"THE MIND OF A HEART"   by R.L. Wilson Author's warning: Adult content Author's comment: This is the first Avengers story that I have ever written. It is also the first adult story that I have ever written. I hope you will excuse any errors I may have made. I readily admit that I know very little about Great Britain although I did spend 30 days there back in the dark ages (1977). For those brave enough or desperate enough to read this I hope it brings you some pleasure. I have enjoyed reading everything, well almost, everything I have found through the many web-sites. Please feel free to let me know what you think as I have several further ideas for stories, but depending on how this one is received, may change my mind!   Chapter One John Steed fought the return of his conscious mind, unwilling to surrender the peace and serenity that comes with blissful and contented slumber. After several attempts to slip back into that warm and wonderful place, without success, he gave up. His thoughts turned to the afternoon’s events and brought a smile to his lips. After a gentle romp on a couple of his best horses, he and Christina had returned to the house for a light lunch and a stroll in the garden. It was lovely this time of year. All the flowers were in early bloom with renewed life. The sun accented their beauty with the promise of a heated energy that was most welcome after a cold and dreary winter. The cavalcade of colors seemed to brighten the very air itself and he was glad that he had hired Mr. Kendrick to renovate the neglected areas. His eyes gravitated to the trellises of yellow roses that were a prominent part of the display. Two rows of six, horseshoe shaped, white, wooden trellises marched their way to a small pond where migrating ducks often visited during their travels, while evenly spaced ornamental benches, provided a quiet respite to a weary and contemplative soul. Not for the first time, he wondered why he had insisted on including them and why they had had to be yellow. He always came back to the same conclusion, they had been her favorites. Perhaps even then he was still hoping ... He shook his mind from that path and turned his attention to the lovely woman before him. Christina had not protested when he suddenly put his arms around her waist and pulled her to him. "John, your garden is beautiful," she said. "Even more so now that you are in it," he told her. It was a bit sappy but she rewarded him with a light kiss. Her lips felt cool against his in the heat of the afternoon and he could feel the anticipation grow in his groin. She left his embrace and walked out among the roses. "Did you choose the flowers yourself? It's a little unusual to find yellow roses in a gentleman's garden,” she said. “In my experience most men seem to prefer red if they have any preference at all." He moved to her, once more capturing her in his arms. "Let's not talk about the roses," he replied. He saw a questioning look cross her eyes and, not wanting to give it a chance to materialize, he changed the subject. "Did you enjoy the ride on Hunter?" Christina hadn't known John Steed very long. They had gone out together quite a few times in the last month, but she didn't really know much more about him now than she did before. She knew that he seemed to be an extremely private individual. She still did not know what he did for a living. He worked for some form of the government, she knew, but in exactly what capacity, was anyone's guess. He had turned up at Lord Benchfield's estate and out bid her on quite a few bottles of rather rare, excellent claret and then promptly asked her back to his home to sample it. She had turned him down, naturally. She found him charming, however, with a smile bordering somewhere between mischievous and lascivious. He was tall, quite extraordinarily handsome with luscious waves of dark, brown hair and the most expressive gray eyes she had ever encountered. He had walked away that day with her phone number and when he called two days later, she accepted his invitation to dinner. She didn't kid herself. She knew by the end of the second date that he wanted her, knew that his ultimate goal was to have her end up in his bed. She didn't mind this. Halfway through that first dinner, she wanted him as well. It fitted her plans, but that didn't mean she wasn't going to make him work for it. The first two times he had seen her home had ended with a simple peck on the hand. The third they shared a long, lingering kiss. There relationship progressed from there until she knew today would be the day. It was getting too hard to pull herself away from him and, frankly, she no longer wanted to. When he came to her among the roses she molded herself to his embrace. Steed remembered the auction as well. Although he'd been interested in the wine, he did not believe it was worth the price he had ultimately paid. However, when he saw who he was bidding against, he couldn't resist. She was beautiful. Long, blonde hair swept luxuriously back from her oval face, a slim, well proportioned figure with shapely legs and breasts a man could spend a great deal of time exploring. He decided right then that he had to meet her and the wine would create the perfect opening. After the final bid went to him, he introduced himself and smiled into her large, delectable, blue eyes. "How do you do, Mr. Steed. It seems today was not my day," she said. "I'm sure you'll enjoy the wine." "Just because I won the bid doesn't preclude us from both enjoying it, Miss . . ?" "Jaccabs, Christina Jaccabs," she informed him admiring the twinkle in his eyes. "I'm not so sure that would be a good idea, Mr. Steed." "Just Steed," he corrected. "If you enjoy fine wine, Miss Jaccabs, then I don't see any reason why we shouldn't do so together. 'Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter'," he quoted Byron. She found his smile very disarming. "I enjoy them very much, but I'm afraid I wasn't bidding for myself and the people I represent might look unfavorably upon their agent toasting their loss with the competition," she informed him. He stepped close to her and she had to look up into those wondrous eyes. She could smell the richness of his cologne. The effect was a little overwhelming and she caught herself leaning slightly closer to inhale a bit more. His voice was secretive and slightly seductive as he said, "Then we must be sure not to tell them." He paused and locked his eyes on her. Christina felt as though the temperature had risen twenty degrees and she heard herself falter, "Well . . . I . . ." Steed, seeing that she had suddenly become uneasy, switched tactics. Stepping back he looked around the room before bending his head ever so slightly and continuing in a conspiratorial tone. "We could lock the doors, draw the curtains, post guards at the doors," his eyes moved to the ceiling as though reconsidering, "no, that wouldn't do," he ventured. "Best not to leave any witnesses." She laughed and he could see her relax once again. "That's a very interesting suggestion, Mr . . . . err. . . Steed, if not a bit premature, but I'm afraid I have a prior engagement." Never one to give up easily he suggested, "Then perhaps I could phone you later and we could work out a more convenient plot . . . I mean schedule. Maybe over dinner?" That boyish grin returned to light up his face and she felt herself melting. Oh, you're in dangerous waters, she told herself and was somewhat astonished to hear her own reply. "I think that might be possible," she said. She gave him her number and was a little surprised that he had not written it down. "I look forward to the next time," he said and with a small bow, he turned in the direction of the auctioneer. She watched him walk away and couldn't help admiring the way his three piece, tailored suit seemed to enhance the broad shoulders, trim waist. The way the bowler hat was set at a jaunty angle, as well as the aloof swagger of the umbrella and how the whole package fit together. Now that's a package I wouldn't mind taking delivery on, she thought. Ministry business kept him busy. It was two days before he could make use of the phone number. He picked her up at her apartment and they had a lovely dinner