Tender Pursuit Read online

  TENDER PURSUIT

  Jennifer Taylor

  She needed a challenge

  That was why private investigator Martha Clark readily agreed to track down a real-life gigolo. After all, it made a change from her usual mundane insurance cases.

  Or so she thought--before she met Quinn Maxwell, her handsome and enigmatic target. Then she realized just how many complications could arise and how difficult it was all going to be.

  Somehow, Quinn managed to turn the tables on Martha, until she wasn't quite sure who was pursuing whom....

  CHAPTER ONE

  'Just take your time, Mr Johnson, there's absolutely no hurry.'

  With a cool smile Martha sat back in her chair, her green eyes studying the middle-aged man seated opposite. He was so nervous, his hands twitching, his feet shuffling, a nervous tic beating in the corner of his cheek. He'd been in her office nearly fifteen minutes now, yet she still had no idea why he'd come. Forcing herself to appear patient, she waited, her eyes moving on from his agitated face to sweep round the room, taking stock of its comfortable yet businesslike appearance: formality with just a hint of the homely. She'd worked hard on this room, determined to get the right atmosphere, and she'd succeeded. Clients who were visibly nervous soon seemed to settle in this soothing room with its pale grey carpet and lavender walls. Mind you, it didn't seem to be having much effect on this one, though it was doubtful if anything apart from a double dose of tranquillisers would help. Still, she was paid to be patient, so she would wait. Some time, sooner or later, he would come out with the reason he was here.

  'Ehhmm, well, it's like this Miss . . . Mrs . . . ehhmm.'

  'Ms,' she supplied helpfully, 'Ms Clark, if you don't mind, Mr Johnson. I prefer it.'

  'Yes, of course, Ms Clark.' His tongue seemed to trip over the unfamiliar title and he hesitated, making Martha almost sorry that she'd corrected him, but long ago she'd found it was the best way to avoid all those awkward questions about her marital status.

  'Well, you see, Ms Clark, it's my wife.'

  'Yes?' she said encouragingly. Under cover of the smooth teak desk she snatched a glance at her watch, working out just when to expect the next client. She always made it a rule to leave enough time between appointments to avoid having one client run into another, but at the rate things were progressing that mightn't be possible today. She looked up, putting just the right amount of warmth into her clear green eyes and settling her face into a gently understanding expression. It was a trick which she'd learned to cultivate over the past year, and one which usually paid dividends. It paid off this time, too.

  The man's agitation lessened visibly and he sat up a touch straighter, running a hand over his thinning hair.

  'It's like this, Ms Clark, I think that my wife is having an affair, and I want you to find out who the other man is.'

  'I see. And what do you base your assumption on, Mr Johnson? I mean, you do have something other than the fact that she may have changed her daily routine, taken to doing the laundry on a Wednesday rather than a Monday?' Her voice was warm, silky, just a touch amused but not overly so. She'd heard the same tale so often, seen the same look of horror, the same willingness to believe the worst when, frankly, there was nothing worst to believe! It was surprising what sparked off this reaction in one partner to another: a change of hairdo, a new hobby, walking the dog at nine in the evening instead of ten! Yes, it was surprising, and just a trifle alarming, that years of loyalty could so easily be discarded.

  'Of course. Margaret and I have been married for over twenty years now, so I think I can safely say that I know her very well indeed, and recently—well, recently, she's been acting quite out of character.'

  'In what way?'

  'She's been coming up to town regularly, something she's never done before. She's always been more than happy to stay at home. She has her women's meetings, her church flowers and the house, of course—plenty to keep her busy—but take this week, for instance—she's been up twice. Twice! When I asked her where she'd been, she was very evasive and wouldn't give me a straight answer. And then, of course, there've been the phone calls—wrong numbers, she always says, but last time it happened I listened at the door and it was no wrong number, I can assure you. She knew who was on the other end of that phone. No, she's having an affair, Ms Clark, I'm convinced of it, and I want you to find out all the details. I... I've been told that you're very good and very discreet, which is important. I wouldn't want any of this coming out, you understand; at least, not till it has to.'

