This story copyright © 2003 Mia McCroskey
Characters from The Avengers and other sources are the property of their respective owners.
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Steed becomes a man hunter
Emma stays afloat
Chapter 5
Sally stopped in the middle of "her" room and set her two suitcases on the floor. Or rather, on the discarded clothes that covered the floor. Technically, she had agreed to pay one quarter of the rent on the apartment for half of a bedroom, but her new roommate seemed to be divisionally challenged. The only clear space in the room was Sally's bed, and judging by the rim of clothes, magazines, and less identifiable objects on the floor all around it, it had only become clear quite recently. Heaving a sigh, she began shifting the debris across an imaginary line using her feet. If I don't take a stand from the start, I'll never have the space I'm paying for, she assured herself as she uncovered a brassier and another undergarment that she couldn't really identify. If the apartment weren't so cheap, and so much closer to the office than her parents' house, Sally might have turned around and walked out.
She was surprised to find half the closet empty -- mainly because the clothes in it had been jammed into half the space. The bottom two dresser drawers were empty. Of course. That's what's all over the floor, Sally grumbled to herself as she stowed her underwear. She'd met her roommate the other night. Meg had seemed pleasant enough, if a bit scattered. And the room had been relatively tidy. Sally was glad that her parents hadn't insisted on helping her move -- not that the two suitcases of clothes really constituted moving. If they'd come here she'd probably be dragged back to the country with them. As she stowed her second pair of work shoes she reflected that this was nothing like Lady Emma's move into London a few months ago. She had just stretched out on her bed with a book when the sitting room exploded with people.
"Hey, you're here!" Meg cried, swinging around the doorframe. "Oops! Sorry about the clothes -- I was done-in this morning, almost didn't make it to work at all, and it's only a half day on Saturday!"
"I just shifted a few things," Sally said, trying not to sound as irritated as she felt, although she suspected that Meg was immune to such subtlety. Meg pulled off her pastel blue jumper as she strode into the room, dropping it on the pile Sally had made. Then she stooped to sort through the pile and drag out a bright purple blouse, which she put on over her head without bothering with the buttons. It clung to her in what Sally thought was an unattractive way. Meg's figure was not made for slinky styles. But even as Sally came to this conclusion, Meg pulled off her skirt and replaced it with skin-tight black slacks.
"Come on, it's Saturday night and the party's starting!" she said, heading back out into the sitting room. Sally put down her book and followed. She hadn't bargained for living in a perpetual party, but then, the London lifestyle was part of why she was here.
While Sally was discovering the chaos of her new roommates' weekly party, Emma was studying a loan agreement between Knight Industries and one of England's largest banks. The accountants assured her that Knight could function for a few more weeks without an infusion of cash, but by then the interest income and dividends usually generated by the company's investments would be sorely missed. Several banks were willing to extend credit to Knight, but the terms were consistently avaricious. If Knight defaulted, the bank would practically own the company. And such agreements required the approval of the board of directors. She wanted to stall informing the board of the theft as long as possible.
Emma set the agreement aside and picked up a handwritten letter she'd been working on. It was addressed to Harry Hill, Steed's brother-in-law. It explained that circumstances at Knight had changed and she regretted that she was not able extend the offer of employment that they had discussed. The assets identified for sale in Alex Harper's proposal were exactly those that Harry's skills in the futures market would benefit. If they were to sell those divisions, they'd have no use for Harry. Emma had briefly entertained the thought that if the ministry had developed Harper's proposal, Steed might have been involved with it, skewing it to discourage her recruitment of his relative. But she had decided that was too manipulative, even for him.
With a heavy heart, she set the letter in her outbox for Mrs. Emerson to type, knowing that she'd have one more opportunity to stop it when it was returned for her to sign.
When Steed phoned her late in the evening she eyed the piles of work on her desk and reluctantly agreed to meet him at one of their favorite restaurants.
Emma was distant through supper, and she barely seemed to notice when Steed dropped her off at her apartment and went home. He'd considered simply staying uninvited -- he figured he didn't really need an invitation any more to join her in her bed. But Emma's mood had been so discouraging he resisted the desire to try to comfort her and drove instead back to the ministry and to the gym.
Sunday was much the same. Steed didn't even bother to call Emma when he headed for the stables for a ride. He needed to think, and he did that very well in the company of a horse. Besides which he knew she'd decline the invitation and by not asking he avoided the inevitable hurt.