and danced to the music of the house band. She was an accomplished dancer, following him around the floor with no trouble. By the time he escorted her back to her apartment he knew she would wind up in his bed or he in hers, so he was willing to play by her time schedule when she offered him her hand at the door. With the affectation of a magnificent bow, he kissed her hand, said goodnight and walked away with a contented look on his face. That date was followed by others. He found that he enjoyed her company very much and discovered that, besides fine wine, they had many things in common. She was extensively read in classic literature. He couldn't help laughing when she confessed that her favorite book, ever since she was a child, was The Scarlet Letter. He also couldn't help being just a little bit intrigued. One evening after dinner and a show he was delighted when she accepted his invitation to go riding with him. He noticed a mild look of surprise on her face as he pulled the Jaguar to a stop in front of his home. "We're going riding on your property," she stated with a knowing nod of her head. The look was mostly feigned he guessed as he went around to open her door. He offered her his hand wrapping his arms around her waist as she exited the car. "Yes," he said, "do you mind?" "No, but propriety dictates that I, at least, make a comment," she told him and leaned into him as he bent to kiss her. It was her that deepened the contact and she wondered what his reaction would be if she suggested skipping the horses and taking a ride of an entirely different nature. Steed was in excellent shape. She could feel the muscles under his riding jacket; feel the strength in his arms. The riding breeches outlined his thighs in well developed proportions and she had not failed to notice the apparently ample package concealed by the garments fly. He felt her resistance disappear as her kiss became more urgent than usual. As they broke apart, he could see the hunger in her eyes. He wondered if he shouldn't lead her into the house instead of the barn, but he really did feel like a ride on the horses. There would be plenty of time afterwards for the other. Besides, he found anticipation to be a powerful aphrodisiac. He saw that his man Rogers had saddled their mounts. Hunter was a three year old bay, fifteen hands high with a gentle disposition. Christina's lithe, lean body and blonde hair contrasted nicely against his dark coat. Bull’s-eye, he had no idea why he was given such a name, a coffee colored gelding was a bit older at seven years with a broad chest, good legs and a strong heart. He was more than capable of keeping up with his younger counterpart. That thought brought him back to the present. It was funny, he never thought about age, at least, not much. At fifty one he still looked in his early forties. His hair hadn’t yet started to turn grey. His face was still well defined with only a few new added wrinkles. He worked out and kept his body in good shape. A field agent had to keep fit. But thinking back, he couldn’t help wondering if maybe age had played a roll in . . . perhaps if he’d been younger . . . His mind ran from that dark alley. Lying in bed Steed pulled his arms up in front of him feeling his back and shoulder muscles stretch with that almost sensual response achieved with total relaxation. He let his thoughts drift back to the earlier scene in the garden and his question to her. "Yes, I enjoyed Hunter very much," she answered. Although I'm not as an experienced a rider as you are, I'm afraid." She thought she saw a shadow pass over his eyes when she mentioned the roses, but she did not want to spoil a good day. Still, she couldn't help wondering what significance the unassuming flowers had that would cause such a reaction. "And before you ask, the lunch was wonderful," she cut off his next question. Her arms moved around his back and she felt him tighten his hold drawing her closer. "If you don't want to talk about the roses," she smiled up at him, "what do you want to do?" She saw the wanting return to his eyes. His mouth returned to hers, by way of an answer. Her lips parted allowing him entry and he was just a little surprised when she bit his tongue playfully. One hand stroked his back while the other moved to his hair running the fingers through the soft brown strands. He smiled to himself confirming what he had known for most of his sexually active life, women loved his hair. Christina marveled at the fine and feathery feel of it. It was almost like running her fingers through silken threads. He slid a hand into her own hair at the back of her head, lightly tickling her scalp. He was kissing her face, following the line of her jaw. Her left hand played with the back of his ear and she heard a soft moan escape him as her fingers brushed the nape of his neck. Her own moan followed his when his lips moved down and he pulled the top of her blouse away from her neck to place a trail of kisses from her shoulder to the top of her breast before his path was stopped by her bra. She felt her body respond to him, her excitement level rising and reached for the buttons of his shirt. Her perfume penetrated his senses. Delicate and slightly sweet, it mixed with the lofty fragrance of the roses. Roses. That scent of memory and madness. He straightened. His hands captured hers on the third button. "Not here," he whispered. It took a few seconds for his words to make contact with her brain. She didn't move when he tried to lead her to the house. Looking around she dropped her voice assuming the most seductive tone she could. "This is private property," she said licking his earlobe. "We're hidden from view and it's a lovely day." She let the significance of her statement hang in the air. Steed brought her beautiful, blue eyes back into view. "Believe me," he told her, "making love outdoors is one of my favorite things to do, but not here." It was definite this time. She hadn't imagined the shadow. However, in view of her state of arousal, she once again chose to ignore it. She acquiesced and let him lead her. "Perhaps we could sample some of that excellent wine," she suggested. "That's a good idea," he agreed. As a matter of fact, there was already a bottle and two glasses on the table beside the bed. "We should drink a toast to the fulfilling of its destiny." "Destiny?" "But of course, my dear. Have you never heard 'a loaf of bread, a jug of wine and thou'?" he explained leading her up the slightly winding stairs and opening the door to reveal his king size bed. She ran her hands over his shoulders and down his chest. "I don't need the bread and the wine can wait. All I need is thou." Her voice had taken on a husky quality. Steed was ecstatic. Even though he had been fairly certain she would be a willing partner, he still thought some persuasion would be necessary. She began pulling her blouse from her riding breeches as she walked to the bed. He watched as she removed her boots and pants. She unhooked her bra revealing her ample breasts and climbed onto the bed on her knees. Leaving only her panties, she beckoned for him to join her. He joined her on his knees as well the soles of his boots hanging off the edge. Working on his shirt, he was just pulling it free of his waistband when she reached out and unzipped his fly. He closed his eyes at the feel of her warm fingers on his erection as she drew him out. When he open them again, he watched as she lowered her head and took him into her mouth. Steed couldn't suppress a gasp. Her tongue moved along the underside of his penis like lava rolling down hill. He leaned back on his heels, his hands running into the golden strands of her hair. His touch was encouraging, not demanding. Steed was not a small man and although she was unable to take him all into her mouth, she made up for it by wrapping her fingers around the base of his shaft while the other hand squeezed and played with the fine hairs that covered his engorged balls. He could feel her teeth gently rake upward and a soft nip at the top of the smooth, rounded head drove his excitement level higher and his hands gripped her shoulders. Cool air suddenly washed over his burning member as her mouth left