  He was almost panting when he finished, and Martha gave him a few minutes to compose himself while she made a few soothing, gentle noises.

  'You can be quite certain that none of it will be made public Mr Johnson. M. C. Investigations is proud of its reputation for discretion, so you can rest assured. Now, if you'll just give me any information you have about your wife's routine, or even if you have any idea, no matter how vague, where she goes on these trips to town, I can set the wheels in motion.'

  She drew a gilt-cased pen out of its teak holder and opened a fresh file, heading the first page with the name 'Margaret Johnson' in a clear bold script. She looked up, one slender eyebrow arched in enquiry.

  'Well, actually, the last time she came into town, I followed her. She didn't see me, of course, I made certain of that, but I had to find out where she was going.'

  'That was very enterprising of you, Mr Johnson. And where did she go? Do you have an address?' Martha hid a smile, wondering at the fact that so many of her clients discovered these abilities for detection at the drop of a hat. The trouble was that many times they did more harm than good, so she always emphasised the point that she didn't expect them to interfere once she had started an investigation. If too many cooks spoiled the broth, then too many detectives just ruined the clues! It was a plain and simple fact.

  The man nodded, feeling in his pocket and drawing out a thin little notebook, turning the pages over one by one with an infinite precision which made Martha want to snatch it from him and flick them open. She stifled the urge. From the outer office came the sound of the door opening and the soft, hushed murmur of voices. Obviously her next client had arrived. She only hoped that Jeannie would have the sense to get him settled in the side room with a cup of coffee till she was free to see him. Clients coming to a private detective agency were always nervous, and, if they were given the chance to really think about their decision to come, they would often cut and run. Although M.C. Investigations was doing nicely, there was no way she could afford to let any prospective client escape too easily!

  'Ah, here it is!' Mr Johnson had finally found the page he wanted, and Martha hastily brought her mind back to the business at hand, sliding the pen more securely between her fingers.

  'Yes, this is definitely it. Six, The Mews Gardens . . .'

  The point of the pen skidded, smudging ink across the paper. She looked up, just the merest flicker of surprise on her delicate oval face. 'Pardon, but did you say Six, The Mews Gardens?'

  'Why, yes—is there a problem? I'm sure it's right.'

  'No, no, of course not. I just wanted to check I'd heard you correctly.'

  She busied herself writing the information down while her mind raced. Surely it was the same address as she'd been given earlier by a different client? He too suspected his wife of having an illicit affair, and had found a scrap of paper with the address in her pocket. What on earth was going on?

  Five minutes later she ushered Mr Johnson from her office, then hurried back to her desk and leafed through the small stack of manila folders in her tray to find the one she wanted. She flicked it open, skimming through the details, then paused as she spotted the address. The words seemed to leap from the page at her and
she nodded, her brow creased into a tiny puzzled frown. She'd been quite right, it was the same address as she'd been given once before.

  She sat down slowly, spreading both files open before her on the desk. Her first client, a Mr Morris, had been thoughtful enough to provide a photograph of his wife, and for several minutes Martha studied the picture of the pleasant-faced, middle-aged woman, her hair neatly permed, her clothes sedately conservative, then compared it with the written description given by Mr Johnson of his wife. They could have been two peas from the very same pod! She sat back, tapping the end of the pen against her small, even white teeth, more perplexed than ever.

  Two women, two middle-aged, respectable ladies, mainstays of their communities ... so what on earth were they doing sneaking up to town, and to the very same address? Were they really, as their husbands suspected, indulging in illicit affairs? But with the very same man! The idea was intriguing, absorbing enough to demand the personal attention of Martha Clark: Private Investigator. She would deal with both cases . . . herself!

