This story copyright © 2004 Mia McCroskey
Characters from The Avengers and other sources are the property of their respective owners.
[an error occurred while processing this directive] people have read this story since April 2004
Steed plays voyeur
Emma learns new tricks
Chapter 5
A heavy knock on the door brought Emma out of the bathroom still fastening an earring.
"So you've learned to knock," she said as she opened the door. "Good morning St --," she stopped herself, her mouth still open as she looked at Max Prendergast. He was holding a big bunch of red roses, his smile slightly shy.
"Good morning," he said, sounding a little puzzled.
"Max!" she cried cheerfully, reaching for the flowers before he could ask what name she had been about to say. "What a pleasant surprise. Please come in."
She backed away from the door so he could enter, which he did.
"I came to say goodbye," he said, shutting the door. Emma's heart began to pound. This is it. I have to keep him here. She set the roses on the dresser and faced him. "I had to see you again," he added, taking a step toward her.
"Max must you go?" she asked. "You've made my visit here so special, I hate for it to end."
"I'm afraid that I must, Emma. My plans --," the ring of the telephone interrupted him. They both looked at it as it rang again, and then the sound jarred Emma to action. She rounded the bed to the nightstand and picked up the receiver.
"Hello," she answered in a sing-song way that was completely unlike her.
"It's Steed," he was all calm efficiency, but there was an undercurrent of urgency in his tone. "You have to keep him there. Can you do that?"
"Good morning! Oh that's too bad. Yes," Emma tilted the clock radio sitting next to the telephone to check the time, then she glanced over at Max with a reassuring smile. "Yes that would be fine. In fact, it's more convenient for me."
"Keeping him there?" Steed asked.
"This afternoon. See you then," she replied, replacing the receiver. "My morning appointment has been rescheduled," she said to Prendergast. "We can spend the rest of the morning together." She switched on the radio. An old, romantic German song reverberated through the tinny speaker.
Prendergast's head slowly shook from side to side, his eyes full of regret, as she walked slowly back to him.
"My flight Emma," he said, but she ignored him.
"Come sit," she said, diverting toward the chairs under the window. "Tell me more about the children. I am so impressed with all that you accomplished for them."
The previous afternoon he had spun a yarn -- if not all lies then a substantially slanted version of the truth -- about helping refugee children during the war. He took a step toward the chairs, glanced at his watch, then took another. It had occurred to her that perhaps he believed what he was saying, or perhaps over the years he had convinced himself, he'd told the lie so many times.
She sat down and crossed her legs, reaching one hand toward him in a beckoning gesture. He took it, bowing over it to press a damp kiss on the back. For a moment she feared that he was going to try to leave. Her body tensed, ready to use physical force if necessary. But instead he sat down still holding her hand.
"For a few minutes then, my dear," he said.
Her face lit with a grateful smile.
"Perhaps --," he said, his eyes dropping to their clasped hands and then slowly rising back to her face. "You are so lovely," he sighed, and she had the distinct impression he had been going to say something else. "So lovely," he nodded, his eyes locked with hers.
"Max?" she nearly whispered. Get him talking.
"Perhaps you would consider coming with me," he said very quickly, as if there were a time limit on getting the words out. And then, once he was started, he couldn't stop. "The flights to Rio are never full. I'm certain we could get you a ticket. Perhaps even seated next to me. What fun we would have there my dear Emma. Rio is so free, so alive. Not like Berlin at all. Berlin has become such a dangerous city. Certainly the most dangerous in Europe."
"I've never been to Rio," she said, forcing a hint of enthusiasm into her voice. It was surprisingly easy given that it was a lie -- she had been to Rio with her father as a teenager. As she spoke she imagined the technician in headphones monitoring her room -- for she was certain Steed had bugged it -- waving madly at some assistant to look up the schedule for flights to Brazil.
She had done it. Prendergast began describing Rio, obviously placing her into the vision in his mind's eye. He had them strolling along the beach, shopping in the boutiques, and although he did not say it she was certain he imagined her sunbathing topless.
