Tender Pursuit

by Jennifer Taylor

  The man's voice was almost curt, and Martha realised she was getting nowhere. Obviously, Drinkwater's was quite happy to rent the offices rather than have them standing empty. She thanked him and hung up, leaning back in her seat as she tried to come up with some other idea to make Quinn Maxwell decide to leave, but short of fire, flood or hurricane there was nothing she could think of. He was here now, and, if she knew anything at all about him, here to stay, at least until she agreed to fall in with his demands for a compromise. In that case, then, it looked like they were going to be neighbours for some time to come, because there was no way on this earth that she was going to do that!

  He was everywhere. In the lift of a morning, in the corridor, crossing the street when she arrived or left the office; everywhere Martha turned, Quinn Maxwell seemed to be there. She tried to ignore him, cutting him dead and staring through him, but the strain on her nerves was starting to tell.

  He'd been in residence just four days now, four days which felt like four long years to Martha. Even now, sitting at her desk, working, she was aware of him in the next room. She could hear the murmur of his voice, not actual words, just the ebb and flow of his deep tones, and it disturbed her.

  She switched on the small radio on her desk to drown the sound, tuning in to a pop music show and turning the volume up to an ear-splitting level, but it was hardly the thing to aid concentration. With a mutter of annoyance she switched it off and picked up her bag, looping the strap over her shoulder as she walked from the room.

  'I'm going to lunch now, Jeannie. I won't be long.'

  'Yes, Ms Clark.' Jeannie barely glanced up from the typewriter, her face set, and Martha bit back a sigh. She had been getting the cold shoulder the whole morning, and she couldn't really blame the girl. She'd been less than the perfect boss these past few days, snapping at everyone, and Jeannie had borne the brunt of her ill temper. She would have to make it up with her when this whole problem was resolved.

  Shrugging the heavy tweed coat round her shoulders, she hurried along the corridor, automatically slowing as she came level with the door to the adjoining offices. Along with a tall, elegantly dressed blonde secretary, Maxwell had acquired a gleaming brass name-plate on his door. Now she stared at it, a cynical light in her eyes. Maxwell Investments... well, that was one way to describe how he made a living, she supposed, claiming that 'clients' invested in him, though she doubted if it would pass the Trades Descriptions Act!

  The delicatessen was crowded this lunchtime, and Martha had to wait nearly twenty minutes for one of the small tables ticked at the back of the shop. She sat down and gave her order, then glanced round, nodding to several people she knew. A lot of the staff from the nearby offices lunched there, and usually she would join one or other of the groups to chat. However, today she knew she would be poor company.

  The waitress set her order down and Martha smiled her thanks before pulling a thin paperback novel out of her bag and settling down to read. A shadow fell over the pages and she glanced up in annoyance, praying it was no one she knew about to join her.

  'Mind if I sit here? There doesn't seem to be anywhere else free today.'

  Quinn Maxwell eased his long legs under the table and settled himself comfortably without waiting for her to answer.

  'Yes, I do mind,' she snapped. 'Go find your own table, you're not sharing mine!'

  Her voice had risen several decibels and a couple on the next table turned and looked at them speculatively. Martha felt the colour flood to her cheeks. She leant towards him, her green eyes hot with temper.

  'Listen, Maxwell, I'm sick and tired of you hanging around, so get lost.'

  'I only asked to share your table, Martha,' he said with an easy laugh. 'Not your bed.'

  The girl on the next table giggled, then clamped her hand over her mouth as Martha shot her a quelling look. She looked round, desperately hoping there would be another seat vacant but, of course, every single one was taken. Mouthing a string of silent, colourful curses, she propped the book against the salt cellar and bent her dark head, determined to ignore him.

  'Good book?' he asked after some time, biting into a thick beef sandwich with obvious relish. 'Funny, I wouldn't have thought you would go in for that sort of thing.'

  'You know nothing about me, or what I like,' she snapped, turning the page, though she couldn't remember one word she'd read of it.

  'Oh, I wouldn't say that, Martha. You'd be surprised what I know about you.'

