'That's fine, then.' The doctor smiled at them both, slipping his pen back into the pocket of his white coat, his mind already on the next patient in the seemingly endless queue. 'Make sure you collect an instruction sheet from reception on your way out. It will give you a few pointers on what to look out for in case of concussion, but I really don't think there's much danger of it.' 1
He walked away and Martha stared after him, wondering what to do next.
'Come along, then. Let's get you home.'
Taking her arm, Quinn led her across the crowded waiting area, stopping briefly to collect a printed sheet from the receptionist. Martha stared at the paper in his hand, feeling desperate.
'But, Quinn, you really don't need to . . .'
'I do need to, and I have every intention of doing so. So save your breath, Martha. I'm taking you home and staying the night, no matter how much you argue.'
There was a steely note in his voice and, looking at his set face, Martha knew she was just wasting her time. Maybe if she'd felt a little stronger she could have put up a fight, but in her present state of weakness she didn't have the proverbial cat's chance. She followed him meekly out of the door, grateful for the solid strength of his arm encircling her waist as he guided her to where he'd left his car. Her legs felt like rubber, all quivery and trembly at the knees, and she doubted that she could have walked the few yards unaided.
He opened the passenger door and put her inside, his hands gentle as he fastened the belt securely round her. He walked round the car and climbed in, resting his head against the steering-wheel as though suddenly tired.
'Hell, Martha, when I saw your car roll like that I . . . I . . .' His voice broke, and Martha felt something inside her leap into life as she heard it. She reached out, running her hand gently over his downbent head, wanting to soothe him.
'It's all right, Quinn. It's all fine now.'
Her words were almost an echo of his earlier ones, and he sat up, a faint smile curving his long lips as he heard them. For one long, timeless moment he stared at her, his eyes tracing slowly over her face as though storing the memory of it, then he said softly, 'Yes. It's all fine now, thank heaven.'
He started the engine and drove slowly out of the hospital while Martha stared out of the window with shocked, disbelieving eyes. He hadn't touched her, hadn't said anything other than those few brief words, but the look on his face had told her more than words could ever do. He cared about her, really cared, and the realisation sent a rush of heat through her whole body.
Quinn took charge immediately they got back to her flat, turning on the heating and making tea as though it was the most natural thing in the world for him to do. Martha sat on the sofa, listening to the sound of him moving round the kitchen, filled with wonder that their stormy relationship had mellowed into this sort of harmony. Naturally he would want to help her when she'd been hurt, but there was more to his concern than just a desire to help: so much more that she was frightened to think about it.
'Here you are. Drink this, then bed.'
He put a mug of hot tea into her hands and Martha sipped it, almost gagging at its sweetness.
'I've put plenty of sugar in. Just the thing for shock,' he said, watching her closely, and Martha drank the lot without a murmur. There was so much concern in his face, so much worry in his eyes, that to make a fuss and refuse seemed churlish.
He took the empty mug from her hand, then pulled her gently to her feet, holding her in front of him. Martha felt her pulse leap, then start to race.
'Don't ever do that to me again, will you? I don't think I could go through what I went through tonight again.'
His voice was deep, his eyes filled with remembered agony, and she smiled at him, suddenly desperate to ease the tension and remove that look of pain.
'No chance. I'm not auditioning for any more stunt-driving jobs, no matter what sort of fee they're offering.'
He chuckled, pulling her gently against him, holding her as though she was made of the most fragile china. 'There's no way I'm going to let you, honey ... no way. Now, before I give in to my baser instincts, let's get you to bed . . . alone!'
Martha's face flamed at his teasing, realising there was more than a hint of truth to it. If she hadn't been feeling so bruised and shaken, then maybe . . . She carefully blanked out the thought and turned towards the bedroom, stopping as a second thought struck her. She glanced round, her cheeks even more fiery at the request she just had to make.
'Quinn, can you ... well, can you undo my dress for me, please? I can't lift my arms up properly because of these bruises.'
