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 11
"Sally, it's Steed."
"Steed, how's it going?" Sally held her breath. In his last report he'd said he was very close.
"It's over. I'm coming home. How is she?"
"Over, sir?"
"How is she, Sally?"
"Just the same, Steed. Working too much -- although not as much as before. Depressed. She misses you terribly."
She heard him exhale a deep breath. She could picture him rubbing his temples with his free hand, hunched over the telephone.
"Sir Peter is in the custody of the Americans. They'll extradite him to us when they're done. We've seized all of his accounts. I've pulled some strings, freed up the assets before anyone could try to freeze them. There's going to be a wire transfer to the Knight general account. Do you have a pen? I'll give you the details."
Sally wrote down the amounts Steed told her, gulping at the enormous sums, even though she knew it was only about two thirds of what had been stolen.
"Check for the wire transfer in the morning. Paperwork will follow. I think it's just in time to prevent Knight having to disclose the loss."
"Yes, she's been holding the reports on her desk until the last moment. When will you be back?"
"I'll catch flight tonight and be there in the morning. I'll call you then."
"You should call her, Steed."
"When I get back," he said firmly. "Good evening Sally."
Emma's office door was half open. Sally tapped on it, then walked in slowly to allow her eyes time to adjust to the dim light. The only light was shed across the surface of the enormous old desk by a small Tiffany lamp. It illuminated papers and files and Emma's sleek, black Mont Blanc pen. Emma was standing at the far end of the L-shaped room, her slim figure silhouetted by the dim light of the city beyond the windows.
"Good evening, ma'am," she said, continuing to the windows to stand next to her employer.
"Sally." Emma's voice was flat, as if she spoke from a great distance.
"He's coming home, ma'am," Sally said.
Emma's expression melted. She covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes shining with kept tears.
"When?" she whispered.
"Tomorrow morning."
"He caught Peter?"
"Yes ma'am. In Los Angeles -- Malibu. They seized his accounts. He had this," she handed Emma the slip of paper where she'd noted the amounts Steed said they'd recovered from Sir Peter's various accounts. Emma looked down at the paper in her hand, at the amounts written there and the total Sally had provided.
She couldn't stop the tears then. The hand covering her mouth slipped to her eyes and she sucked in a ragged, weeping breath. It was not all that had been stolen, but it was enough. Enough to reopen negotiations with the Americans. Enough to convince the board to go ahead with the computer subsidiary. Enough that the remaining loss could be explained in the quarterly report sitting on her desk.
Desperate to comfort her employer, Sally stepped close and put her arms awkwardly around her. She was surprised at Emma's solidness, all hard muscles over fine bones.
"It's all going to be fine, ma'am. Please don't cry," she said, releasing her and stepping back a little.
"I never cry," Emma replied automatically.
"Of course not," Sally agreed because she couldn't think of anything else to say.
Amazingly, it was exactly right. Emma recovered herself, wiping her eyes and smiling.
"That's what Steed always says," Emma said with a little chuckle. Sally smiled. "Does he have any idea that you've been telling me everything?"
"No."
Emma nodded, smiling. "Sally, have you ever considered getting into Steed's line of work?" She was surprised when the girl looked embarrassed and nodded, turning her gaze out to toward the city.
"He brought it up. He told me if I ever want to discuss it to let him know."
"You should."
Sally's head snapped back to face Emma. She looked stricken.
"I'd miss you terribly, but you need to do what's right for you. It could be a very good career," Emma said. Sally's expression lightened. Her shy smile returned and she turned back to look out the window.
"I think I might like it, ma'am," she admitted.
"But if you do, I hope we can be friends. Will you please call me Emma?"
"I'll try," Sally said, "But I may not be able to manage it, ma'am."
She laughed at herself and Emma had to join in, her heart growing lighter as the realization that her life -- the life she'd longed for and almost given up hope on -- was finally going to be possible.
"Tell me when he's getting home. I want to be at his apartment when he gets there," She said, already planning the reunion, a little voice at the back of her head praying that it would be as happy as she hoped.
The spring was taking a long time to come, so Emma lit a fire in Steed's fireplace and slid a perfectly seasoned roast into the oven. The comforting smells of woodsmoke and roasting meat soon filled the mews apartment. Emma put a bottle of Steed's favorite '36 in an ice bucket and set it with two glasses on the side table near the sofa. Then she stretched out on the sofa to wait.