  'What do you mean?' Startled, she looked up at him, her eyes mirroring her confusion.

  'Well, now, where shall I start? I know where you live, where you work, what sort of music you like, though I was rather surprised at your taste when I heard what you were playing this morning, and now I know what sort of books you like. I'd hardly call that nothing.'

  'Well, I would. Now, will you either be quiet or go away? Preferably the latter.' She flicked another page over, staring blindly down at the black print. The table was only small and they were close together, so close that she could feel his knee brush against hers. She moved slightly, easing her legs back from the unwelcome pressure, then wished she hadn't as she saw the knowing expression on his face. It was hopeless. There was no way she could sit here and eat with him just inches away, laughing at her.

  She snapped the book closed and thrust it back into her bag before standing up, stumbling slightly as he caught hold of her wrist.

  'Where are you going?' he asked quietly. 'You haven't eaten your lunch yet.'

  'Anywhere . . . anywhere at all that I can get away from you.' To her surprise and dismay she heard her voice break. She twisted her arm, trying to free it from his hold, but though he only held her gently, his fingers light against her skin, she couldn't seem to break free.

  'Sit down, Martha. Finish your lunch and let's call a truce for now. I didn't mean to upset you.'

  There was a genuine concern in his eyes as he looked up at her, and Martha sat down abruptly, unable to continue the struggle. She picked up the sandwich and nibbled the edge of it, feeling her throat close as she tried to swallow.

  'Relax,' he said softly. 'It's truce time, remember? Time out of the battle.' His voice was gently teasing and she couldn't help but smile. 'That's better. Now, come along, let's find a safe topic to talk about. How about the weather? That's always something the British love to talk about, probably because it's so damned awful.'

  His voice was wry and Martha chuckled despite herself. 'True enough, but what do you mean, "the British"? Aren't you one yourself?'

  'I suppose I am and I'm not,' he answered, slowly stirring his coffee. 'I was born in Britain, and my parents are British, so technically I am, but I've lived abroad, mainly in Australia, for so long now that it's hard to say if I really feel "British", whatever that is.'

  'Australia?' She stared at him, startled. 'I suppose that's where you got that fabulous tan.'

  He grinned. 'Too true,' he said in mocking imitation of a thick Aussie accent. 'Boy, do I miss those golden beaches and all that sunshine in this weather.'

  'So why are you here?' she asked, her green eyes curious.

  He shrugged, his heavy shoulders moving lightly under the grey suit jacket. 'I just felt like a change, wanted to see if I could carve a new life out for myself over here. I had a bad accident in Australia a couple of months back, water-skiing, and was laid up for quite a while. It gave me time to think, to start evaluating what I'd done with my life—and frankly it didn't seem to add up to much.'

  There was a pensive look on his face and Martha was intrigued.

  'Why? I mean, you seem to be successful. You definitely don't give the appearance of being on your uppers.'

  'Oh, I had money; that wasn't the problem, far from it. But it was family money, from what my father had made. I wanted to see if I could strike out for myself.'

  'And how are you doing? Or is that the sort of question which will make you lower the white flag?'

  He laughed, open amusement on h
is face, and Martha noticed how several women in the room turned to look at him. It was no wonder; he was handsome enough to make any woman want to turn and look.

  'No, we're still in truce time. I'm doing quite well, very well, in fact.'

  'And will you stay here, or will you go back some day?'

  'That depends,' he answered softly, staring straight into her eyes. Martha swallowed hard, finding it strangely difficult to look away.

  'On what?' she whispered.

  'On how things work out over the next few weeks.' He reached out and caught her hand, turning it over so that he could trace her palm with a gentle finger. 'Do you believe in fate, Martha? That everything we do is pre-ordained, mapped out as some believe on the palms of our hands?'

  She shook her head, feeling the gentle touch of his long finger tingling through her flesh like fire. 'No. Do you?'

  'Yes. I think it was fate that made us meet, and it will be fate which binds us together in the future.'