Emma, Edmond Stanton, and Angus Benson, the vice president in charge of software, spent a good deal of Sunday picking at the details of a deal with a large American firm. They very much wanted to be involved with the research and development project -- they firmly believed that the results would be very lucrative. But with Peter Peel in possession of Knight's cash, they were searching for a way to close the deal at a lower initial investment. When Benson suggested a rather surprising strategy, Edmond, the notorious negotiator, reddened with embarrassment for not thinking of it first. Without hesitation Emma picked up the telephone and called Reginald Styles, the friend of Steed's who brought the deal to their attention in the first place. He'd targeted Knight because it was reported to have rich cash reserves. But buying in with its own cash was not the only way. Perhaps Reggie had other resources. They all agreed that a piece of the pie was better than none.
But Reggie wasn't in. Emma dismissed the others, insisting that they should let the problem go until she heard from him. She, however, lingered in her office reviewing departmental reports and answering notes from various managers seeking the CEO's guidance.
Steed recognized the boxy figure between the guest chairs in his office before he'd turned on the lights. When he did, Mother's head swiveled to look over his shoulder at Steed. A tall figure rose from one of the guest chairs and stepped to the far corner of the room. Rhonda, Mother's assistant.
"Good afternoon, Mother," Steed said, unflustered by his superior's presence. It never paid to be surprised by Mother's behavior.
"Good ride, Steed?" Mother asked, taking in Steed's fine riding clothes. Steed went around his desk and sat down.
"Horses are my weakness, Mother," he replied with a smile. Mother's eyes narrowed and Steed felt a wave of apprehension about the coming interview.
"Unfortunately, not your only weakness. Please explain this." Mother waved at Rhonda and she stepped forward to place a sheet of paper on Steed's desk, then withdrew. Steed looked down at a copy of the Swiss account statement that he'd received from Detrey via diplomatic pouch the day after the VIP returned home.
"It's a statement from the account that Matthew Stein transferred Knight's funds into," he said matter-of-factly. Mother wasn't taken in by his ingenuousness.
"And through those withdrawals you are tracking Peter Peel. It is not within this organization's budget for one of its best agents to pursue a thief across Europe."
Steed's nostrils flared. He took a moment to contain his anger. "I think it's my responsibility to assist in recovering a prisoner that I lost," he replied coolly. Mother scowled.
"That is a black mark, it's true," he said, "but not your motivation. We have discussed her before, and you have assured me that you can be objective."
Steed did not reply. But his implacable stare didn't phase Mother.
"She needs you, and lord help you, you need her," he raised his hand and Rhonda stepped forward, taking hold of Mother's wheelchair. "Take leave. Go after him. At your own expense."
Steed watched Mother retreat through his office door, and nodded slightly at Rhonda as she reached in to close it. She paused, her features softening. "Good luck, Steed," she mouthed. Steed's brows shot up. It was the first time he'd seen her even pretend to speak.
When she woke up sometime Sunday afternoon Sally realized that her new living arrangement could be detrimental to her career. At her roommates' party she had been introduced to more than just their friends. Alcohol had flowed freely, and at some point someone had pressed a homemade cigarette into her hand. She'd never been particularly interested in smoking, but she hadn't wanted to seem standoffish. So she'd taken a drag on the cigarette and coughed awkwardly as she passed it along. She wasn't so naive that she didn't recognize that it wasn't normal tobacco, and when it came around to her again she took another long drag. Out of curiosity.
As she squinted through the dirty bedroom window at the painfully bright spring sunshine she came to two important realizations. Her boss stocked much higher-quality wine and liquor than her roommates, and she didn't need to use drugs or alcohol to make her life seem interesting. It was already interesting enough.
It wasn't the first time she'd gotten drunk -- the youth in her village had had little other entertainment -- but it was the worst. She wasn't sure, but she thought she'd talked last night for a while with a fellow who'd been quite nice. She hated that she wasn't sure whether he'd been genuine because her senses had been blunted by dope and cheap red wine.
Swallowing down a wave of nausea, she shuffled out into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of club soda left over from the previous night's mixer supply. Looking into the refrigerator she realized that for the first time in her life she needed to buy her own food. It was an unpleasant thought given the state of her stomach.
"Hey Sal," her roommate Annie appeared in the doorway. She looked bright and alert, not at all like Sally felt.
"Good morning," Sally replied, "Um, afternoon I mean."
"Good party last night, huh? Hey, looked like you got something going with Terrance -- Meg's brother. He's pretty sweet, huh?"
