Tender Pursuit

by Jennifer Taylor

  'Are you all right?' In a trice he was down on his knees beside her, his hands gentle as he lifted her into a sitting position. 'Oh, hell! Just look what you've done, you crazy woman.'

  He pulled a clean handkerchief out of his pocket and gently mopped at the bloody cuts on her hands, the raw, angry grazes on both her knees, while Martha sat dazedly watching him.

  'For heaven's sake, Martha, why did you do such a stupid thing? You could have really hurt yourself, running off like that.' There was anger in his voice and Martha blinked, trying to regather her scattered senses. The unexpected speed and force of the fall had shaken her, but she couldn't just sit here on the pavement and let him minister to her. She pushed his hands away and struggled to her feet, wincing as pain sliced through her bruised, tender flesh. A small crowd had gathered to watch the proceedings, and Martha summoned up a rather shaky smile for their benefit.

  'I'm all right, thank you,' she said, to no one in particular, then picked up her bag from the pavement, aware that Maxwell was watching her closely. She should really say something to him, something to explain and dismiss her actions, yet the words seemed to be lodged in her throat. She just looked up at him, seeing his face harden at the contempt he could read in her eyes.

  'You've got it wrong, Martha,' he said softly. 'Once again you've misinterpreted the facts.'

  'I don't know what you mean,' she said shortly, turning to head back up the street.

  'Don't give me that, sweetheart. I'm not blind or stupid. I know full well what you're thinking; I knew it back in the gallery.'

  'Do you? Good, because now there's no need to say anything more, is there?' She stopped and glared up at him, her eyes hard and overly bright, like pieces of green glass. 'Don't you think you'd better get back to your "friend"? I'm sure she won't take kindly to being left like that. It might make her decide not to buy you that expensive picture, and then you'd lose a valuable investment.'

  For a moment anger darkened his eyes, turning them to a deep stormy grey, then he seemed to make a deliberate effort to wipe it away. He smiled at her, a taunting, teasing little smile, which whipped a fresh surge of colour to her cheeks. 'Does the idea of my having "friends", as you delicately put it, bother you that much?'

  Martha turned her face away, desperate to hide her expression from his too discerning gaze. It bothered her, all right, though why, she couldn't for the life of her imagine, but there was no way she was going to admit it to him. She swallowed hard, forcing back her own anger and that strange feeling of betrayal.

  'I don't care how many women you have, quite frankly. You can have a different one for every day of the week, plus two for Sundays, as far as I'm concerned. So don't kid yourself that it bothers me one bit!'

  She walked away, forcing herself not to stumble as her stiffening knees protested at the sudden turn of speed.

  'Wait a minute. My car's only down the road. I'll drive you back wherever you want to go. You're in no fit state to walk.' He caught her arm in an attempt to steer her down a side street, but Martha wrenched herself free, her body stiff with anger.

  'I don't need your help, thank you. I can manage by myself.'

  'I'm sure you can, but why bother when I'm willing to help you? If I didn't know better I'd say that you were still upset about what you saw, and that's the reason you won't be sensible.'

  'Of course I'm not upset. Don't be ridiculous!' she snapped. 'I've already told you that I don't care what you do or with whom you do it.'

  'Well, then, prove it and let me drive you back. Why make such a fuss about it?' He glanced up at the sky which had suddenly changed from its former sparkling blue to a heavy leaden grey. 'Come on, let's not waste any more time arguing over something so trivial. It looks as if it's going to rain any minute.'

  There was an expression on his face which brooked no more arguments, and Martha knew the easiest thing now would be to agree. After all, it was only a mile or so to her office, no distance at all by car, so what was the point in making a fuss about it? In silence she followed him along the street and let him help her into the car, biting back a groan of relief as she straightened her aching knees. She eased the hem of her coat up an inch or two and stared at the grazed, purpling flesh wryly. It had been years since she'd taken such a tumble—when she was a child and scarred knees had been an everyday hazard. The trouble was, she was now twenty years older and twenty years stiffer! She'd be lucky if she could walk in the morning.