him. He moaned. "Take off the rest," she whispered, tugging at his pants. While he sat on the edge of the bed to remove his boots, she kissed his neck and shoulders. When he was completely naked, she had him lay on his back and hovered over him. He reached for her breasts, but she stopped him. Her mouth returned to his groin and once again he felt the fire of her tongue as she licked and sucked him. She had released his hands and Steed noticed that no other part of her body touched his. It was as though she wanted minimal contact. All concentration was focused on her task and he had no intention of depriving her. He could feel himself rising to that ultimate goal. He began moving his hips in rhythm with her up and down sucking motion. As he felt himself begin to enter that state of lost control, his hands automatically reached for her head, but she pushed them away. He didn't try to stop the moan of pure pleasure that escaped as his orgasm shot through him like a geyser erupting from deep in the earth's core. She took all he had to offer continuing her ministrations and holding her position until he went flaccid. Steed closed his eyes and tried to get his breathing under control reveling in the sure pleasure of total release. She broke her contact and waited. When his breathing slowed he felt her straddle his body. He opened his eyes as she leaned forward presenting her, already, hard nipples to him. He accepted the gift with relish. His hands came up to grab her buttocks. He didn't know when she had removed her panties, but she certainly wasn't wearing them now. He wrapped his hands around her waist and used the momentum of his body to flip her over on her back. His eyes took in the full view, his mind registering, with little interest, that she wasn't a natural blonde. His lips sought hers while his fingers traveled from her temple down her neck across her shoulder, momentarily caressing her breast before continuing lightly over her ribs and down the outside of her thigh. His hand reversed its course coming up the sensitive inner thigh to just below the wet, throbbing center of her world. Her right hand went to his chest, sought and found a small nipple. With a squeeze on the hardened nub she felt his tongue delve deep seeking hers and sucking it into his own. His fingers ran lightly through her curly, corse public hair teasing and tickling until she spread her legs wide and thrust her hips up inviting him, begging him. By the time he ran a finger between the lips of her quivering mound, her head was thrashing so much he could no longer hold her mouth. She felt him turn his wonderfully talented mouth and tongue to her rock hard nipples, taking each successively biting, licking and sucking. She thought her mind would explode as he inserted two fingers into her while simultaneously rubbing her clitoris with his thumb. She still had the presence of mind to marvel at Steed's powers of recuperation as she felt the pressure of his, once again, solid member against her hip. His lips left her aching nipples and moved down her sternum, over her abdomen. She clamped her eyes closed in anticipation as, without removing his fingers; he used his other hand to spread her labia and placed his lips over her clitoris. He felt the climax take her, felt her muscles convulse around his fingers. This did not deter him as he continued to lick and play with her removing his fingers only to replace them with his tongue. As her orgasm diminished, he returned his fingers to her as quickly as he could. Christina rose from the bed almost to a sitting position. She grabbed his shoulders and practically growled at him. "I want you to live up to your name," she told him. She pulled his hand from her and turned over onto her stomach at the same time raising her buttocks off the bed and offering herself to him. Steed rose to his knees and entered her from behind with a slow but steady motion. Her moan was guttural as she pushed back against him driving his penis in as far as she could take him. She positioned herself so her nipples rubbed against the sheet with every thrust of his hips stimulating her further. Steed felt the warmth consume him. He couldn't believe the ferociousness of her desire or how it affected him. He wanted to ride her. As he looked down at her smooth back and rounded hips, all he could think of was the animalistic act before him. Gone was any thought to her pleasure. Gone was that consideration for his partner. All that was left of him was the burning, urgent need to fulfill the growing madness inside him, to release the volcanic eruption his body was building. His thrusts became harder, faster, more dramatic. He desperately tried to hold on to that part of his mind that prevented him from forcing himself too deeply. He did not want to hurt her. Just as he thought he would loose all control, she began to buck against him with increasing speed. Their rhythm was wild and furious until Christina's head went to the mattress, her hands balled up in the sheets. Steed's head snapped back straining the muscles of his neck as they both climaxed. As the rush gradually subsided, he fell forward catching himself on hands and knees. Her back was warm and moist against his chest. When his breathing settled somewhat, he wrapped his arms around her waist and they both rolled to the side, his penis still buried inside her. This being only a temporary state, they both knew. It didn't take long for his member to turn flaccid and slip from her. Neither of them spoke and after a short time they both drifted into a contented sleep. Steed's mind came back to the present once again. The shadows cast in the room by the afternoon sun told him it was probably later than he thought, but he wasn't hungry so it wasn't dinner time. He stretched again and ran his hand down the, now empty, side of the bed. He wished he hadn't recalled the previous events so vividly as another part of his body woke. He raised his head from the pillow and looked around the room. The clock read five thirty. He glanced at the closed bathroom door but couldn't tell if Christina was in there or not. He wondered if he could convince her to return to bed. Reluctantly, he got out of bed and gently knocked at the bathroom door. When there was no reply, he looked around and noticed that Christina's clothes were gone from the floor where she had dropped them. He padded barefoot to the bedroom door and opened it enough to hear her moving around downstairs. The aroma of fresh coffee greeted him and he smiled to himself thinking it never seemed to take the women he brought home long to make themselves comfortable. He decided on a quick shower. The warm water felt good after the heat, in more ways than one, of the day. He chose a light grey suit in keeping with the climate and went downstairs. He found Christina standing at the glass doors, coffee cup in hand, looking out into the garden. Steed walked up behind her and slipped his arms around her. He kissed the side of her head lingering in the soft strands of blonde hair. "It really is a beautiful garden," she said again. He pushed her hair from her ear and nuzzled her neck placing light kisses just behind her ear. "Thank you. Maybe you'll come back to visit it again," he said, softly. She half turned bringing his lips to hers. "If I'm invited," she said. "I don't think that will be a problem," he told her. "You know, it's still early, we could go back upstairs and then go out for a nice dinner later." Her kiss had encouraged him and reawakened his body. "Of course, we don't have to go upstairs at all." His hands slipped down to caress her buttocks pulling her hips into his groin. One of her hands made its way between them and stroked his erect penis through the material of his pants. "That would be lovely," she said, "but I have to go to work." "What? At this hour? That's indecent," he said in mock horror. He did not want her to go, especially considering what her hand was doing to him. She laughed. "That's rich, John. Wasn't it you who left in the middle of our date last week and I believe it was midnight." She suddenly broke their embrace, walked to the drinks table and put down her coffee cup. Steed did not follow immediately as