"Yes, I liked -- he's Meg's brother?"
"He didn't tell you?" Annie sauntered on into the kitchen and plugged in the kettle.
Sally tried to think back over the previous night, but it hurt her head. "He may have," she admitted.
"Yeah, your first party around here is always the toughest. You'll get used to it. Anyway, Terrance called earlier. I told him you weren't up yet."
"What? He called me?" Sally sunk down onto a rickety kitchen chair and rested her head on her hands.
"Oh, no, he usually calls Meg on Sunday mornings -- it's a family thing. They were raised going to church every week, but now they just have a good gossip instead."
"Sounds reasonable," Sally muttered, not really hearing what Annie was saying.
"So after he asked for Meg and I told him she wasn't back from her run yet, he asked about you."
"Meg was out running this morning?" Sally tried to imagine moving that quickly and felt nauseated again.
"Yes, of course. Keep up, Sal. Terrance asked if you were running too and I told him you weren't up yet."
Sally was sure it wasn't good that he'd been told she was sleeping the day away, but she couldn't bring herself to think about why.
"You can't work twenty-four hours a day, Mrs. Peel." Steed sat in one of the guest armchairs on the other side of Emma's big desk. She tapped her pencil impatiently on the document she'd been reviewing. It was Tuesday night and Steed had given up phoning and simply come to her office.
"And yet I must," she replied caustically. "I took responsibility for this company. It falls to me to do everything I can to keep it afloat."
"You may feel healed, but you aren't. You're pushing yourself too hard. What does Hemming say about your conditioning?" At least he can help her keep herself strong and flexible.
"Nothing," she half whispered, not meeting his eyes.
"Sorry?"
She sucked in a deep breath and looked up at him. "Nothing. I've had to cancel my sessions with him."
"And have you cancelled your doctor's appointments, too?" he barked, anger and concern welling up too fast for him to contain it.
Her eyes narrowed and he knew he'd gone too far. There would be no reasoning with her, not tonight. He wanted her so desperately, wanted to hold her, to feel her touch, to talk with her, to hear about her work to save Knight. But none of that was to be. Not tonight. She didn't answer him, just picked up her pencil and looked pointedly down at the document. She knew that he could find out whether she'd seen the ministry doctor, even find out the results of his examination. There was no need to answer. This was Emma at her iciest, and Steed, who was rarely her target for it, felt a growing desire never to experience it again.
He rose and moved around the enormous desk -- her fortress, he often thought. Startled, she looked up at him, her face a mix of anxiety, regret, and exhaustion. His heart quailed at the sight. Let me help you, Emma.
"Good night, darling," he said, leaning down to kiss her. "I love you."
Emma watched him go, his kiss lingering on her lips. It had felt horribly final, more like a good-bye than a good night. She wanted to go after him, but the weight of the document in her hands held her down. She was still staring at the door through which he'd gone when she heard the ding of the lift arriving. And then he was most certainly gone.
The tip of Steed's umbrella hovered over the button for the lobby, then he stopped and redirected it to the button for Sally's floor. He heard music as the doors slid open and smiled as he strode down the hall toward it. The door to Sally's little office was half open so he looked in. She was sitting at her desk with her legs curled under her reading a book that she held in her lap. There was a half-eaten sandwich on top of a brown paper bag on the desk next to a black Knight Industries mug. The cheap little radio that was emitting the tinny pop music was sitting on a bookcase against the wall. As Steed watched her lips moved along with the lyrics and she bobbed her head with the beat. Suddenly he realized who she reminded him of. He hadn't thought of Venus Smith in years.
When he tapped on the open door with his umbrella handle Sally's head snapped up in surprise. She was on her feet switching off the radio before she realized who was at her door.
"Steed!" she said as she smoothed her skirt and sat down properly in her chair.
"Don't worry, Sally, I'm alone," he said, stepping in to sit in the uncomfortable guest chair in front of her desk. Sally visibly relaxed and he wondered if Emma knew just how hard the girl worked to impress her. "You like that music?" he asked.
"Yes. It's lively."
He nodded, "Mrs. Peel does too." Sally smiled and nodded, not surprised the he wouldn't like it. "You're here awfully late."
"I was just --," she paused, realizing he'd seen that she was reading a novel, and the evidence of her dinner was there in front of her. "It's quieter here than at my flat."