  It was so cold. Teeth chattering, Martha started the car, gently revving the engine till it settled into a steady rhythm. She sat back, rubbing her hands briskly together to ease the chilling cramp from her fingers, then picked up the giant-sized thermos flask to pour herself another cup of coffee. A thin trickle of tepid liquid ran out, quarter-filling the small plastic cup, and she bit back a sigh. She was cold, she was hungry, she was tired and she wanted to go home, but she couldn't. This was her third day parked in the road opposite Six, The Mews Gardens, and so far she'd seen absolutely nothing to justify her presence. There had been no sign of life from within the small, smartly painted house, and no sign of anyone coming to visit either. Whoever lived there kept a very low profile, so low that she was beginning to wonder if they existed. Maybe number six was the Mary Celeste of houses, the ghost house where all the occupants mysteriously disappeared, because surely at some point during these three long and infinitely boring days someone should have come in or out!

  Disgruntled, she swallowed the lukewarm drink, grimacing at the powdery aftertaste it left in her mouth, then screwed the top firmly back into place. She revved up the engine, turning the heater up to full blast for a few minutes while she stretched her booted feet towards the soothing flow of warm air. A heavy grey dusk was already falling, shrouding the quiet street and cutting down her vision. It wouldn't be worth staying much longer, as soon there would be nothing she could see. This was the part of the job she hated—the long, tedious hours spent just sitting and waiting for something to happen—but it had to be done. In fiction, detectives led glamorous lives, filled with excitement and action but, in reality, it was vastly different. A real detective's greatest asset was patience, but frankly Martha had the feeling hers was being eroded by the minute. If only something would happen, and soon!

  She picked up a wad of tissues and wiped the smears of steam from the windscreen before reluctantly aiming the flow of warm air upwards again. She glanced at her watch, easing the cuff of her thick wool jacket and the sleeves of several sweaters away from her waist, and groaned in dismay. Only four o'clock! She'd thought it was much later than that. There was no way she could leave just yet; she would have to stay another hour at least. Still, tomorrow she could get one of the men to come out and take a turn. After all, what did she employ them for if she was the one sitting here, getting bored out of her skull? No, it was just a wicked waste of her talents when there was still that insurance claim which needed winding up and billing. Now, that had been worth taking on, not only for the satisfaction of discovering exactly what had happened to the huge horde of diamonds and pearls which had 'disappeared' when the owner was away, but also for the fee, which promised to be enormous. By her reckonings it should cover the day-to-day expenses of M.C. Investigations for several months to come, and leave a tidy bonus over for her own pocket!

  Musing over what to do with the little windfall, Martha settled back in her seat, trying to assess the varying merits of buying a new car or taking a holiday. It was difficult to decide when she could do with both so badly, but it passed the time pleasantly. So lost in thought was she that for a few minutes she failed to register the fact that someone had just walked down the street and stopped outside the door to number six. For a brief moment she stared idly at the woman, then shot bolt upright, as though jolted by a sudden electric current, and peered out through the grey dusk, trying to recognise her.

  She was facing the door, her back towards Martha, so that Martha couldn't see her face, just a few stray curls of pale, possibly grey hair, escaping from the bottom of a sensible, knitted hat. Who was she? Margaret Johnson, Elizabeth Morris ... or someone else?

  With a cautious stealth, Martha wound the window down, steeling herself against the sudden blast of freezing air which brought the full joy of a cold December into the car, making her eyes water. She wiped the trickle of moisture from her cheeks and peered out.

  The woman knocked at the door, waiting patiently for a few minutes before knocking a second time. She'll be lucky, Martha thought wryly, there's no one there, then nearly bit her tongue as the door was opened just a fraction. So there was someone there, someone who'd not been through that door for three days now. If only she could see who it was . . . but the gap was just too narrow to see who stood in the doorway.

  Fired with fresh enthusiasm, she huddled against the car door, straining to hear what was being said, but it was quite impossible at this distance. The best she could manage was a low murmur, a buzz of muted sound which wouldn't shape into words, no matter how hard she tried.