  'You'll need to bathe those cuts thoroughly when you get back. There's still some dirt in them.'

  Martha hastily dropped her hemline, flushing slightly as she realised he was paying as much attention to her legs as she was. He chuckled softly, spotting her embarrassed confusion, but said nothing more as he started the engine and eased the car out into the traffic.

  'Where to?' he asked briefly.

  'My office. It's in Jersey Street, just off—'

  'I know where it is,' he said shortly, and Martha sat back in the seat, refusing to ask him how he knew. She had an idea she wouldn't like the answer. Quinn Maxwell seemed to know far more about her than she cared for.

  The sleek car ate up the distance, so that it was bare minutes before they pulled up outside the imposing building which housed her office. He cut the engine, then turned to face her, his eyes unreadable as they traced over her face. Suddenly self-conscious, Martha smoothed her hair back from her face, unwittingly smearing a trail of dirt up the side of her cheek from her grubby hand. Why was he watching her like that, staring at her as though he was storing up impressions of her? It made her feel intensely aware of him.

  'I --' she began, but stopped as he spoke almost at the same moment.

  'So, how do you feel now?' he asked with a genuine concern. 'Are your hands very sore?'

  She glanced down at her cut and grubby palms, staring at the angry red marks for a few seconds while she tried to grab hold of her composure. There had been so much tenderness in his voice just then, such caring, that it had thrown her completely.

  'They're all right,' she finally managed to answer huskily. 'Still sore, of course, but they'll be fine in a couple of days.'

  'They're bound to be sore after the tumble you took. What on earth made you run off like that, Martha?'

  What could she say? For a few helpless minutes Martha floundered round, trying to find some sort of acceptable answer, anything at all other than the truth.

  'I . . . well, I was in the gallery on business. When I saw you I was worried that you would say something that could reveal who I was. It seemed safer to make a hasty exit.' It sounded plausible, but would he believe her? Holding her breath, she waited to find out.

  'I see. So you were working on a case, were you? And your sudden flight had nothing to do with seeing my "friend" and me together, then?' he asked, with a light mockery which made Martha wriggle uncomfortably in her seat.

  'No. Of course not! I've already told you that what you do is entirely your own concern. Now, I think I'd better be getting inside. Thank you for driving me back. It was kind of you, in the circumstances.' She unclipped her seat-belt, desperate to get away before he asked any more awkward questions, and gasped in alarm as he caught her chin in a gentle clasp, turning her to face him.

  'What do you think you're --'

  'Shhh, stay still a minute. You've got a smudge on your cheek. I'll wipe it off for you.'

  With the utmost delicacy he rubbed the pad of his thumb over the soft curve of her cheek, stroking her skin in a light caress which sent flurries of sensation tingling through her body.

  'There, that's better. It wouldn't do for the staff to see you looking as though you'd been in a fight, now, would it?' He ran his fingers down her cheek in a final gentle motion and Martha hastily pulled back, terrified of what he might read in her expression. She caught hold of her bag, staring down at it as though she found the cut and shape of the grey leather fascinating. It was difficult to think straight while every cell in her body was still tingling, but
she had to try. She couldn't let him see how much his touch had shaken her.

  'Thank you, and thank you again for driving me back, Mr Maxwell.' There was only the faintest tremble to her voice, and she felt quite pleased with herself for the effort.

  'Don't mention it. It was the least I could do.' He glanced out of the window, his eyes narrowing as he stared thoughtfully up at the tall office block. 'Nice place. A good spot for an office, I imagine. Close to town, yet not too close to have to put up with all the noise and hustle.'

  'It suits my needs. Well, I won't detain you any longer. I'm sure your friend must be wondering where you've got to.' She slid out of the car as quickly as her stiff legs would let her, then bent rather awkwardly to close the door. Reaching out, he stopped it from closing, his eyes silvery as he smiled up at her.

  'Don't worry about that, Martha. I'm sure she'll be quite happy to wait for me. Now, don't forget what I said: make sure you bathe those cuts well. I'd hate to think of anything marring those beautiful legs.'