walking would have been the slightest bit uncomfortable at the time. "Anyway," she continued, "while you were sleeping I contacted my office. I've been commissioned to appraise some pieces at an estate prior to a private auction. It's too big a job to turn down. The appraisal has to be tonight. The auction is tomorrow afternoon." "Where is the job?" he asked. "I could give you a lift and we could get some dinner afterwards." "Thanks, but it's up in London and it will probably take most of the night. I've already called for a taxi." He didn't know why, but she seemed awfully eager to leave. Finally able to move he walked with her as she started to the front door. She paused; her arms went around his neck as her lips sought his. She lingered and allowed him to deepen the kiss. Her mouth was warm and inviting. For a moment he thought she might have changed her mind about leaving. His hand found the end of her blouse and started up the inner side when she stopped him. "I really have to go, John." "Alright." He released her and opened the door. A taxi was waiting and she pecked him on the cheek and walked out. "Call me," she said. "You can count on that," he said to himself as the car pulled away. He went back inside looking at the now empty room. He retrieved her coffee cup and took it to the kitchen, washed it, removing the lipstick marks, and placed it on the drain board. He was just trying to decide whether to go out for dinner or have something simple at home when he heard a knock at the front door. His smile was bright as he flung the door open. "I was hoping you'd change your mind," he said. The smile faded as he saw a man standing before him instead of Christina. Chapter Two "I beg your pardon," Steed said. "I thought you were someone else." The man’s gaze focused down the drive where the taxi had disappeared. “”Yes,” he smiled, but it wasn’t a pleasant look even though the eyes were hidden behind dark glasses. “I bet you did.” The man was younger than Steed maybe eight or ten years not quite as tall, perhaps 5’ 9” or 6”, broad shouldered, but a little thicker through the waist. His hair was probably brown, but looked as though it had been bleached by the sun and the color faded. His suit was black; a bit extreme considering the temperature was well over 70 degrees. The tie was black over a white silk shirt. He looked very warm although he didn’t appear to be sweating. “You’re John Steed,” he said as he stepped past Steed and entered the house. It was not a question and his uninvited entry put Steed on edge. He closed the door and turned to the stranger. “I suppose I must be,” he replied. The man turned back to Steed, removed his glasses and looked him up and down. “Yes,” he said with a slight trace of disgust evident in his tone. “You would be.” “Now that we’ve established who I am, perhaps you’d care to tell me who you are and what you mean by barging into my home.” Steed’s own voice was a sharp sword. “You mean you don’t know,” he asked with an exaggerated sense of surprise. Steed shook his head. “Is there some reason I should?” he asked. "No, of course you wouldn’t,” he explained. “We’ve never really met have we?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “And I doubt she kept any pictures around to remind herself.” Steed didn’t like were this was going. It wasn’t often that he encountered a jealous ex-boyfriend or lover of a woman he had spent time with, but he found it very tiresome when he did. Since Christina had just left and there was no scene, he wondered who this one belonged to. “Well, if the lady didn’t care to remember you, I’m sure that I would care even less,” he told him pointedly and opened the door. The implication was plain enough. He didn’t feel like playing this particular game. Prepared to eject the man forcibly if necessary, he felt his heart stop at the stranger’s next words. “My name is Peter Peel. I believe you were acquainted with my wife.” With that he turned from the entryway and headed further into the large house. Steed could faintly hear the man speaking as a flood of memories, bad memories, came rushing into his mind. Glimpses of a tall, dark man not very defined in his mind as he watched Mrs. Peel walk out of his life on that fateful day. A day he had tried so long to wipe from his memory. He remembered her, the light yellow suit she had worn, the way her hair fell softly to her perfect shoulders, the big brown eyes he wanted to lose himself in forever and the gentle, almost whispery touch of her lips on his cheek. His fingers automatically went to his face as he recalled that touch. Yes, he remembered her. But, the man? He wasn’t sure. His mind raced as he closed the door and followed the man into the main part of the house. “This is nice,” Peel was saying as he looked around the great room. “Real nice. She never mentioned it was this well appointed.” He stopped near the drinks table, turned back to Steed and snapped his fingers. “But then she’d never been here had she? It was the Stable Mews flat back then wasn’t it.” Something in the way the man was speaking sent a chill down Steed’s spine, but his mind couldn’t pen it down just now. “If I’m not mistaken, Mr. Peel,” that sounded so odd, “she’s your ex-wife. So what is it you think I can do for you?” Steed asked standing in the doorway to the room. He wanted room to move, just in case. Peel smiled that same emotionless smile, and spread his hands in an open gesture. “Right now I’d settle for a drink,” he said indicating the decanters on the small table. “Do you mind?” “I wouldn’t have thought you’d be here long enough to warrant one,” Steed told him, advancing into the room, “but help yourself.” Peel laughed lightly without any humor. “I can see where you might feel that way,” he said. “And you’re right; the correct expression would be ex-wife. I should have known she wouldn’t have been able to resist passing on that bit of news. I guess she thought, or hoped you’d come running back,” he shrugged. His brows came together in mock concentration. “I must admit I was surprised myself when you didn’t.” He laughed that hollow laugh again turning his back to Steed while he poured two brandies. He took a sip from one and held the other out to Steed. Peel had no idea just how close he had come to doing just that when he had heard the news. He shook his head to the drink. He had no intention of drinking with the man or clouding his senses when he didn’t know what was coming. “If you have something to say, Mr. Peel,” Steed was getting quite annoyed, “then say it.” He brought the other drink over to the table next to the chair where Steed was standing before taking a seat on the sofa himself. “Please, call me Peter,” he said. “After all, we have shared so much. And I’ll call you Steed. Steed. That’s what she called you wasn’t it? Always Steed . . . in public anyway. You know, I got where I hated that name. Even though I forbad her to speak it, I could still hear it in her voice sometimes, see it in her eyes. Tell me, what name did she call you in private? Was it John? Or Johnny? Or did she have some other, pet name she called you in those private little moments?” Peel could see the anger rise up on the face of the man in front of him. That face, finally in clear view. This was the face that had haunted him for the past ten years. This was the face that had taken the woman he loved from him if not in body then in spirit, and in soul. This was the face that had taken his perfect wife, his perfect life. How could this face even begin to understand the depth of anger that raged through him? How could this face have the nerve to get angry at him! “I think it’s time for you to leave,” Steed said. He had no intentions of discussing Mrs. Peel or the time they had spent together with anyone let alone her ex-husband. Whatever she had or hadn’t told her husband was her decision and not for him to second guess. As far as either one of them knew when they met, so many years ago now, Peter Peel was dead, killed when his plane went down in the jungle. Life had not only gone on, but had flourished until that terrible day when, like the legendary Phoenix, he had risen from the ashes and in turn brought Steed’s life crashing down. “I could do