"Oh Emma," he sighed, still stroking the back of her hand. He wore a silly, contented smile. "You will come with me. We'll travel the world together."
"Tell me your plans for us."
After Rio they would go to the South Pacific. He would buy her anything she wanted. Treat her like the princess he knew she must be. She asked encouraging questions and let him spin his story larger and grander.
And when he faltered for a moment she spun her own story for him -- her fantasy life with him lounging on beaches, dining on delicacies, carefully skirting any references to sleeping arrangements. Her enthusiasm grew with her story, blatant fantasy though it was, and gradually they painted a fairy tale life for themselves. She never knew whether he truly believed it, and she did not care. All that mattered was that he stayed there with her, his bag packed but his travel plans cancelled.
At last they both fell silent, Max stroking her hand with both of his, smiling contentedly at her. She realized that the radio had been playing the same song over and over for as long as she could recall. It had added to the dreamlike romantic quality of their conversation, lulling her into a near trance. But then some small part of her mind wondered what had happened to the attendant whose job was to change the records. And then she noticed how drearily romantic the lyrics were and wished that it would stop. Without thinking she stood up and started for the radio to turn it off.
He was up with her, his arms around her before she could react, turning her to face him, his mouth seeking hers.
No, she wanted to shout and fight him off. But it wasn't time yet. If it were Steed would be there. So she had to go along; she had to keep him happy. She could not bring herself to kiss him back, but he did not seem to notice.
"Oh Emma, you will come with me. We will be so happy," he whispered into her ear, his hands stroking her back. She held hers still on his shoulders, resisting the urge to push him away. It would be so easy to knock him out, but it would be out of character. She had to stay in the role for just a little while longer. Just until Steed comes.
Prendergast was kissing her again, his tongue stroking her lips, imploring her to admit it. She clamped her mouth shut tight, repulsed by the idea. He drew back, his expression confused.
"Emma darl --."
The door burst open. Without hesitation Emma shoved him away and stepped back, compulsively wiping her lips with the back on one hand while she smoothed her hair with the other. He spun toward the door, reacting too late as Steed surged in and grabbed Prendergast by both arms, jerking them roughly behind his back. He struggled, crying her name with disbelief that transitioned into desperation as he realized that she had betrayed him.
Steed swung him around into the arms of a uniformed Berlin police officer who snapped on handcuffs and dragged him out of the room. Emma sucked in a deep breath and squared her shoulders. She could not remember now why she hadn't simply hit Prendergast. So what if he woke up in Steed's custody and knew she had betrayed him? He knew now anyway. She could have avoided his horrible, demeaning physical advances. But loyalty to the mission and to Steed had compelled her to act as promised. Hitting Prendergast was not what she had signed on for.
Steed turned back toward her, his expressive face full of concern. She took two steps toward him, certain that she looked in control and professional and ignoring the damp feeling that Prendergast's kisses had left clinging to her mouth.
He met her at the foot of the bed, engulfing her in his arms, holding her against his broad chest. He pressed a kiss to the hair on the side of her head.
"It's all over. We got the warrants, all the right signatures. You were perfect, Mrs. Peel. You are perfect."
"It was hard, Steed," she said. "Much harder than I expected." She lifted her head from his chest to look into the grey depths of his eyes. They filled her with confidence. "I nearly lost myself."
"You may be to honest for this business, Mrs. Peel," he said with the warm smile that always lifted her spirits.
"So I need to develop a disreputable side, like you?" she countered.
"Exactly," he agreed. And then he gave in to his own long suppressed need and kissed her. She hesitated for a moment and his heart dropped. But then she responded, her lips parting, one hand caressing his jaw as her tongue caressed his.
Steed's embrace and kiss was the perfect antidote for the lingering sensation of Prendergast's touch. Emma allowed herself to enjoy the feel of his body against hers, admitted to herself that this was what she wanted, even more than the excitement of their work. And then she ended it, taking a deep breath as she looked again into his eyes. She saw pleasure and passion, pride in her, and happiness. But there was still something missing: the spark of a deep emotional connection.