  Before she could think up a reply to this bit of sheer impertinence, he slammed the car door and pulled away from the kerb. Martha stared after him, oblivious to the big cold drops of rain which had started to fall. He was impossible, totally and utterly impossible, yet she knew with a sinking feeling that there would be more than one woman prepared to wait for him, no matter how long he took!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  That George Bryant was good at his job was a fact Martha had long been aware of. Now, however, staring down at the neatly typed papers on her desk, she could see the tangible evidence of his expertise. He had missed nothing out of his reports on Quinn Maxwell's exploits, and Martha felt herself go hot all over as she read her name on several of the pages.

  What on earth must George think about it all? First there had been that strange night-time visit to her flat, then yesterday's drive back to the office, all neatly logged and carefully presented in indisputable black and white. Thank heavens that the ever-correct George obviously saw it as none of his business. If he'd questioned her, Martha knew she would be hard pushed to find an explanation for her unethical behaviour.

  With a sigh she slid the reports back into their folder and filed them away, determined not to waste any more time on the case. One way and another, Quinn Maxwell had already claimed more than his share of her attention, and although she should fealty start writing her interim report on the case, Martha knew she wasn't going to do it today. Today she had the sneakiest feeling that any comments or opinions she might make would be extremely biased, and that would never do. She owed it to herself and her clients to make her observations in a suitably objective and professional manner. Cutting remarks were most definitely out!

  The day was busy, though Martha spent most of it out of the office after the first hour. A couple of appointments and a business lunch ran on far longer than she'd expected, yet by the time she checked back into the office in the late afternoon she was feeling much more like her usual competent self. One of the larger insurance groups had asked her to cover a huge claim which needed investigating, and she had been paid very handsomely from the diamond job. Allied to that, the grateful owner of the jewels had extended an invitation to a party he was holding later in the month, and rather to her surprise Martha had accepted. It had been ages since she'd been to anything as exciting as this ritzy party, and she was looking forward to it immensely. It was about time she started to get out and about a bit.

  With the cheque safely stowed in her bag and her mind full of the new dress she would buy for the occasion, she breezed into the office.

  Jeannie was at her desk typing when she walked in, and she grinned at Martha, her pleasant face filled with excitement.

  'Well, you look pleased with yourself,' Martha said, smiling. 'What's happened?' She picked up a pile of message slips and flicked through them, discarding most of them into the bin.

  'You'll never guess, Ms Clark, but someone's moved in to the offices next door.'

  'Oh, what a shame.'

  'Shame? What do you mean?' Jeannie asked, puzzled.

  'I had been hoping to take those offices myself. We could do with more space now that the business is expanding. But I suppose it can't be helped. Who's moved in, and why has it sent you into such a flutter?' She sat down on the edge of the desk, kicking off her high-heeled shoes while she wriggled her cramped toes, wincing slightly as the bruises on her poor knees started to twinge.

  'Oh, just wait till you see him, then you'll understand.' There was a dreamy look to Jeannie's brown eyes now.

  'I see. It's not so much the fact that someone has moved in, but who that someone is. What's he like: tall, dark and handsome?' There was a teasing lightness to Martha's voice, and Jeannie blushed, but it was obvious she wasn't going to be deterred from her news.

  'No, or at least, he's not dark. He's gorgeous. Tall, about six feet one, very blond, and with the most beautiful grey eyes you've ever seen. Wow! Just wait till you meet him, Ms Clark. He's everything you could ever dream of in a ma . . . Ms Clark!'

  Jeannie's gasp of surprise followed Martha out of the door and along the corridor. She stopped at the adjoining suite, her heart pounding sickeningly as she thrust the door open. It couldn't be him, please heaven, it just couldn't be!

  The room was empty apart from yards and yards of new pale green carpet, but Martha didn't stop long enough to admire it. At a run she crossed the room and flung the door to the inner office open so hard that it bounced back on its hinges.