She waited, her back towards him, her face averted, jumping at the cool touch of his fingers against her skin as he undid the zipper. There was a moment of utter stillness, then she felt the soft touch of his lips against her backbone and shuddered at the exquisite flare of sensation it aroused inside her. For a second his hands tightened round the ends of her shoulders, then he gave her a gentle, push away from him.
'Go along, while I still have enough strength to resist temptation.'
There was a husky roughness to his voice which told her all too clearly how strained his control was, yet she didn't hurry as she walked away from him. If he had called her back, she would have gone.
She walked into her room and closed the door, leaning back against its hard wooden panels, her body hot with yearning, her mind filled with longing. She closed her eyes, fighting down the desire to go back to him and let what would happen happen. When she opened her eyes again, the first thing she saw was the photograph on the bedside-table, and she gasped, turning her head away from the evidence of her betrayal.
How could she have forgotten about Paul? How?
Martha turned restlessly in the bed, tossing from side to side in an attempt to fight off what was happening. It had been months now since she'd last had the dream, yet she could still recognise the onset of it. She twisted round, fighting to break free from the clinging web of sleep and escape the horror of the encroaching nightmare, but there was no way she could do it. It had started now, the first vivid pictures seeping into her mind, and she moaned aloud in agitation, knowing all too clearly what was coming next.
She flung her arm out, knocking the lamp to the floor, but even the sound of its glass shade shattering couldn't break the nightmare's hold. The bedroom door opened and Quinn hurried into the room, his anxious eyes running over her writhing figure. She moaned aloud, a pitiful thread of sound which tore at him, forcing him into action.
'Martha! Come on, wake up. Martha!' He sat down on the bed to pull her upright, desperate to wipe the look of terror from her contorted face. Her eyes opened and stared blankly at him, and he felt himself go cold at the unfocused depths of her darkened pupils. He shook her gently, careful not to jar her head, his hands firm and warm against her cold, damp flesh.
'Martha! Can you hear me? Wake up. You're dreaming. Wake up, I say!'
She blinked, then shuddered, and he pulled her against him, his hands running over her hair, his lips moving desperately over her face.
'It's all right, my love. It's all right.'
Life seemed to flow back into her body and she clung to him, her slender arms gripping him with a surprising strength.
'Oh, thank heaven. You're safe . . . safe.' Her voice was a cracked whisper, an echo of tortured sound, and he bent his head to press his mouth to hers, frantic to wipe away that edge of fear. She lifted her face almost blindly to him, her lips clinging, feverish in their response.
'I love you,' she mumbled. 'Oh, Paul, I love you so much. Don't ever leave me again.' She nestled against him, her body relaxed now, free from the terror, but there was something wrong. He was pushing her away, his hands almost rough as they forced her back against the pillows when she tried to cling to him.
'Open your eyes, Martha,' a harsh voice said. 'Open your eyes and look at me.'
Slowly she opened her eyes and stared up at the tall blond man standing over her, shaking her h
ead to rid it of the last clinging threads of sleep.
'Who am I?'
It seemed such a foolish question that for a moment Martha stared at him, her eyes filled with confusion. Why was he waking her up to ask her such a silly question?
'Who am I, Martha?' he repeated, and his tone dared her not to answer. She licked her dry lips as the first memories of the nightmare came curling back into her mind like drifting smoke, hazy and indistinct.
'Quinn,' she answered. 'Quinn Maxwell.'
'That's right... so who the hell is Paul?'
There was anger in his voice now, a real live anger, but she scarcely heard it, too caught up in the horror of the mistake she'd made. She turned away, her eyes going to the photograph, her whole body trembling.
'My husband,' she whispered. 'My husband!'
The echo from the words followed him as he walked out of the room.
CHAPTER NINE
It was almost an hour before Martha summoned up enough strength to leave the bedroom, an hour which she'd spent staring blankly at the wall, her mind and body numb. She walked into the sitting-room and stopped dead, feeling her heart start to hammer in a crazy, frightened rhythm.