that,” Peter said, “but then I wouldn’t have accomplished my mission.” He was enjoying himself. After all, he thought, Steed deserved what was coming. He deserved to suffer a little and Peter deserved to watch it happen, to be the instrument that delivered the delicious blow that would bring the misery to this man that he had lived with himself. “You know about missions don’t you, Steed.” He didn’t need to wait for an answer. “Of course you do. What secret agent wouldn’t. Why don’t you have a seat,” he suggested, “and I think you’re going to want that drink.” He waved at the empty chair with the hand holding his brandy. One look at Steed’s face, however, told him to move on. “Suit yourself,” he shrugged. “Don’t say I didn’t try. You see, I do have some feelings unlike, . . . what was it her employees used to call her . . . the ice queen, the abominable snow woman?” Steed had had enough. He took a step toward Peter just as the man reached inside his coat pocket and withdrew a page from a newspaper and held it out to him. Steed stopped as a photograph in the top right corner caught his eye. It was a photo of Mrs. Peel, but it was the bold type headline that froze him in place. Only the presence of the man on the sofa kept him from falling to his knees. The headline read, Industrialist CEO Found Dead In Hotel Room, Apparent Victim Of Suicide. Now he knew what was wrong with the man’s speech, what had caused the chill to run down his spine. Every time Peter referred to Mrs. Peel, it had been in the past tense. Peter studied Steed’s face. This was what he came for. He watched the color drain, watched the pain and devastation dawn like a spreading cancer. "I thought you might be interested in that," he said. "I felt sure she would want you to know." The sarcasm fairly dripped from him. "You know her, she was never one to miss a dramatic entrance. So I thought I’d give her one last opportunity. Call it a posthumous tribute to a grand drama queen." But Steed was beyond hearing. Blood rushed in his ears as his hand searched for the chair to keep from falling. His eyes were glued to the words in front of him as he read. DAVID REED BECKON, GA. - Beckon police were called to the Peach Grove Bed and Breakfast, a small Hotel 25 miles outside Atlanta, early this morning where they found the body of Emma Knight dead from a gunshot wound to the head. The body was discovered at 6:30am. this morning by Mrs. Springer owner of the Peach Grove who went into the room to clean. Sgt. Bienvenu of the Beckon police said the body was found on the bed fully clothed except for her shoes which were on the floor. A weapon was found clutched in her right hand. The hotel room door was locked and there was no sign of foul play. No drugs were suspected. Dr. Matt Falkner, acting Beckon coroner stated that an, as yet undetermined caliber, bullet entered the right temple somewhere between 11:30pm. the previous night and 1:00am. this morning and exited just below the left ear. The death is being treated as a suicide. Miss. Knight was the CEO and principle shareholder of Knight Industries with offices in many cities around the world including Atlanta. She had been in the city for a week negotiating the takeover of Northshore Electronics. Associates at Knight Industries Atlanta stated, although they hadn't known the CEO very well, that she had not appeared depressed or unhappy. Negotiations were reportedly going well. Miss. Knight was from London, England also the headquarters of Knight Industries. Miss. Knight was divorced and had no children. Test pilot Peter Peel, most noted for crashing in the Amazonian jungle and being presumed dead only to be found alive and well two years later and ex-husband of Miss. Knight was also in Atlanta at the time, but police have ruled him out as having anything to do with Miss. Knight's death. Mr. Peel was quite distraught, but stated that he was here to quietly reconcile with his wife and had been asked to act as a representative for the Knight family. The body will be flown back to England when released from the coroner. Steed looked at the picture. Even in black and white the big beautiful eyes captured him and the smile, that wonderful, magnificent, playful smile . . .oh, God, how could the world exist without that smile. He clamped his eyes closed as tight as possible against the tears. His chest hurt. He was sure he wasn't breathing, sure he would never draw another breath and just as sure that he didn't want to. He desperately wanted the brandy on the table next to him, but didn't trust his hands to hold it. He had to keep them in his lap to control their shaking. It couldn't be true. He had to be having a nightmare. That was it, he thought. He was still in bed and this was just a bad dream. He had Emma on his mind because of the roses and when he opened his eyes everything would be back as it was. He risked opening his eyes and saw a tear drop onto the paper in his lap, that smile looked up at him and he knew it wasn't a dream. He became vaguely aware of someone else in the room. Someone was speaking and he tried to focus on what they were saying. ". . . and that's why I came here today." It was Peter. "I wanted you to know that she finally succeeded in accomplishing what she set out to do when she was with you." "What are you talking about?" he asked barely above a whisper. His voice was failing. The words seemed to be jumbled together and senseless. He just wanted the man to shut up and go away. "Suicide," he repeated. "That's what I'm talking about. After all, what is your job but an attempted suicide wrapped in the flag." There was real anger in his tone. "Much as a test pilot" Steed rejoined. “She wasn’t trained for that and you knew it. But you’re good at manipulation aren’t you. From what I understand this wasn’t the first time you conned a civilian into your world of cloak and dagger. Why is that? Could it be because you’re so paranoid that you can’t trust your own people? Did you need someone that would be loyal to you not the organization you work for or did you have another reason? Was it just a way of getting them into your bed? There's one big difference between what you do and being a test pilot, I don't take passengers." The flippancy was back. That statement hit home. Peter was right. He had dragged Mrs. Peel into his world. And it had been, and still was, a dangerous one. Could he be right about the rest? Could she have been looking for a way to end her life? Had he missed some vital clue all those years ago? No, his mind screamed. He saw her smile, heard her laughter, saw the eagerness in her eyes, remembered the playful banter. No, his mind said again. Steed picked up the paper. "This isn't true," he said. "She wouldn't do this." He didn't care if the other man saw the tears running down his face. Something wasn't right. Emma had loved life. She’d grabbed onto it, fought hard for it, over came so much time after time. And he wondered just why the police had ruled Peter out of this travesty. Peter did see the tears and it gave him enormous pleasure. The man of strength had his weaknesses. Just like superman had his kryptonite, Steed had Emma and he wasn’t about to let the man forget it. "Oh, you know her that well, do you," he practically spat the words out. "Yes," Steed answered, but he knew before the word was out that it wasn't the truth. For the truth was, he didn't know her, not any longer anyway. Was it possible that she had changed that much? If so, what could have happened to make Emma, his Emma, want to take her own life? He locked his eyes on Peel who did not know Steed well enough to interpret the fire of rage and suspicion that burned behind them. Peter snorted. "Not lately I venture." He waved the comment off. "All I know," he continued, "is when I came back she was happy. She stopped all those dangerous stunts." Peter’s face blurred in front of him as his mind once again flashed back in time. She had been happy that day. Her voice had that lilting quality to it, her eyes had sparkled and there seemed to be a bounce in her step. That's what had hurt the most, he remembered, the idea that leaving what they had shared was so easy for her. Had it all been a game after all? But his mind