That was a gross understatement. Although she'd grown up the eldest of five, after just four days she found it impossible to find quiet time among her boisterous roommates, their assorted boyfriends and friends, and the constant stream of food delivery. Besides which she had more space here in her office than in her half of her bedroom. She wondered if Steed could have the slightest idea what it was like for a young woman on an entry-level salary to live in London. She doubted he had a clue.
In any case, he seemed to accept her explanation, or perhaps he just wasn't really paying attention.
"You couldn't get her to leave, could you?" Sally asked, knowing it was rather forward, but feeling on safer ground than discussing her living arrangements with her boss's lover.
Steed shook his head, running his hands over his umbrella, which he'd laid across his knees. "I need your help, Sally," he said, looking her in the eye. It wasn't his usual flirtatious look, either. He looked worried and unhappy. Sally would have done anything for him if it would make that look go away.
"What can I do?" she asked.
"I'm going after Peter Peel."
"I thought someone was after him."
Steed shook his head. "He's on every agency's top ten list, but nobody's actively pursuing him. I've been tracking him through various contacts. I know where he was three days ago, and last week, and I know how much of Knight's money he's withdrawn from the bank. I have to go stop him. For Knight. And for her."
Sally nodded, understanding that both reasons were really the same. But what was he asking of her? Not to go with him, surely. "What do you need me to do?"
"Communications."
"Oh no, Steed," she shook her head, "You have to call her. You can't go off and not speak to her."
"Oh I will," he assured her, "but I need you to tell me the truth. She won't let me know if she's not doing well, or if Knight's situation becomes so precarious that she can't hold it together. I need you to watch over her and tell me what's really going on, tell me whether I need to come back here for her."
"I see. I can do that."
"And I'll keep you informed about what I'm doing -- that only seems fair."
"That would be -- fair," she agreed, actually delighted that he'd offered. "When are you leaving?"
He shrugged as if it didn't really matter, "Tomorrow some time, if I can arrange it. I'll have to take leave from the ministry, and I'll have to call in some favors to find out where he's gone. I'll let you know, when I know."
"Good luck, Steed. I'll pray for you."
Steed stood up, holding his hat and umbrella in front of him. He smiled down at her. "Thank you Sally, that means a great deal to me, although I don't suppose you'd think it," he said. Then he left her office. She listened to his footsteps in the corridor until they faded away, then stood up and turned the radio back on.
Emma felt as if she had not been home in a week, although in fact it was only two days. After a full week of late nights that ended in her collapsing on her bed, oblivious to her surroundings he'd finally succumbed to the sofa in her office and ended up sleeping there overnight. She'd regretted it all day as her stiff muscles cried out for relief. Every time she looked in a mirror her hair looked flatter and her complexion looked duller. She desperately wanted to take time to go to the ministry and use the gym, or at last the steam sauna. But the paperwork piled on her desk and her hectic schedule of meetings kept her in the building all day, every day. Although she'd refused to answer Steed about it before he left, she had been to the doctor, and he'd told her in no uncertain terms that she had to cut back on work and get more exercise. Each day she promised herself that she'd find time to follow his orders, and each day ended with her still in the office.
Steed had been gone for a fortnight, and although he called nearly every day, their talks were short and unfulfilling. He seemed reluctant to tell her much about what he was doing -- just as reluctant as she was to tell him how hard she was working. So they talked aimlessly for a few minutes before signing off with sincere, if unenthusiastic, endearments. This evening he'd found her at the office just before she left, so she knew she wouldn't hear from him at home. She wished he would call -- maybe at home she could find the words that seemed trapped in her heart when she was behind her big desk at the office. But she was also relieved knowing he wouldn't. She could bathe and fall into bed without any sense of expectation.
Entering her bedroom she took off her jacket and blouse and kicked out of her shoes. She went into the bathroom and started water running into the sink, then searched through the medicine cabinet for the moisturizing cleanser she'd spent too much money on. As she shut the cabinet door, jar in hand, the mirror reflected a double image -- herself, and a man with piercing dark eyes. She was momentarily confused, and in that moment he reached around her, pinning her upper arms to her sides. His bear hug around her injured ribs sent daggers through her chest. The smell of cheap whiskey and sweat emanating from his clothes nearly gagged her. She smashed upward with the heavy jar, banging it weakly into his face. Although she hadn't hurt him, he loosened his grip with one arm to catch her hand, knocking the jar to the floor where it shattered in a gloppy mess.