  'Why, Martha, what a lovely surprise! How nice of you to drop in to welcome me like this.'

  Her heart was pounding so hard that she couldn't seem to catch her breath. She just stood in the doorway and stared at the man comfortably seated behind a huge mahogany desk, his grey eyes watching her with a mocking glitter in their depths. He stood up, moving to a side table which held a selection of decanters and a silver wine cooler.

  'Champagne?' he asked, holding the frosted bottle aloft. 'Just to celebrate the fact that we are now neighbours.'

  She swallowed hard, her fingers gripping the doorframe as she tried to catch hold of her reeling senses. This couldn't be happening. It must be a dream, a dreadful nightmare. Any minute now she would wake up and find the room empty, and Quinn Maxwell gone.

  'Here, drink this. You look as though you could use it.' He held a tulip-shaped glass towards her and Martha stared at it, watching the bubbles in the pale wine rise and cluster on the surface. She could hear the faint hiss they were making, could smell the delicate bouquet of the wine, and knew it was no dream. It was real. He was really here!

  She swung round on her stockinged heels and strode from the room, hearing him laugh softly as he watched her go. She was shaking, trembling with anger and a fine tight thread of tension which made her feel light-headed and sick. She walked back to her office and sat down at the desk, resting her head in her hands. How could she cope with this new development? How could she work, knowing he was next door?

  There was a soft tapping on the door and hastily Martha composed her features, terrified of letting anyone see what she was feeling.

  'Come in.'

  'I thought you might like some coffee, Ms Clark.'

  Jeannie carefully set a cup of coffee on her desk and Martha smiled faintly at her before picking it up and cradling it in her shaking hands. She'd done a course in first aid once, and she could still remember the instructor's voice barking out the symptoms of shock: pale, cold, clammy, rapid pulse . . . well, that described to the letter how she was feeling. She was in shock, deep shock, and she didn't know how to pull herself out of it.

  'Is there anything I can do for you, Ms Clark? Shall I call a doctor?'

  Jeannie was watching her with concern on her face, and Martha forced herself to summon up another smile. She shook her head, then sipped the coffee, feeling it inch its way down her tight throat. She had to think, had to make herself find a solution to this problem, if there was one.

  She dra
nk again, feeling the warmth start to spread through her body and ease the numbing cold from her limbs. Quinn Maxwell couldn't just come in here and rent office space like this to annoy her. He had to have some sort of legitimate business reason, otherwise it was against the terms of his contract. Was that the loophole she could use to have him evicted? It was a ray of hope, a faint one, admittedly, but better than total darkness.

  'There is something you can do for me, Jeannie. Can you get me Drinkwater's on the phone, please?'

  'The leasing agents?'

  'Yes, please. The number is in the file. I want to speak to Mr Drinkwater himself, though—no one else.'

  'Right away.'

  Jeannie went away to place the call and Martha drank the rest of her coffee, waiting impatiently for the phone to ring.

  'Mr Drinkwater on the line for you, Ms Clark.'

  'Thank you. Good afternoon, Mr Drinkwater, Martha Clark speaking from M.C. Investigations.'

  'Hello, Ms Clark. What can I do for you? Have you a problem?'

  'Actually, yes. I've just been informed that the suite of offices adjoining mine has been leased.'

  'Yes?' There was a wary note to the man's voice, and Martha chose her words carefully.

  'I was just a bit disappointed that you hadn't mentioned it to me. I had been hoping to make an offer for those rooms myself.'

  'I see. Well, I'm sorry I didn't know that sooner, Ms Clark. The new client came and asked about them quite out of the blue, and everything has gone through surprisingly quickly. It's just a pity that I wasn't made aware of your interest before.'

  'Yes, isn't it? What sort of business is the new tenant going to be running? As you can appreciate, I wouldn't want it to be anything which might have a detrimental effect on my own business.'

  'You need have no worries on that score, Ms Clark. Mr Maxwell has provided us with the very highest references. He intends to open an investment consultancy there. A thoroughly sound proposition, we feel.'