Quinn was slumped in one of the chairs, his eyes closed, his head resting back against the cushions, but she knew he wasn't asleep. There was too much tension in his body, too much strain etched on his face for him to be asleep.
She walked further into the room, her bare feet making no sound on the thick carpet, yet somehow he must have sensed her presence. He sat up and ran his hands roughly through his hair, then looked at her, his grey eyes dark and unfathomable.
'How are you feeling?' His voice was politely level and something inside Martha leapt in sudden fear as she heard it. She would almost have preferred to hear anger in his voice than these cool tones of a stranger.
'I'm fine, thank you.' She turned away and stared out of the window, rubbing her hands up and down her cold arms, but the chill she felt stemmed from deep inside and wouldn't go away. The snow had stopped now, leaving behind a thin shimmering coat of white which turned the city street into a magical fairyland, but it wouldn't last. By the morning it would have gone, tainted by the grime and dirt which lay beneath.
There was the sound of movement behind her and she glanced round. Quinn was standing now, shrugging his suit jacket on, and Martha felt herself go even colder as she realised he was leaving.
'Wait! I want to explain about what happened before.'
'Explain? What is there to explain, Martha? I would have thought it was quite obvious what happened.' His voice was harsh, and Martha felt her eyes sting with tears as she heard it. She had hurt him, and no amount of explanations could ever really make up for that, but she had to try.
'But, Quinn, you don't understand . . .'
'No, I don't! I don't understand how you could do this. It's like something out of a farce, isn't it? Any minute now your husband will come in and demand to know what I'm doing here. What's the next step? Pistols at dawn? Well, I'm not waiting round for that to happen. I've had enough, thank you!'
'Paul is dead.'
The words rang round the room, as hollow and final as a tolling bell, and Martha saw the shock which crossed his face.
'What?'
'He died three years ago, in a car accident. I wasn't with him when it happened, but afterwards I kept having these terrible nightmares, imagining him lying in all that twisted metal.' Her voice broke and she turned away, not seeing how Quinn half raised his hand towards her before letting it drop to his side in an oddly sad little gesture.
'I suppose the accident tonight brought it all back to me, but you must believe me when I say I'm truly sorry I made such an awful mistake. I never meant to hurt you like that.'
'I'm sorry too, Martha,' he said quietly, and his voice held a strange note of defeat. 'I never knew that you'd been married, you see, let alone widowed. It explains so much about you, about the way you reacted to me.'
'What do you mean?' Wide-eyed, she stared at him, seeing the grey strain of tension under his tan.
'Your husband is dead, Martha, but be honest, have you ever really come to terms with it? Isn't he still a part of your life, as important to you as ever?'
Just hours ago she would have agreed with him, but now she wasn't so certain. So much seemed to have changed in these past few hours that it was impossible to know just how she felt. Yet guilt and a strange indecision made her hesitate, and he misread that hesitation.
'You don't need to answer. I can see that I'm right. I'm sorry, Martha, sorry if I've upset you. I never meant to. All I wanted to do was . . .' He stopped abruptly, his face darkening with pain, then slowly turned and walked out of the door. Martha watched him leave with sad and empty eyes, wishing she could call him back, but she couldn't. She had no right to do that.
It was a week before she felt up to returning to work. The bruises were fading, the worst of the stiffness easing from her muscles, but it wasn't really the aftermath of the accident which had kept her at home. It was more a strange reluctance to go out and face the world again.
At the flat she could hide away and lick her wounds, safe from the pain of reality. But it was only a temporary sanctuary. The day came when she knew she had to gather up the threads of her life again, no matter how painful it would be.
She'd seen and heard nothing of Quinn since that dreadful night. He'd walked out of her flat and out of her life, and she missed him, so much that it felt as though he had taken part of her with him when he'd left. How had he managed to become such an essential part of her life, like food or air or water? She didn't know. Yet every minute of every day and every second of every night, she missed him. Was she in love with him? It was a question she'd spent hours puzzling over, but she was still too confused by pain and guilt to know the answer. If she loved him, then how could she still profess to love Paul?