His other hand groped upward, grabbing at her right breast. Shocked, she thrust backward with her elbow, but his grip on her hand minimized the blow. He squeezed with his other hand, kneading her tender flesh until the nipple rose sharply against her camisole. She squirmed in his grasp, aghast at how weak she was. In all the fights she'd had with men, none had ever blatantly groped her. This man's leering face, reflected over her shoulder in the mirror, made it clear that groping was only the beginning of what he had in mind. Desperate and unable to overpower him through sheer strength she went limp. That took him by surprise and she slipped downward through his arms. She crouched and bowled into his legs as he bent to grab at her. Losing his balance, he fell on her and she felt something in her chest crack with an explosion of pain. She'd rebroken her rib.
Although she tried to stay curled in a protective ball, he got one arm around her waist, pinning her against his chest as they lay on the narrow bathroom floor. Something cold and sharp sliced into her side -- the broken jar of cleanser. His whiskey infused breath was hot on the back of her neck.
"How do you like it?" he hissed, teeth brushing her shoulder threateningly. "I could bite your ear off. Would that thrill you?"
She wanted to scream, but her mouth was as dry as feathers. She pounded weakly against his sides and tried to kick him, but he remained behind her, out of her range. Her heart was pounding, her chest aching as she gasped for breath, panic welling up as she had never known it. This couldn't be happening. She had never lost a fight, not when it really mattered. Not when Steed wasn't there to rescue her.
He forced his other hand between her legs, gathering her skirt up around her hips, her struggles only making it ruck up faster. Somehow he rose up onto his knees and then she was on the floor on her back, pinned by his forearm across her clavicle, fragments of the jar on the floor piercing her flesh through her camisole. He pressed his fist against her through her panties, his knee on the floor between her legs. She brought both hands to his throat, driving her thumbs into the unprotected flesh of his neck. She felt the ridges of his windpipe begin to collapse. His eyes were like black holes boring into her. He was angry and desperate, and his grin belied alcohol-induced madness.
He withdrew his hand from her groin and brought it up to slap her hard. Her head turned with the blow and her eyes came to rest on the metal handled toilet brush in a stand beside the toilet. She removed one hand from his neck just as he grabbed the other one and pressed it to the floor beside her head. She reached out, praying that he was too focused on her struggling to notice. Both of his hands were busy holding her down, so he slammed his knee into her groin.
"I'll bet you can take that. I'll bet you like them big," he growled. Emma's fingers closed around the toilet brush, it's bristles providing a good grip. Thanking whatever whim had caused her to buy the stainless steel accessory, she swung it as hard as she could at the back of her attacker's head. He howled and reared up on his knees, reaching for the brush before she could land another blow. She sat up and drove her other fist into his gut. Then, when he stared bulge-eyed at her and grabbed at his middle she swung the brush again, connecting solidly with the side of his head. He toppled sideways, the other side of his head striking the edge of the bathtub.
He crumpled. She struggled out from under him and touched his neck. His pulse was alarmingly strong. He would not be out for long. She reached up to her dressing gown hanging on the back of the bathroom door and pulled out the belt. She was so weak she could hardly shift him to get his hands behind his back. She tied his wrists, then she removed his belt, heaving him over to get it out of all of the loops, and secured his ankles. His eyes started to flutter open as she cinched it tight. He moaned, still only semi conscious. She dragged herself to her feet and reached round to her back to feel the fragment of glass impaling the soft flesh at her waist. The skin around it was sticky, but she could not tell if it was cleanser or blood. Afraid to find out, but knowing she had to, she stumbled out of the bathroom and stopped in front of the tall mirror on the closet door. It hurt when she craned her neck over her shoulder to look at the wound in the mirror. A chunk of the jar protruded from her back, blood mixed with creamy cleanser oozing down to the waistband of her skirt. Now that she saw it, she felt the associated pain.
She sat down heavily on the bed looking at her attacker's feet through the bathroom doorway. She could not call the police. They would notify Steed, and he'd break off his pursuit of Peter to come to her. Much as she wanted him -- needed him -- she couldn't do that. She couldn't let him put her ahead of the recovery of Knight's fortune.
She sat on the bed for a few minutes staring at his feet, feeling the blood oozing from her wound. Then she stood up and returned to the bathroom. He was still semi-conscious. He wore an expensive suit, but his shirt was stained and he did not have a tie. She carefully reached down and felt inside his jacket. No weapon, but she found his wallet in the inside pocket. Studying its content, she snorted, then dropped the wallet on the floor in front of him and looked at his face. Bruises were beginning to show on the side of his head. Matthew Stein. My banker.
And suddenly she knew whom to call.