"Can we go home now?" she asked, trying to sound childlike in an effort to dampen her own libido. He smiled his most charming, eye crinkling grin and nodded.
"Yes. I believe I owe you a dinner."
Emma tightened the lid on a jar of water and tucked it into her paint box along side the bundle of brushes secured with an elastic band and a large set of watercolor paints. At a knock on the door she snapped the case shut and went to open it.
"Steed!"
"Good morning Mrs. Peel. Going somewhere?" he replied as she admitted him and he laid eyes on her paint box. She followed his gaze.
"Painting," she replied. "In the park. Want to come along?"
To her complete surprise he bent down to pick up the box, slinging the folded blanket she'd set next to it over his arm. "I'd love to," he said. With a pleased nod she put on her jacket and picked up her pad, folding stool, and easel.
She led him to a favorite spot on Hampstead Heath -- a stretch of lawn with a small pond and picturesque trees in the near distance. London had had a string of fair days since their return from Berlin, so the ground was dry and the spring flowers in the ornamental borders were blooming.
Steed spread the blanket while Emma set up her stool and easel.
"What are you painting?" he asked, stretching out on his side on the blanket to watch her. She studied the view: Steed reclining surrounded by the bright green lawn, a burst of colorful flowers in the middle distance, and dark trees beyond.
"You," she replied playfully, opening her jar of water to moisten a sheet of paper.
"No!" he chuckled with false modesty.
"Yes. Please bear in mind that I have not worked much in watercolor. But I promise it won't hurt a bit."
He grinned, holding the expression until she noticed and assured him that he did not have to hold so still -- the painting wasn't that detailed. His expression turned concerned.
"What have you been up to Steed?" she asked to try to relax him. "Busy with our German friend?"
Her question had the opposite of the intended effect: Steed rolled onto his back and held his head with his hand for a moment, groaning.
"Steed?"
"Sorry," he rolled back onto his side. "Better?"
"The pose? Yes. But what happened?"
"The Germans kept him. I have spent every moment since our return negotiating with them, but they are determined to hold him there. Blasted Teutonic pride," he grumbled.
A rush of fear all out of proportion washed over Emma. She shivered despite the warmth of the morning and shoved away all memories of Max Prendergast's hands on her body. "Do you trust them to keep him?" she asked, her voice coming out in a pinched squeak.
Steed's brows arched in alarm and quickly settled. "Not to worry, Mrs. Peel. They're very good at holding prisoners. They'll let us know immediately if he gets out, or they plan to release him. We'll snap him up just like that if he does!" He snapped his fingers illustratively.
Emma nodded slowly, looking from Steed to her painting and back. She wanted to believe him. She had to trust him. She noticed that her tree line was unbalanced. Taking a deep breath, she moistened her brush and leaned in to fix it.
A while later she leaned back, the end of her brush pressed to her lips, and smiled at her work. Steed, who had been enjoying watching her work, sat up.
"Finished?" he asked, very curious.
Emma nodded, bending to open her paint box. She put her brushes inside and drew out a bottle, a corkscrew, and two glasses. Steed's face brightened as she rose and brought them to him. While he went to work with the corkscrew, she put away the rest of her supplies and lifted the easel to turn the painting around.
She sat down beside him, accepting a glass of the ruby-red rosČ.
"To fine English mornings," he said.
"To spending them together," she added.
"Indeed," he replied after taking a sip, his serene gaze studying her. Fearing that he might fall into her gorgeous eyes, he forced himself to turn his head and look at her work.
He was a long grey figure with a dash of dark hair and flesh highlights at face and hands, amid a field of dazzling green. Bursts of bright color drew the eye from him toward the line of trees in the distance, and on up to the pale sky.
"I like it," he said, letting himself look back at the artist. She shrugged, staring at the painting herself.
"My technique is very rudimentary," she said.
"But your vision is lovely," he replied, looking at her, not her painting.
She looked back at him, her crooked smile belying her appreciation of his flattery. That's something, he thought. She used to disregard it out of hand.
And then, because it was a beautiful English morning and she was a beautiful English woman, and because he could, he held her chin with his thumb and index finger and kissed her.
fin