This story copyright © 2004 Mia McCroskey
Characters from The Avengers and other sources are the property of their respective owners.
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Steed plays voyeur
Emma learns new tricks
Chapter 2
Emma crossed one long leg over the other, her sheer hose glistening in the dim reddish light of the Intercontinental hotel bar. Her hem was daringly short, even for her, although her dress was not otherwise revealing. She scanned the room openly, although she had identified Prendergast seated two tables away before selecting her own seat. Steed was hunched over a glass at the far end of the bar giving every appearance of a weary business traveler seeking companionship solely from a whiskey. It was late afternoon and only a few other patrons were scattered around the room.
The waiter appeared at Emma's table and took her order for a very cold, very dry vodka martini with a twist. When he moved on Emma let her gaze drift to the mirror behind the bar, looking first at herself, and then gradually moving her eyes to find Prendergast's reflection. Their eyes met: he was watching her as well. She curled the corners of her lips, not so much a smile as an acknowledgement, and then withdrew her gaze.
A moment later the waiter brought her drink and she faced the mirror as she carefully raised the full glass and sipped it. She was conscious of his attention now, even though she resisted meeting his eyes again. He was watching her and she most certainly was performing. She set her glass back down and opened her bag to withdraw a cigarette. She wasn't much of a smoker, but some situations called for it. She gave him time to react, setting the cigarette on the table while she snapped her bag shut and put it down.
She raised the cigarette to her mouth deliberately -- she did not have a match or lighter. True to her expectations, he was there with a match before the paper touched her lips. She concentrated on the first drag -- and on not coughing from the smoke. Holding the cigarette between her index and middle fingers she looked up at Prendergast, who stood hovering like a schoolboy awaiting his teacher's praise.
"Thank you," she said somewhat breathlessly, nodding at the vacant chair at her table. He sat. Only then did she notice that he'd brought his drink with him. His presumption shook her. Her confidence was based on her having the upper hand; she had to know what was really going on while he did not. What would she do if he did not behave like a gentleman? Defend herself and blow her cover? Steed had convinced the General that she could handle this. What would happen to his reputation if she didn't?
She took another drag on her cigarette, this time enjoying the nicotine tingle and the sense of wellbeing it imparted. Prendergast's drink was golden brown with ice. Scotch? She wondered. Or is he a whiskey man? The dossier, which she'd practically memorized, had not said.
"Emma Peel," she said, offering her hand across the table. She had wanted to use an alias, but Steed had vetoed it, explaining that the fewer lies the better when maintaining a cover.
Prendergast took her hand, his stubby fingers gripping hers weakly. His hand had a clammy feel that she found repulsive. She schooled her features so as not to show her distaste.
"Max Prendergast," he replied, his round cheeks bulging above his wide smile. He had a friendly face. Not the sort she would have suspected of cruelty.
Steed slipped into Emma's room using the spare key he'd appropriated.
"Mrs. Peel?" he asked quietly. He knew she was there, and alone: he'd watched her go in a little while ago from his room down the hall. She stepped out of the bathroom wearing the hotel-supplied robe and a towel on her head.
"It's traditional to knock -- I might not have been decent, Steed," she said.
"Yes I know," he replied with a lecherous look. But before she could scowl at him it vanished and he turned all business.
"What are his plans?" he asked, standing near the bed watching her as she sat at the dressing table and opened a jar of moisturizer. She was surprised at herself: although she liked to think of him as a suitor -- she shuddered at the juvenile nature of the term "boyfriend" -- she was comfortable with him witnessing her private bedtime rituals. Like a big brother. Or a husband.
"He's waiting for something," she replied, dipping up a quantity of white cream with her fingers. "When it comes he's leaving. He didn't say where. Or what he's waiting for."
Steed watched her smooth the cream over her forehead, temples, and cheeks. He imagined that those were his fingers massaging her face as the cream vanished into her skin.
"It's a what? Not a who?" he asked, tearing his eyes away from her to pace.
"Yes, definitely a what. I think its money, or something that can be converted to money easily. Then he's getting out of the country."
"Did he seem nervous? Suspicious?"
"Not of me."
Steed stopped pacing to look at her again. He hated this assignment. His heart had been pounding all evening as he watched her flirt with Prendergast. But instead of indulging his jealousy -- a strange, new emotion that he wanted to ponder later -- he had focused on just how good she was at this game. He knew that she was seductive, but the woman flirting with Prendergast was a predator. It was jarring to know that his Emma could be that woman. A small part of him, buried very, very deep, wanted to brand her cheap, not a lady. But another part of him, buried not quite so deep, found this new side of her even more alluring than the ladylike, brilliant Emma he already knew.
She stood up to face him nearly eye-to-eye, the white towel on her head towering above them.
"We're having lunch tomorrow," she said, all business. "He wasn't sure if he'd still be here for dinner."
"Do your best to see to it that he does not want to leave," Steed said, despising himself. She studied him for a moment, her lower lip caught in her teeth in that way that made her look very young. He wanted to put his arms around her, but if he claimed her now he was not confident in his ability to leave her room gracefully. And he feared that he would undermine her confidence.
As if reading this in his eyes, she nodded slightly and turned back to her dressing table, picking up her hairbrush and setting it back down again. She was as tense as he was, and his being there was not helping. He moved to the door, placing his hand on the knob.
"I'm enjoying this," she said suddenly, turning toward him. "Being someone I'm not. I'm beginning to understand why you've kept at it so long."
He nodded as she crossed the room to stand in front of him again. Suddenly she reached up and removed the towel, shaking her warm, damp hair out over her shoulders. He inhaled the enticing herbal scent of her shampoo. She tossed the towel on the bed and brushed her hands over her hair, a simple, natural motion that was pure Emma. He felt himself smiling fondly.
"But it's not real," she nearly whispered, one hand sliding up to caress his cheek. He automatically leaned into her touch, and then into her as she pressed a long kiss to his lips. She leaned away, her eyes momentarily searching his. He knew she saw it -- the smoldering desire that he'd been holding in check since nearly the day they'd met. "That's real," she added her lips curling crookedly as she saw appreciation register on his face.
"Emma," he whispered, half longing, half scolding her for being so seductive when there was nothing that either of them could -- should -- do about it tonight. He opened the door and slipped out of her room with the distinct feeling that Max Prendergast was not the only man Emma Peel was playing with.