The first day back she walked slowly along the corridor to her office, stopping outside the door to the ad joining suite. Just a couple of weeks ago she'd stood in this very spot, wishing Quinn Maxwell was a hundred miles away; now she would give anything to have him close again. She ran her fingers over the paint, feeling the tiny rough spots where the name-plate had been unscrewed from the door. Jeannie had told her over the phone that he'd closed the office the day after her accident: her voice had held surprise, yet Martha hadn't shared that feeling with her. Quinn had taken the office for one reason and one alone. There was no longer any reason for him to keep it.
With a sigh she walked the rest of the way along the corridor, summoning up a smile at Jeannie's obvious pleasure when she saw her. George Bryant had been holding the fort since she'd been away, and her desk was tidy, the paperwork up-to-date. When she felt better able to think, she would have to consider taking him into partnership with her.
Jeannie followed her into her room, her cheerful face filled with concern as she noticed Martha's pallor.
'Are you sure you're well enough to be here, Ms Clark?'
'Yes. I'm fine, really.'
'Well, you must try and take things easy Tor a couple of days. George has dealt with most of the new stuff, apart from two clients who insisted on seeing you personally. I've re-booked them for next week.'
'Good. Thank you.'
'And all the current cases have been dealt with, except for this. one. George said you wanted to handle this yourself.'
Jeannie eased a folder out of the pile and handed it to her before turning to go, missing the look of shock which crossed Martha's face. She stared down at it, her eyes locked to the name neatly typed along its edge.
So this was it: the end of the case, and the end of her involvement with Quinn. The realisation was like a knife in an open wound. Now all that remained to be done was for her to write her report and pass it on to her clients, yet she knew she couldn't do it. There was no way she could parcel up this list of dates and facts, this slice of Quinn's life, and send it to strangers. She owed him more than that
, much more.
She picked up the phone and carefully dialled the number Johnson had left her; in case of any problems. She would inform him first and Morris later. It could mean trouble for the business when they found out she had broken their contracts, but that didn't matter. All that mattered was that she should repay this debt she owed Quinn Maxwell.
A secretary put her through to Mr Johnson, and Martha introduced herself, wondering at his barely concealed gasp of horror when he realised who was calling.
'I'm sorry to bother you, Mr Johnson, but I needed to talk to you about your case.'
'My case?' he echoed.
'Yes. I'm afraid that—' She stopped abruptly as he butted in, his voice quivering with agitation.
'Ms Clark, I'm sorry, I've been meaning to contact you, but I . . . well, I really didn't know how to go about it.'
'I'm afraid I don't quite follow you. Is there something wrong?'
'Well, yes and no.' He hesitated, and Martha had the strangest feeling that he was steeling himself to continue. 'Ms Clark, I want you to drop the case immediately.'
'Drop it?' She was so surprised by his unexpected request that she could only repeat his words inanely.
'Yes, drop it. It appears I have made a dreadful mistake. There was never any question of Margaret being unfaithful to me.'
'I see.' Her head was whirling, trying to absorb the information, but she needed more than this blank statement. 'Can you tell me why you've come to this conclusion?'
'Well, I suppose I really do owe you an explanation. It appears that my wife and her friends met this gentleman, a Mr Maxwell, at a WI meeting. He was giving a talk on investments: stocks and shares, unit trusts, that sort of thing. Evidently the talk was so inspiring that Margaret and three of her friends decided to try their hand at it. Maxwell offered to make the investments for them, but they decided they wanted to do it all themselves. They have been going to his house and, following the advice he's been giving them, have managed to turn their rather modest investment into a tidy little profit. Margaret didn't want to tell me before because she wanted to surprise me with a trip to Venice for our wedding anniversary, paid for out of her share of the profits. So as you can see, Ms Clark, there is no way I want her to know that I doubted her, even for a moment. It would be quite inappropriate.'
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