also remembered her voice during that last phone call. When he called about the killings at the petrol station in France she'd sounded upbeat. She'd been expecting his call. She even told him about her divorce and didn't seem at all surprised when he told her he had known. How long ago was that now, he wondered. Almost a year? He had wanted to call her again when they returned to let her know that the mystery of the out of time Russian soldiers had been solved, but he hadn't. He'd even gone so far as to pickup the phone, but the thought of the inevitable goodbye stopped him from dialing. She hadn't contacted him either. Obviously she had moved on and he no longer had the right to interfere with her life, if he had ever had that right. She was happy. Yes, happy, that was the point wasn't it. He turned his attention back to Peel. "Right, she was so happy she divorced you," he reminded the man, doubt gone from his mind, about that at any rate. Peel rebounded with fire. "That was a mistake. We were going to reconcile." "Well we only have your word for that, don't we." Steed's voice was ice. "Tell me, why did she divorce you? You had the whole world walk back into your life and you threw her away." "Much as you did, Steed," Peter shot back. "Is that what galls you? Or is it because you knew you couldn't hold her." He almost laughed as he saw something flash in Steed's eyes. "That's it isn't it! You knew no matter what you did, no matter how she cried out for you in bed you couldn't give her what she wanted. You tell me, Steed, when she was laying there under you panting and moaning, who were you thinking of, her or yourself?" Steed's hand reached out so fast even though Peter thought he was prepared for a reaction he couldn't stop it. Steed's fingers wrapped around his throat and pinned him against the wall. The fist of the other hand drew back like lightening. "Go on, do it," Peter gasp out with the little air he had. "It's what you've always wanted. Isn't it!" Steed looked at the man. He saw the eyes bulged out, the lips beginning to turn blue and somewhere, deep inside himself, he realized that Peter was right. It was what he'd always wanted to do. He wanted to hurt this man, to hurt him as he'd been hurt. And he knew nothing he could do would measure up to the pain he felt then or now. Beating Peter might give him some temporary satisfaction, but it wouldn’t change things. He turned loose and didn't notice as Peter slumped slightly down the wall. Didn't care as the man began to cough and pull at his tie fighting for breath. Didn't care as the man stumbled on unsteady legs to hastily pour a large scotch. He didn't care about anything. Steed collapsed in a chair. He had no strength left. Peter swallowed his drink, coughed a few more times and when he finally felt as though he was taking in enough oxygen, he risked it all again. "You know," he said somewhat weaker than before and making certain he was outside Steed's reach, "she never told me about the two of you. All she would say was that you were good friends. At least now you've confirmed what I've always suspected." "Get out," Steed told him. Steed didn't know when Peter left. Didn't know how long he sat there. He only knew that by the time he felt capable of reaching for his brandy without spilling it he could barely make out the outline of the glass in the darkness. He swallowed the burning liquid in one gulp and immediately regretted it. Now he had to muster enough strength to get a refill. Instead of taking the empty glass to the bottle he brought the bottle to the table beside the chair. After the fifth drink he pried himself from the chair again and went to the carved, white, relief insets along the wall. On the way his leg bumped into another table. Without light he had forgotten it was there. His subconscious registered that it should have hurt, but he felt nothing, no pain, no reflex. He knew that the brandy was numbing his body, but it hadn't numbed his mind or heart. It would take a great deal more before that happened. Fortunately, he had enough on hand to accomplish just that. He pushed one of the relief figures and a panel opened. He reached inside, found what he was looking for and returned to the chair. He swallowed another mouthful before turning on a small lamp and opening the book he had retrieved. Page after page forced his heart to relive his memories. The pictures were taken at various times and places over several years. Mrs. Peel riding on the magnificent white stallion named Treason from his club. He recalled that none of the male members would ride him. They said he was too wild, too unpredictable, too untamed. He still remembered the mischievous look that she gave him as she not only rode him, but did it bareback. It was almost as though she formed an allegiance, an understanding with the animal. The club members stared at her in astonishment and he had felt certain they could see the pride shining from his eyes and feel the love that beat from his heart. She was dressed in white that day as they hadn't planned to ride. Her deep brown eyes shown like smoldering embers and her auburn hair blew in the breeze like the fine feathers of a proud eagle. He remembered feeling jealous of the horse that could meld almost as one with that beautiful being in public, one magnificent creature so in tune with the other. Watching that horse he swore he detected a tightening of the muscles saw the nostrils flare, the tail stand perk and proud, the mane flowing back in the wind to match the rider’s auburn fire. This creation of nature had no voice, but spoke in every way possible his feelings for the creation of a higher power that rode upon his strong and powerful back, glorified in this goddess that would dare to take him at the same time mocking the timid males who quaked at the sight of him and lusted for the temptress. As much as he wanted to climb up behind her and fly with her open spirit, shout to her and to the world how much he loved her, his voice was mute. Disgustedly mute. Even in their private moments he lacked the courage. He poured another drink and prayed that the anesthetic would take his mind soon. He turned to the photo he’d been looking for. It was his favorite and he felt the sting of renewed tears as he came to it. They'd gone to Rome, a small treat after a long case. During a quiet walk in the moonlight they stopped beside a fountain. His brandy soaked mind couldn't recall the name at the moment, but it didn't matter. He remembered everything else. Although he was holding her hand, she was slightly ahead of him and then she turned and smiled at him with that private little smile she had just for him. That smile was brighter than the stars themselves, and though in public they tried to maintain there 'just good friends' demeanor, he couldn't resist pulling her to him and kissing her. She'd returned his kiss with a passion that melted him. When they finally broke apart a man approached them from out of the shadows. "Forgive me, sir, but the love for one another that is written on your faces out shown the fountain. I could not resist." With that he placed a roll of film in Steed's hand and left. They had both been a little embarrassed at the time. It wasn't until they got back to London that he developed the film. You couldn't really see either face, just the kiss. He had adored it ever since. He put the book, still open to that photograph, on the coffee table, placed his head in his hands and openly wept. He must have dozed off. When he woke sometime later, he was still in the chair, the big house was silent and misty, pre-sunrise shadows filtered throughout muting the single lamp. For a moment he was disoriented. It wasn't until he saw the photo album that the pain came crashing back over him dragging him under a sea of sorrow so deep and black light would burn like the fires of hell. The newspaper article caught his eye, but this time there was something ticking in the back of his mind. A voice was trying to get his attention through the curtain of pain. You're an agent, it kept saying. It's time you started to think like one. He rubbed at his face and eyes willing himself to form a cohesive thought. Look at this as you would