
to his trust without having to give written guarantees. That's what marriage is all about, after all, love and trust, but then I doubt if you've had much chance to find that out in your profession.'
'You're a fine one to talk about love and trust, Quinn Maxwell!' she snapped, stung into replying. 'How many marriages have you broken up, and all with those same high ideals?'
'None, but I don't expect you to believe that.' He ran his hands through his hair, as though suddenly weary of the whole conversation. 'Look, Martha, I didn't come here tonight to argue, I came to see if we could reach some sort of an understanding over a leisurely dinner.'
'Never. We're not on the same wavelength. There's no understanding we can ever reach.'
'So it seems, but how about dinner? Can't we at least sit down and get to know each other a little better?'
'No.'
'Oh, Martha, surely you wouldn't deny a hungry man some food, would you? I took the liberty of ordering for two.' He nodded towards the trolley, and Martha shot it a quick glance, her temper flaring as she realised he'd done just that. The nerve of the man, to think that she would share a meal with him after all that had gone on!
'Yes, I could deny you food. I could deny you water in a desert, and with the greatest pleasure. Now, goodnight. Thank you for the dinner. I shall eat it after all and enjoy every mouthful. I seem to have regained my appetite.'
He chuckled softly: 'So hard, so tough, little Martha, but are you really?'
'That is something you will never know. Goodnight!'
She swung the door open, waiting with a mounting impatience for him to leave, her pulse leaping as he stopped just inches from her. In the soft light his eyes were silvery as he stared down at her, reflecting tiny images of herself in their gleaming depths.
'Goodnight, Martha. In a way, I'm glad you've decided to make a fight of it. It means that I have a real excuse for seeing you again.' Slowly he bent his head, brushing her lips with his, so fleetingly that she had no chance to turn away. Then he was gone, walking down the hall without a backward glance.
Martha closed the door, clinging hold of the lock as her legs threatened to buckle. She raised her hand, touching her fingers to her lips, feeling the lingering echo of warmth from that brie£ surprisingly sweet kiss. Tears filled her eyes and ran slowly down her cheeks, but she wasn't even aware of them.
It had been so long since a man had kissed her that way ... so very long.
CHAPTER SIX
Another restless night had taken its toll, adding to the pallor of her skin and deepening the shadows under her eyes. Ruthlessly Martha went to work on her face, determined to obliterate the signs of Quinn Maxwell's handiwork. She'd spent most of the previous day thinking about him and yet another night dreaming about him. Where would it all end?
She briskly applied a second coat of rose blusher to her cheeks, fluffing it up over the curve of her temples to give a much-needed glow to her pale face. She had several appointments booked for that morning, and a pale, wan face would never inspire confidence in prospective clients.
She was at her desk working when Jeannie arrived, and was instantly glad that she'd taken so much trouble with her appearance when she saw the look her secretary shot her way. Two late arrivals at the office had obviously fired the girl's imagination, and Martha didn't need to be much of a detective to know which way it was running. If only Jeannie knew the truth! Oh, granted, it was a man who had been the cause of her recent tardiness, but not in the way the irrepressibly romantic Jeannie thought; There was no way her relationship with Quinn Maxwell could be classed as romantic by any stretch of even the most vivid imagination!
The morning wore slowly on, and in between seeing clients Martha kept returning to the new case, trying to pinpoint the elusive little clue which still evaded her. It was there, somewhere in the furthest corner of her mind, if she could only draw it out. Time and again she read over the report, till she could repeat each page word-perfect, but still it refused to surface. Maybe a visit to the gallery where the robbery had taken place would give it the jolt it needed.
She slid on her coat and left the office, pausing briefly to tell Jeannie where she was going. Outside the air was cold and deliciously crisp, the nip of frost welcome after the stuffy heat inside, and impulsively Martha decided to leave her car behind and walk. It was just over a mile into the centre of town, far enough to blow the cobwebs away, yet not so far as to make it a chore.
She took her time, walking slowly as she peered into the shop windows along the way, studying their seasonal red and gold displays, and gradually she became aware of that tiny ache of loneliness growing inside her once again. In a few weeks' time it would be Christmas, a time of merriment and happiness for most people, yet she knew it wouldn't be like that for her. All Christmas meant to her was a few empty days alone in the flat without even the distraction of work to make the hours pass. Somehow the prospect seemed even less appealing than usual.