Sally had reported that his flight had arrived on time that morning, but he'd gone directly to the ministry and stayed most of the day. Emma had enlisted an acquaintance at the ministry -- one of the many clerical workers to whom she'd endeared herself over the years -- to alert her when Steed left. She was engrossed in an obscure novel from his shelves when the phone rang once. Thirty minutes later Steed opened the door and came in, setting his hat and umbrella on the chair by the door and his bag on the floor. He sniffed the air, obviously smelling the fire and roast, and frowned. Then he stepped in under the arch and saw her.
"Mrs. Peel," he said softly, wondrously.
"Hello Steed," she replied, "What's a four letter word for a military settlement?" She held the crossword and a pen on her lap. He walked slowly into the room, coming around the sofa to stand in front of it.
"How did you know I'd be coming -- ?" he paused, eyes narrowing at her sly smile, "Sally."
"She does work for me, darling."
"And always has," he nodded, sitting down beside her legs, one hand on the back of the sofa, the other reaching for her of its own accord. He touched her hair, which was as soft as ever, then drew the back of his fingers along her jaw.
"Emma," he said, his use of her first name capturing her full attention as it always did, "We must never again rely on someone else to speak for us."
She captured his hand and brought it to her chest, placing it over her heart. "I know. So I'll begin. I have loved you from that day years ago when you took me skydiving. Those years were so fun, the games we played with one another, the childish challenge to never admit it. Never face one another with the full truth and agree to grow. That made it easier when Peter came back, and I've sometimes thought you knew he would, so you protected us both." He was shaking his head and she nodded understanding of his denial, "I know. It was just how things were, for both of us. Just good friends. I have thought for a long time now that I could never forgive myself for breaking your heart. I couldn't accept that you have forgiven me. How could you, if I was so guilty?"
"Emma," his voice was full of pain. She reached out and put her fingers on his lips, shaking her head.
"Let me finish, please. Then I hurt you again, being stubborn and willful. I thought I had grown up, that I understood how things were between us at last. I believed that my business with Peter was mine to conclude before I could move on with you. And I was certain that once I had control of Knight it would be concluded. Peter would be out of my life and I could finally have you on my terms, and on yours."
She paused, taking a deep breath, looking into the fire for a moment. He waited.
"When I regained Knight and realized that Peter was still in control, I -- for a little while I believed I'd lost it all. Peter had won, and I could never have you. All I could do was try to save Knight. That was my duty -- so many people's jobs depended on it. My life didn't matter -- Peter had stolen everything. Then you left," she seemed to shrink into the sofa cushions, her grip on his hand so tight it hurt. "Your reports to Sally kept me going. I couldn't bear to hear all the details directly from you. You were doing what I had failed at, for me."
"For us, Emma," he said before she could go on. His serene grey gaze probed the depths of her deep brown eyes. "It has always been us, whether you realized it or not. Of course I forgave you for leaving -- how could I not? I let you walk away without a word, knowing you would have stayed if I'd asked. I couldn't ask. I was a coward," he shrugged. "You gave me another chance and I grabbed it. I'll do anything to keep you now. I may be a coward, but I'm not stupid," he shared her smile and it warmed his heart.
"Well, mostly not stupid. I think -- if I'm honest with myself -- that I have loved you since we met. But when I first realized it -- when we became lovers -- my response was to try to get over you before you noticed. Because you were so cool, so aloof, I thought my infatuation was one-sided. You were my only lover who never insisted on telling me that she loved me. I was so blind I did not realize that you were the only woman who ever truly did."
Emma felt herself melting. She had been prepared to make apologies and beg forgiveness one final time, praying that he had undertaken his quest for her and not as a means to rid himself of her. But Steed, dear, wonderful Steed, had defused her trepidation with an admission of his own. How she'd wondered about his feelings in those early days when he never said anything. How she'd feared meeting someone leaving his apartment when she had to go there late at night. Eventually she'd come to realize how he felt, but to hear him say it now, to hear him admit to his own insecurity -- John Steed insecure! -- was a balm to her troubled soul.
"Peter Peel has stood between us from the day we met, one way or another," he went on. "In the end it fell to me to banish him and I have gladly done it. He is finally, truly gone, Emma. His grip on Knight is lost. His hold on you is over. Let him go and hold on to me."