  He sounded so sure, so certain, and for one brief, glorious moment Martha pushed all common sense aside, wanting to believe him. Yet how could she? How could she believe a word he said, when all the facts spoke differently? She eased her hand free and stood up, suddenly desperate to leave before she did anything she could only regret in the future.

  'Truce over, Martha?' he asked, looking up at her.

  'Yes,' she answered. 'Yes, truce over.' And wondered why she suddenly felt so achingly hollow deep inside.

  The dress was perfect. Martha knew the moment she laid eyes on it that it was just what she wanted for the party. It was a pale, soft green, the bodice softly draped, the skirt clinging to her slender legs before flaring gently just below the knee. As soon as Martha tried it on in the exclusive boutique, she knew she had to have it, no matter what it cost. It had been ages since she'd bought anything like this filmy drift of fabric. In the past few years her clothes had been chosen for sheer practicality and nothing else, but this dress was different: a beguiling piece of witchery.

  She took her time getting ready for the party, first taking a leisurely bath, then concentrating on doing her hair and make-up, but the result was worth it. When she stepped in front of the mirror it was as though she had suddenly stepped back in time.

  Since Paul had died she'd spent the barest amount of time possible on her appearance, content to make herself look neat and tidy. Now, studying the reflection in the long mirror, Martha saw again a glimpse of the girl she had once been: small and slender, with fine, pale skin and huge, glowing green eyes, soft as pools of tranquil water. The only difference now was the awareness in her face, an echo of the pain and sorrow she'd had in her life. It hadn't been there three years ago, and now no amount of cosmetics could hide it.

  She slipped into her best black coat and fastened the collar tightly found her throat before hurrying out to her car. The night was bitterly cold, a thin, icy wind wailing mournfully through the bare trees, settling a fine skin of ice along the roads. It had been sleeting earlier in the day, and Martha knew she would have to drive carefully. It would be only too easy to hit a patch of ice and skid tonight.

  It. was a good half-hour drive across the city to the sumptuous house where the party was being held, and Martha breathed a sigh of relief when she finally turned into the drive. There were several dozen cars parked already, mainly huge, expensive limousines, and she gave a wry little laugh as she inched her small economy model into a narrow gap next to a maroon Rolls-Royce. From the look of the vehicles, the evening promised to be everything she'd expected; she only hoped both she and the dress were equal to the occasion!

  The front door opened smoothly a bare second after she rang the bell, and she was ushered into an elegant hall by a tail-coated butler. She stared round, her eyes wide as saucers as she took stock of the magnificent chandeliers, the antique furniture, the exquisite paintings. Her host was a Greek shipping owner in his late fifties, a charming and surprisingly self-effacing man, despite the fact that he must be rich as Croesus. Martha had liked him from the minute she had met him.

  'Ah, Ms Clark. How lovely that you are able to come.'

  She turned to smile at the small, dark-haired man who was hurrying towards her, both hands outstretched in greeting.

  'I'm delighted to be here, Mr Stassinopoulis,' she replied warmly.

  'Aristo, please,' he said taking her hands and smiling at her.

  'Aristo,' she corrected, 'and please, call me Martha.'

  He bowed his head in acknowledgement, then led her into a long room filled with people, introducing her to so many that soon her head was spinning. Several of the names she had heard before and could place them as influential people in the city, yet Martha found them easy to talk to, found that they were intrigued by her profession. She moved round the room, enjoying the chance to meet new people and share a few hours with them. It had been ages since she'd last done this sort of thing and, suddenly, she realised just how much she missed it. It was high time she started to make a life for herself away from the business.

  After a while it became very hot in the room, and Martha finally excused herself from the group she was with, making her way through the throng to where drinks were being served at a long, white-clothed table. She opted for a glass of iced fruit juice, wanting something to quench her thirst, then wandered over to the doorway to the ballroom while she watched the couples dancing.

  The women's dresses made vivid splashes of colour against the formal dark suits of their partners, and Martha watched them for several minutes, enjoying the shifting flow of colours and patterns this human kaleidoscope was making.