She quickened her pace, deliberately trying to wipe the depressing thought from her mind, and in a very short time arrived at the exclusive gallery in the centre of town. She walked inside, smiling at the receptionist seated at the discreetly expensive desk in the foyer.
'May I help you, madam?' the girl enquired courteously, but Martha shook her head.
'I just wanted to look around, see if anything catches my eye,' she answered evasively. No one at the gallery was aware that the claim had been passed to her for investigation, and there was no way she wanted them to know. All too often it was the element of surprise which was the deciding factor in a case.
The girl smiled and handed her a catalogue before turning her attention back to the papers on the desk, and Martha walked quickly through the reception area into the first room. She already knew from the scale plans she'd been given that there were three rooms to the gallery, and that it was from the third room, the one furthest away from the main door, that the paintings had disappeared. What she wanted to check on now was how long it took to walk the distance from the rear of the premises to the front. Surely it couldn't be the twenty minutes that the guard had claimed, even allowing for the fact he might have stopped en route. That was the part of the report which bothered her most.
Not wanting to draw attention to herself, Martha walked slowly round the first room, stopping briefly at several of the paintings while she made a show of consulting the catalogue. There were a few other people in the gallery, talking in low, hushed voices, but she carefully kept well clear of them, not wanting to get involved in conversation.
'Darling, it's perfect. It would look marvellous over your bed. You must let me buy it for you.'
The woman's voice, though not loud, cut through the muted murmurs and instinctively Martha glanced round, her eyes widening as she caught sight of the couple in the far corner. For a moment she stood rooted to the spot, too surprised to consider the wisdom of her action.
The woman had her back towards her, but even from this angle Martha could see that she was beautifully and expensively dressed, her figure trim, her silver hair immaculately groomed. Yet it wasn't she who held Martha's attention but the man standing beside her, his dark gold hair gleaming in the glow from an angled spotlight: Quinn Maxwell.
As though sensing her gaze, he looked round and Martha felt her pulse leap as she met his eyes across the width of the room. For a long, timeless moment they stared at each other, a strange tension claiming them both, then the woman spoke again and Martha felt herself go cold with an icy contempt as she heard her.
'Quinn, you're not paying attention to me. I said I'll buy the painting for you, if you'd like it. A little Christmas present from me.' She let her hand drop to his arm in a caressing little gesture, and Martha felt her stomach churn with a sudden lurching sickness. She'd known all along what he did and how he made a living, yet somehow it was devastating to see the actual evidence of it.
She turned away, hurrying from the room, not hearing the receptionist's solicitous enquiry if there was
anything the matter. All she knew was that she had to get out, get away from the sight of Quinn Maxwell and that woman together before she was sick.
She ran out to the street and stood staring blankly up and down, her mind too numb with the shock of what she'd witnessed to function properly. She felt cold, icy, as though a thousand slivers of ice were trickling through her bloodstream, chilling her to the bone. How could he do it? How could he degrade himself in such a manner? Last night, after he'd kissed her, that sweet, tender little kiss, she'd almost wanted to believe that she'd been as wrong about him as he'd said, but now she knew she'd been stupid. Quinn Maxwell was everything she'd thought him to be and probably more, and the realisation hurt her in a way she'd never expected. Somehow she felt as though he'd betrayed her.
'Martha! Wait a minute. Don't go!'
The sound of his voice cut through the numbness. Martha shot a swift look over her shoulder at the man hurrying towards her, then took to her heels, uncaring what he thought of her actions. She didn't want to talk to him, not now, not ever. Not after what she'd just seen. She'd made no mistake about him; he was a gigolo and she wanted nothing more to do with him.
Ruthlessly she elbowed her way through the crowds of shoppers, ignoring the startled glances, the barely heard mutters of protest as she pushed them aside. She could hear footsteps behind her, pounding on the pavement, and she ran faster, determined to evade him. A few yards ahead a taxi pulled in to the kerb for a passenger to alight, and Martha hurried towards it, realising it was her only chance of getting away. She would never be able to outrun him, even with the few yards' start she had.
'Damn it, Martha, stop! This is crazy.' The breathlessly roared order was just what she needed to make that final effort. She lengthened her stride, putting everything she had into the last few yards' sprint towards the cab, then cried out in alarm as her heel caught in a narrow crack in the paving slabs. She fell forwards, bruising her palms and her knees as she hit the floor with a jolting force, and lay quite still, stunned by the impact.
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