Belatedly Emma realized that there were tears running down her face. Steed was kissing them away, brushing her hair away from her eyes and holding her head between his hands as his lips cleansed her. Her arms were around him beneath his suit jacket, exploring the familiar solidity of his torso.
"Shhhh," he whispered into her ear, "Don't cry Emma my love. We have the rest of our lives now."
"I never cry John."
"Of course you don't," he chuckled, pressing his forehead against hers, his eyes swimming fuzzily in front of her. She chuckled too, dragging her hands up and around his neck.
"I've made you supper," she said.
"It smells wonderful," he replied.
"Why don't we eat, so that we can get on to -- other things."
"Yes let's."
Emma didn't really notice how Steed removed the catsuit she'd made a point of wearing for their reunion, nor exactly when all the pieces of his suit had fallen away giving her access to his warm, solid flesh. They had enjoyed the champagne with supper, Emma's roast along with potatoes and vegetables were perfectly prepared. But supper had gradually degenerated into bare- and stocking-footed caresses under the table and champagne induced giggles. Emma had risen to clear the table and Steed had grabbed her, rising as he did to wrap his arms around her and capture her mouth with his.
"Leave them," he'd begged her. And she had. They'd progressed up the stairs quite slowly, silently agreeing to let the anticipation build.
Emma placed a light kiss on Steed's forehead and pulled away from him, smiling craftily as he reached for her and she evaded him. She rose to her knees and reached over to open the drawer on the bedside table. She locked her gaze with his, still smiling, as she took out a small bottle and closed the drawer.
"What's that?" he asked as she took out the stopper and set it on the table, then held the bottle to her nose. The heady scent of lavender made her smile at a memory of southern France.
"Think of Provence," she instructed her lover. "Acres and acres of purple lavender. The warmest spring in years. Remember?" She poured a small pool of the scented oil into her hand, set the bottle aside, and rubbed her hands together. Steed was smiling.
"I remember," he said, inhaling the scent. She started to reach out to him and stopped, eyes still locked with his as she rubbed the oil over her own breasts. He exhaled a long, ragged breath as he watched her draw her hands down over her ribs and belly. Only then did she reach out to caress his chest.
He lay still while she massaged him, reacquainting herself with the muscles and scars of his body by touching them all with her strong fingers. She retrieved the bottle and drizzled oil over his engorged penis, then used her index finger to delicately spread it on his shaft and his balls until they glistened.
He took the bottle from her. "Your turn," he said, inclining his head at the pillows. She obligingly stretched out on her stomach. "Not fair, darling -- you got to play with me," he said as he poured a small pool of oil in the depression at the small of her back.
"I'll turn over when you've done this side," she replied.
"Two for one, hum?" he asked as he spread the oil over her back with both hands. As he had nearly two months ago in his sister's bathtub, he worked at the knots in her back and shoulders with his knuckles and even his elbows. For all her exercising with Hemming, she had still been under tremendous stress and it had collected in the muscles of her back. After he'd worked his way over her buttocks and down her legs, she rolled over in a languorous motion.
Steed smiled with anticipation and poured more oil into his palms. He started with her feet, massaging each of her toes and flexing her arches until she moaned with pleasure. He worked his way up her legs, barely managing to refrain from kissing her alabaster thighs and plunging his face into her bush. But she had made the rules by using only her hands. He was determined to abide by them, if only to please her.
He poured oil into her bellybutton, which made her giggle, then spread it over her abdomen, lightly touching the scar beneath her breast. He rubbed the oil in great, luxurious circles on her breasts, closing slowly in on her rosy, hard nipples. She ran her tongue around her lips and he could wait no longer. One hand still caressing her breast, he supported himself above her on the other and lowered his face to hers. As he kissed her and gently squeezed her nipple to greater hardness he drew his knee up between her legs, parting them to press against her in a way he knew she would respond to.
She stiffened with a sharp intake of breath, her kiss freezing, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.
"Emma," Steed raised his head and moved his knee, unaware of the cause of her fright. She breathed again, opened her eyes, and reached for him, pulling him down to the mattress beside her and burying her face against his neck. He automatically held her close, feeling her trembling as her heart pounded.
"What's wrong, love?"
She did not answer, but her trembling stopped and her heart slowed. She took her arm out from between them and snaked it around his back to press herself against his chest.
The telephone on the bedside table jangled disconcertingly.
"That would be the telephone," he said against her hair, still confused and worried about her.
"They already know you're home," she whispered, disappointment clear even in her hushed tone.