any other case, he told himself. The photograph swam into view and his stomach retched with crippling grief. He reached out and ran his finger over Emma's face once more before closing the book. He swallowed hard to keep the bile from escaping. You have to focus your mind somewhere else. Start with the first report, he heard a voice from his training days. Always start from the basic story. Examine it. Dissect it. Verify it. Never assume anything to be the truth until you have checked and double checked! Suddenly he felt a flicker of hope. He'd never stopped to think that the story could be fake. After all, the only proof he had was a page from a newspaper and Peter Peel's word. Neither one was sufficient enough to validate the other. Peter obviously had a grudge against him. What was it he had said? She never told me about the two of you. Could he have invented this as a way of getting information or a sick means of revenge? Newspapers could be forged. He had done it himself a few times. Steed unfolded the paper. The banner heading read 'Atlanta Daily News', but it didn't contain any contact information. Fortunately, that wasn't a problem. Even though it was early morning, Steed picked up the bottle of brandy and refilled his glass. He downed it before walking, on unstable legs, to the telephone. He dialed a number and asked for overseas information. It didn't take him long to get the number he wanted and place the call to the newspaper in the United States. A completely listless male voice answered after a few rings and Steed grabbed for the paper to get the name of the reporter. The voice informed him that most of the reporters had gone home for the night, but he would connect him with the night editor. “Editing, Wofford,” a voice said. Steed massaged a dull ache that was forming in his temple as he told himself that he had to ask the question even though his heart didn’t want the answer. His mind had given him a ray of hope, but following it could extinguish the light forever. “Mr. Wofford, I’m looking for some information . . .” “The next addition comes out at 5:00am. You can find it on most corners in the business district or I can hook you up with the subscription department,” Wofford stated. His sarcasm was flat and tired. Steed’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the phone to keep the anger from his voice. “The information I’m looking for concerns an article your paper published two days ago,” he explained. “It was written by a Mr. David Reed and covered the . . .,” Steed paused. He couldn’t bring himself to say the word death. “It was about Emma Knight, the CEO of Knight Industries.” He heard the long sigh of boredom slip through the receiver. He wished he could reach through the phone line and grab the man. “Knight . . .Knight . . “ Wofford repeated trying to recall. Why do people always assume you can instantly remember every word printed in the paper simply because you worked there, he wondered. “Yeah,” he finally said, “I think I remember. Suicide, wasn’t it. Some small place outside Atlanta. What about it?” “I need to know if the story is true,” Steed told him. Wofford responded as though he were speaking to a mentally challenged child. “We’re not in the habit of publishing stories that are untrue, sir.” “I can appreciate that,” Steed said through clinched teeth. “What I want to know is if Mr. Reed actually saw the body. Who made the identification. Why was Peter Peel eliminated as a suspect and how I can get a copy of the autopsy.” There was silence on the other end of the line. Steed could hear the man breathing so he knew the connection was still good. “Mr. Wofford, are you still there?” he asked. “Yeeeaah,” the man finally said. “Just what did you say your connection with this Miss. Knight was, mister . . . I’m sorry, but I don’t think I caught your name.” “My name is Steed. I’m a . . .” Red lights were going off in Steed’s head. He couldn’t tell this man that he was an agent with the ministry nor could he even hint that he was suspicious of the report. He had to remember that he was speaking to a newspaper reporter. The last thing he needed was to have a pack of news hounds sniffing around. At the same time he didn’t think ‘friend of the family’ would garner him much co-operation. At the last minute he decided to use their own institution against them. “I’m a reporter with the London Times and we’re thinking of doing an essay on the affects on Knight Industries,” he told the man. “Well I’m afraid I can’t help you with your questions.” Wofford’s voice resumed its disinterested quality and Steed breathed a sign of relief. “I can tell you that it’s not our policy to require the reporter to actually see the body, but that’s about all. If you’ll give me your number I’ll see if I can contact Reed and have him call you,” he offered. Steed thanked him and left the number with a plea that Wofford contact Reed as quickly as possible. He told the man that the Times wanted to run the article in the next addition and that time was running out. The man assured him he would do his best. Steed knew that time was his enemy. He had to keep his mind active or risk slipping back into the depths of crushing despair. He needed a shower to clear his mind and figure out his next move. The hot water failed to work its magic on his distraught mind or body. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. The bloodshot eyes, uncombed hair and unshaven face didn’t register. The eyes that stared back at him were hollow, twin pools reflecting the sorrow and pain from a dead heart. He reached for his razor, but dropped it again. For the first time that he could remember he had no interest in shaving, had no interest in his appearance at all. He opened the bathroom door to leave and ran straight into two lovely dark brown pools. The smile in Emma’s eyes out shown the smile on the beautiful soft lips that he longed to touch, to taste, to feel pressed against his. “You know I like it when you have that ruff and tumble look, Steed, but the scent of your aftershave and the feel of your smooth skin on mine always drives me crazy,” she whispered. She brought her hand to his face and he closed his eyes to the wonderful feel of her fingers running across his cheek. He raised his hand to capture hers, to press her to him, tears of joy welling in his tired eyes. His heart jumped threatening to pull out of his chest, but stopped just as abruptly as he opened his eyes and once again saw only the empty room. She wasn’t there. His mind had played the cruelest joke. Her words still echoed in his mind as he turned back and picked up his razor. She had always liked him clean shaven after all. He returned to the kitchen clean shaven and fully dressed in a dark blue suit. He was just putting some coffee on when the phone rang. “Steed,” he said after running from the kitchen, jumping over the back of the sofa and grabbing the receiver. “David Reed here, Mr. Steed,” the voice on the other end said. “I got a message from my editor, said you wanted to talk to me about the Knight story.” Steed couldn’t believe his good luck. He hadn’t expected to hear from Reed so soon. “That’s true Mr. Reed. I was hoping to hear your account first hand. What can you tell me about this apparent suicide?” “Well, sir, I’m a little curious about your use of the word `apparent’. I can tell you that there is no doubt about the cause according to the Beckon police. If you are trying to infer that the story I wrote is anything but . . .” “No, no, Mr. Reed,” Steed cut in. “I can assure you that I have no question regarding your reporting. It’s just that I happen to know the Knight family and I have had some acquaintance with Miss. Knight,” he didn’t see any harm in admitting that much after all if he were a reporter for the London Times it wouldn’t be outside his sphere of knowledge. “The family was a little curious about Peter Peel’s presence. Considering that he and Miss. Knight had been divorced for some time, and the fact that you stated he had been ruled out as having any involvement I was wondering how that determination was made. Was he questioned?” “Of course we knew about the divorce over here, Mr. Steed. Believe it or not the ins and outs