  Suddenly a small, feminine laugh assailed her ears, and as Martha watched the woman reached forwards, her hand raised as though touching the other person in a gentle caress before she turned away and the door was swiftly closed. Martha had just a second to snatch a glance at her face as she hurried past, but it was all she needed to identify the caller as Elizabeth Morris, her first client's wife. She sat back in her seat, her mind racing, suddenly forgetting the cold and discomfort.

  So there was something going on, and, if that tender little gesture she'd just witnessed was anything to go by, something Mr Morris wouldn't approve of at all! She smiled, a light of enthusiasm in her green eyes which had been missing for the past few hours. It looked as if she finally had, a case, something to get to work on—so now to set the wheels in motion and solve…

  For a few minutes she sat quietly, working out what to do next. Her main task, of course, was to find out the name of the person who lived in the house, and, though she knew she could do that fairly easily by checking the Electoral Register, it would be yet another delay. By the time she got across town, the council offices would be closed, which would mean leaving it until tomorrow. There was no point in doing that, in wasting still more valuable hours when she could—well, she could employ a few sneakier tactics to secure the information she needed. After ail, she'd done it before, and successfully, so she might as well do it again.

  She ran a hand through her short, tousled, dark curls, fluffing them away from her face, then got out of the car and walked briskly down the street.

  She stopped outside number six and lifted the brass lion-head knocker high before thumping it down hard against the plate with a half-dozen or so satisfying thuds which reverberated up and down the quiet street. There was no way the occupant couldn't have heard that. It was enough to waken the dead!

  The door swung open and Martha looked up, pinning a nice, firm smile to her lips, ready to begin her little speech . . . only she never got a chance to begin.

  'You're late. Come in.'

  The voice was low, deep, and filled with so much irritation that she was momentarily struck dumb.

  'Oh, for heaven's sake, come in before I catch pneumonia!'

  A large, tanned hand shot out, grasping her arm, then she was quickly and ruthlessly hauled inside!

  For several seconds Martha stood in the dark hallway, staring down at the fingers locke
d round her arm. Under other circumstances she might have appreciated the sculpted beauty of that hand with its long, lean fingers and well-shaped nails, but not right now. She was shaking, quivers of fear racing icily up and down her spine, and she drew in a swift, deep breath to steady the tremors before slowly following the hand up to the wrist and beyond.

  The wrist was attached to a long, equally tanned, muscular arm, and that in turn was attached to one wide, well-developed and totally bare shoulder. Green eyes widening by the second, Martha swept her gaze up, a long way up, to study the owner of all this bare and powerful flesh, and stifled an unwilling gasp of appreciation!

  In the dim light the man's face looked as though it had been carved from golden stone, the cheekbones high, the jaw square, sensuous power in every angular line. Dark gold hair fell over his wide, tanned brow, brushing the curve of thick golden eyebrows, arched over silvery-grey eyes; eyes which were studying her with a less than mutually appreciative expression. In fact, they were studying her with such obvious irritation that Martha hastily took a step backwards, breaking free from his grasp.

  'If you're quite ready,' he said with a biting sarcasm which set twin flags of colour into her pale cheeks, 'then we'll begin.'

  He walked away down the dimly lit hallway, and Martha stared after him, her eyes huge in her startled face. Apart from a pair of silky dark boxer shorts slung low on his lean hips, he was totally naked, from the tips of his large well-shaped feet to the top of his elegant golden head! She closed her eyes, leaning weakly against the cream-painted wall. What in the name of heaven was going on here? What was she expected to begin?

  For several minutes she stayed where she was, legs too weak to support her body, then with a mighty effort she pushed herself away from the solid comfort of the wall. Nothing was going the way she'd anticipated, not that there had been the slightest chance she could ever have anticipated all this in her wildest imaginings! Still, she couldn't afford to let it throw her completely off balance. She had to remember why she had come, and carry through her plan ... if he would let her.