"Afraid so," he said, releasing her and rolling to the edge of the bed to reach for the telephone. "Steed here."
"This is an A-list notification. There has been an explosion at Emma Knight's home."
"Thank you. I'll go immediately," he replied, the response coming automatically even before he'd processed what the efficiently neutral voice had said. He hung up the telephone and turned back to Emma.
"What is it?" she asked as he reached out to caress her hair.
"Where would you be if I hadn't come home today?" he asked.
She frowned. "At home, by this hour. John, I haven't been working as hard. Surely Sally has told you --."
"At your apartment," he interrupted.
"Yes. John, what is it?"
"There's been an explosion at your apartment."
"Is it --?" she put a hand to her face and covered her mouth as if trying to contain a sob.
"I don't know," he replied, swinging his legs off the bed. "Let's go find out."
Steed parked the Bentley a half a block away from Emma's building, which was as close as he could get. The area had been cordoned off by the fire brigade, and dozens of neighbors, some in nightclothes and dressing gowns, stood outside of the perimeter. Emma had ridden in silence and Steed hadn't pressed her. Her moment of panic in his bed was forgotten, for the time being.
He climbed over the door and rounded the car to take her hand as she did the same. Somehow he steered her through the crowd and past the outer ring of police guards, flashing his red card to quell any challenges from the officers. He kept her moving toward the building entrance where he recognized Stanley Weems and Edgar Plath, the agents who were working on the Knight Industries case under his supervision prior to his taking leave to track down Peter Peel.
The streetlights cast weird shadows on the debris on the lawn outside Emma's ground floor apartment. Her living room window was a blackened maw, singed shreds of sheer curtains hanging in it like rotten teeth. Steed tried to interpose himself between it and Emma.
"Miss Knight," Weems greeted them, "Steed -- nice to have you back."
"Unfortunate circumstances," Steed replied pointedly.
"Yes," Plath put in. "Weems just means we're glad you're here to help."
"If I meant that, I would have said it," Weems muttered under his breath, but Plath ignored him and turned to Emma.
"I'm so sorry to see you under these circumstances," he said gently. Emma nodded silently, her gaze drifting away from the agents to look across Steed's shoulders at her apartment. He wanted to make her go back to the car, but if it were not her home he wouldn't even consider it. And because it was her home she deserved to be here. He felt her hand slip into his and hold on tight. He squeezed back.
"What's the story?" he asked the other agents.
"Incendiary device in the middle of the sitting room. There was enough explosive to damage the unit above," Plath said. He turned to Emma, "I'm afraid it's a total loss."
Emma felt numb. She drew in a deep breath through her nostrils and grimaced at the burning smell in the air. Her home. Her belongings. Burnt.
"The good news, if one can call it such, is that the explosion was so powerful it blew out what little fire got started," Weems added, glancing at the firemen coiling their hoses.
"And there's a body," Plath said. Steed felt Emma stiffen even more than she had already been.
"Who?" she asked softly, her free hand drawing a stray lock of hair off of her face.
"We can't tell. Maybe from dental records. Unless you have some ideas?" Plath's eyes narrowed as he studied Emma. She glanced at her apartment again, then released Steed's hand and walked toward the dark window.
"Miss Knight," Weems started to follow but Steed stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
Emma stopped outside the window and looked into the darkness. Ruined furniture, scorched books, that silly bird sculpture a melted mess. She covered her mouth and nose against the acrid smell of burned paint and synthetic fabrics. She was glad that the darkness concealed most of the room from her -- that she couldn't see into her bedroom through the blasted doorway on the right. Steed came up beside her, his solid presence lending her strength.
"Where was the body?" she asked, forcing herself to look away from the burnt apartment.
"Right at the center of the explosion. They think the bomber was setting it and it went off by accident."
She swallowed, wondering if it was possible, fearing that it must be. She could think of nobody else.
"Stein," she whispered, staring at Steed's chest.
"Emma?" he asked, not sure what she'd said. She let her eyes rise to his face. It was filled with compassion.
"Matthew Stein," she said. "It could be him."
Steed frowned, brows knit for a moment until he recognized the name. "The investment banker," he said. He stared into her eyes for a moment, his piercing gaze seeming to read her soul. She swallowed again, the acrid air burning her throat. He nodded and turned away, returning to the other agents. A moment later he was back, placing his arm around her shoulders to guide her toward the car.