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 3
Emma shifted on the uncomfortable hotel lobby sofa and scanned the headlines in the expensive, imported copy of Le Monde that she'd bought at the newsstand. It was eight o'clock in the morning and the lobby was busy with guests on their way to meetings and checking out with stacks of luggage at their feet. Emma had awakened an hour before absolutely certain that Max would leave this morning before their lunch date, so she'd dressed and come to the lobby to watch for him.
She turned the page, scanning the room over the top of the paper. She looked back down at the headlines and didn't see the man approach her. When he sat down beside her she noticed the familiar scent and spared him a quick, slightly irritated glance.
"What are you doing Mrs. Peel?" Steed asked her quietly, his lips barely moving as he stared at the queue at the reception desk as if awaiting someone who was in the line.
"Watching for Prendergast," she hissed back. "What if he leaves this morning before our lunch?"
Steed grabbed her elbow, forcing her to turn and look into his amused eyes.
"Look over by the door," he ordered her. She looked. "What do you see?"
"A man. An Englishman," she said, based on his attire. Steed nodded, watching her. "One of your men," she added and he smiled proudly. She shot him a little smirk and looked back at her newspaper.
"Look out through the door," he said, releasing her elbow. She leaned forward to look past him at the glass doors leading outside. "Across the street," he said.
There was a dark sedan parked across the street, two people in the front seat.
"Go for a walk. Get some air. Prendergast will make your lunch date."
Fighting embarrassment, Emma folded her paper and stood up, tucking it into her tote bag. She gave Steed a crooked smile and strode toward the door. He watched her go, his placid expression masking a turmoil of feelings, pride in her dedication the foremost.
Emma hoped her smile did not look as forced as it
felt as she approached the table where Max Prendergast was already seated. He
stood up to greet her, placing a light kiss on
the back of her hand as the maître de
who had accompanied her pulled out her chair.
She and Max both sat down and the host took the cloth napkin from the table and laid it on her lap. There was single red rose on the table in front of her. She looked curiously up at Max, who smiled and nodded.
"For you, my dear, although its beauty pales next to yours."
Emma's blush was quite real, and she rather hoped Steed was not watching too closely: she knew he was in the restaurant, but not exactly where. She picked up the rose and held it to her face to inhale the sweet aroma. Realizing the seductiveness of soft rose petals against her skin, she stroked her cheek with it, smiling back at Max. He looked mesmerized.
"Thank you for inviting me," she said softly, setting the rose back on the table. The movement broke his near trance and he looked down, fiddling with his salad fork.
"It's my pleasure, Emma -- I may call you Emma?"
"Of course Max," she breathed, making it sound as if she was desperate to hear him call her that.
"What have you been up to this morning?" She got the impression that he was asking so that she would not ask him the same question.
"I visited several galleries showing local artists." That was her cover -- art lover. She had told Steed it was terribly thin, but he'd insisted that any more detail would just get confusing. She could essentially be herself.
"Did you enjoy the art?"
"Yes and no. I am fascinated by the effect that this torn city has on its artists. There is so much pain and anger. But it is not what I would call 'pretty.' Not that art must be pretty to be worthwhile."
"You believe it should be thought-provoking?"
"Certainly. But I also think that it should be pleasing. Of course, many viewers are pleased by having their thoughts provoked."
Prendergast chuckled, his eyes shining.
A waiter appeared beside their table and started to hand Emma a menu. Prendergast stopped him with a sharp gesture.
"Chicken Cordon Bleu for both of us. The lady will start with a tossed salad and I will have the escargot. A bottle of Chardonnay -- you choose. Danke." He nodded curtly at the conclusion of his instructions. The waiter glanced at Emma, then made a half bow and strode away jotting down the order on his small pad. Outraged, Emma twisted her napkin beneath the table and struggled to maintain her genial expression. It had been going so well -- she could discuss art for hours. And then he had to behave like a chauvinist.
"I hope you don't mind, my dear Emma. I so love their preparation of Cordon Bleu."
"I'm sure it's divine," she replied, amazed at how natural she sounded, given that she wanted to reach across the table and throttle him. I want escargot!
A movement across the dining room caught her eye -- the flick of a menu in the hands of another diner. As if he had sensed her anger, Steed distracted her, favoring her with his warm, encouraging smile. It telegraphed patience and courage. She drew in a long breath and refocused her attention on Prendergast.
"Have you visited the eastern sector?" he asked. Emma shook her head.
"I don't have the proper visa," she said.
"These things can be arranged. Are you afraid to go behind the Iron Curtain?"
"Afraid? No. I just hadn't considered it," she felt a creeping discomfort. This line of questioning was getting terribly close to her real business. She wished that she had been to East Berlin, that she did have the years of experience wandering the soviet lands that Steed had. I'm not qualified for this, she thought skittishly.
"The architecture there -- and the art -- that has survived would fascinate you, I am certain."
Emma suppressed a sigh of relief and encouraged Max to go on. He did, describing important buildings in the Soviet sector and then moving on to describe Prague and Moscow. Their starters and then their entrees were delivered and cleared and their conversation about favorite old world cities went comfortably on. She refrained from asking how he was so well traveled in the east, but then she worried that her lack of curiosity was suspicious. She was trying to decide how to frame a question about it when he dabbed at his lips and set his napkin on the table.
"If you will excuse me for a moment, my dear," he said, rising. She watched him head for the toilets, relieved at the respite and the moment to reorganize her thoughts. She saw Steed coming toward her, his gaze focused straight ahead as he reached into his jacket pocket. He withdrew it and let his wallet slip through his fingers to the floor at her feet. He stopped and bent to pick it up.
"Get him out of the hotel for the afternoon," he said quietly.
"How --?" Emma's eyes narrowed at him as he straightened and moved on without a backward glance.
A few minutes later Prendergast found her slowly stirring the coffee that had been delivered during his absence. When he was seated she raised her head to look at him.
"Take me into East Berlin this afternoon," she said. It was a command, not a request.
He grinned at her, then his brows lowered as he realized she was not joking.
"I thought you were afraid," he said cautiously, although she had denied being so.
"I thought you said these things can be arranged," she countered. "Take me to see the churches you described. It will be the experience of a lifetime."
It would not, she was certain. But saying so played into his need to control. He stared at her for a moment longer, watching her raise her coffee cup with both hands and take a small sip. His gaze was riveted on her mouth. She made a small, pouty smile.
"Wait here," he said sharply, tossing his napkin on his chair this time as he left the table. The waiter drifted over to pick it up and place it folded on the table.
"He's making a telephone call," the waiter told her quietly. Emma looked up into his eyes, feeling foolish. She had not guessed that he was Steed's man.
A few minutes later Prendergast returned looking very pleased with himself. He took a long sip of his cooling coffee and ignored the tiny pastry that had come with it. Emma had eaten hers compulsively while she waited for him.
"It's arranged. You have your passport?" he asked. She nodded. "Then we will go."
He signaled the waiter for the check and signed it, then rose and waited for her to gather her bag and her wits and join him.