  'You're looking very lovely tonight, Martha.'

  The shock of hearing his voice was so great that Martha dropped the glass, watching with disbelief as it fell to the floor, spraying cold drops of juice over her sandalled feet. She looked round, her eyes huge and haunted as she stared at the tall, golden-haired man standing beside her.

  'What are you doing here? How dare you follow me?' she said furiously, her face pale and tight with anger and a shadow of fear. 'How dare you?'

  The music stopped abruptly and Martha felt her face suffuse with colour as the sound of her voice carried round the room. There was a momentary lull in the conversation and she could almost feel people watching them, then a woman laughed, the band once again started to play, and everyone carried on as though nothing had happened.

  Quinn Maxwell took her arm, his fingers hard as they closed round her soft flesh, his face a golden mask of barely controlled anger. He nodded towards a waiter, indicating that he should clear up the mess from the spilled drink, then hustled Martha unceremoniously from the room, holding her arm so tightly that she couldn't break free without causing a scene.

  'Let me go!' she ordered, her voice a biting, icy whisper, but he ignored her.

  Crossing the wide hall, he thrust a door open and bundled her inside the room, closing the door firmly before he freed her. Martha shot away from him like a rabbit from a trap, not stopping till there were several yards between them, her arms hugged tightly round her shaking body. She opened her mouth, ready to tell him in no uncertain terms what she thought of his latest move, but fell silent as he held up his hand to forestall her.

  'Just for once, listen, will you? For your information, I didn't follow you here tonight. I was invited. I had no idea that you would be here until I saw you standing by the ballroom.'

  'I don't believe you. It's just another one of your rotten tricks, Quinn Maxwell. I bet you gatecrashed this party just to upset me.' She was so angry that she could feel herself quivering, but she forced herself to stand and face him squarely.

  'Oh, come on, Martha. Use your head. How could anyone gatecrash a party like this? That guy who let you in isn't some nice old family retainer, he's one of Aristo's bodyguards, same as most of the waiters. If I'd attempted to gatecrash this little do, I'd have found myself out on the pavement with a few bruises for my efforts.'

  His words made sense,
too much sense, and Martha stemmed the flood of nasty comments which were waiting to erupt like red-hot lava. Her host was an important man; there was no way he would take a chance on strangers walking into his home. For once, she seemed to have misjudged him.

  She smoothed her dress down, then flicked a few loose curls from her cheek, knowing she should really apologise for what she'd said, yet knowing there was no way she would do so! It had been such a horrible shock to hear his voice and see him standing there that she could feel her insides still quivering from it.

  'Nothing to say for yourself now, then? Cat got your tongue?' he asked mockingly, and she glared at him.

  'I wish a cat would get you, a nice big one, which would carry you off, far away from me forever.'

  'Now, I'm sure you don't mean that, sweetheart, especially not when you're looking so demure in that dress. No woman who looks as beautiful as you do tonight could possibly be harbouring such evil thoughts.'

  There was an open admiration in his face now, mingled with the teasing mockery, and Martha glanced away, filled with confusion. Insults and anger she could handle, but compliments were a different matter.

  'Look, Martha, I was invited here tonight the same as you were, so we have two ways of handling this situation.'

  'What do you mean?' She barely glanced at him, her whole body rigid with a tension she couldn't explain.

  'I mean that we can either both stay and make the best of it, or one of us can leave.'

  'I have no intention of leaving. I was here first and I am staying.'

  He sighed, a fleeting hint of regret on his face as he heard the unbending harshness to her voice. 'Then it looks as if I'll have to do the gentlemanly thing and go, doesn't it?'

  He swung round on his heel, reaching for the doorknob when Martha suddenly spoke. 'No. Wait!'

  The words burst from her lips involuntarily. She hadn't known she was going to say them, and now she felt herself go hot all over as she realised what she'd done. She swallowed hard, trying to find some moisture for her dry mouth, wondering what had made her do it. Why hadn't she just let him go? It should have been the simplest thing in the world to do—yet, somehow, it wasn't.