of British society do make it across the big pond. According to my notes, Peel was ruled out because first; there were no signs of foul play, second; he had an air tight alibi, he was dining with some retired Air Force colonial, and third; he wasn’t even mentioned in the note she left. Apparently she made it quite . .” Steed’s breath caught in his throat. “She left a note?” he asked. This was knew. Peter hadn’t said anything about a note. “What did it say? Your article didn’t say anything about a note.” “I left that out at the request of the police. Besides, I don’t know what was in it. The police aren’t exactly forthcoming with that sort of thing. Since they ruled it a suicide, there was no reason to follow-up on that aspect.” “Who made the identification of the body?” “Ah . . ., if I remember correctly, it was Peter Peel,” Reed said. “That’s not unusual since he was here and the closest thing they had to a next of kin. And before you ask, I did not view the body. It had been removed by the time I got there and I really didn’t see the need.” “Where can I get a copy of the autopsy and the note?” “My guess is the police still have the note, but I suppose it’s possible that Doctor Falkner might have a copy. You’d need to talk to him about the autopsy anyway. I have to tell you that it’s against policy to hand over a copy, however. Dr. Falkner is a small town GP. He only sidelines as the coroner. You might be able to talk him into it if he’s not entirely up on the law, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. Your best bet would probably be to get the family to make the request through their attorney.” There was silence on the line. “Is there anything else Mr. Steed?” “Yes,” he said. “Can you tell me where the . . . body is now?” “Ah . . .no, if it was released from the coroner then I suppose it went to some funeral home for processing or it could have been shipped by now for all I know. I’m sorry, but I really have to go. If you have any more questions I suggest you contact this Peter Peel. He seems to be handling everything. Good luck, Mr. Steed.” Steed hung up the phone and considered trying to place a call to Dr. Falkner’s office, but a glance at the clock on his wall told him that would likely be unsuccessful. The time difference would put it well after 11:00pm. in Beckon. He returned to the kitchen and poured himself a cup of the freshly brewed coffee. On his way back he stopped long enough to add some brandy to the hot liquid before going to the garden doors. The sun was coming up and beginning to cast its warmth on the silvery dew drops that covered the roses, her roses. Like tiny drops of sunlight to light the heart. That’s what she had called them. That’s why she loved their yellow brilliance. He knew now why he had insisted on including them in the garden and why they had to be yellow. As he looked out at them now anger spread over him like the dew on the fine, timid flowers and his reserve shattered into just as many drops. Each bud, every petal reminded him of lost dreams of seeing that light in her heart. Without thinking he walked out to the gardener’s shed and picked up an axe. They were never intended to be a memorial, he thought. How could she do it? How could she take her own life? How could she break his heart, his mind, his soul again? How could she destroy any hope, any prayer, any fantasy, no matter how tiny, that he might have had. He knew these were selfish thoughts, but he didn’t care. With one powerful stroke he swung the axe back in front of the first trellis, but his arm froze as the sun took that moment to touch a sleeping bud and he watched as it slowly began to open. Tears came as his mind showed him another rose. “Look, Steed,” Emma was saying, she inhaled the wonderful fragrance, her face lit from within by the wonders of nature and from without by that magnificent smile, “look at how this tiny, delicate thing opens itself to the day ready for whatever the world has to offer. Isn’t it beautiful?” He remembered the delicate beauty, but he hadn’t been looking at the rose, only her. He put the axe down. He returned to the house, drained his coffee and refilled the cup neglecting the coffee this time as he opened a new bottle of brandy. He picked up the phone again and, after making a reservation on a flight to Atlanta, he went upstairs and packed a small bag. In the study he opened the safe, took out his passport and a stack of US currency he kept for short notice trips, before climbing into his Jaguar and heading to London. It was time to get some help. Whitehall was active even at this early hour. There was always training, briefings, debriefings, interrogations, investigations and of course endless communications going on. Steed made his way down the hall ignoring the various office doors, oblivious to the looks of people he passed. Most of his fellow agents and the administrative staff just watched as he passed and continued on their way. It was only a few that actually stopped and stared. John Steed was known throughout the department by name, by reputation and by sight, but few had ever seen him as he walked the familiar halls today. There was no bowler. He carried no umbrella, the tie was loose and crooked and the eyes red rimmed, bloodshot and ghostly. He spoke to no one just walked with deadly purpose to the lift at the end of the hall. Few ventured into that upper level sanctum to which that shaft lead without summons or invitation. John Steed was one that could do so without question. The lift opened to a quiet outer office. Burt McQuay a high level, confidential clerk for the man in the inner office looked a little startled. “Mr. Steed,” he said. “I didn’t know Mother was expect . . .” teed passed him by and opened the door marked private before he could finish. Mother, the corpulent, wheelchair bound, ex-department head had risen in the Ministry over the years. He rarely dealt on field agent level anymore, but was always proud to consider Steed a friend and was generally glad to see him. His sea blue eyes snapped up at the intrusive entrance. His voice caught in mid-sentence, annoyance flamed but quickly dissolved when he saw who had entered and he dropped the phone he had been speaking into back onto its cradle without another word as he took in the state of his visitor. Rhonda, his statuesque, silent assistant, stared in wide eyed, open mouth astonishment and, if anyone looked closely, real concern at the man before them. McQuay was on his heels. “I’m sorry, Mother, but Mr. Steed . . .” The big man waved him off and he closed the door gently. Mother took in the disheveled appearance, the sleep starved eyes, he didn’t even want to contemplate the cause of the redness, He could clearly make out the odor of alcohol. Something was terribly wrong. “Coffee,” he said to Rhonda who immediately moved to comply. The phone that he had so abruptly hung up before rang. He grabbed at it. “Not now!” he growled and hung up again. “Steed,” he motioned to a chair. “What is it, man?” He took the chair with gratitude. Thankful that Mother hadn’t eliminated what he considered extraneous furniture as he so often did in his headquarters. For a man eternally trapped inside a chair, the sight of empty seats was like stroking a raw nerve. Steed found he had no energy for standing. It took all of his will simply to move and he wasn’t sure how long he could push his body to do it. Whatever force was left in his empty shell wanted nothing more than to retreat into a forgotten corner. “I’m going to the United States,” he told his superior. “I have a flight out in a few hours.” Rhonda appeared and handed him a cup and saucer. Steam rose from the strong, dark coffee. He accepted without notice. “I need you to help me locate . . .,” he swallowed, hard. “. . . a body,” he managed. He couldn’t bring himself to say her name, but at the same time despised reducing her to an object. Mother’s mind automatically switched to all business. “Body? What body? Whose body?” he demanded. Though he was no longer involved in the day to day assignments of agents he still kept abreast of activities and an attack could mean anything from personal revenge to the first strike against the entire country. Steed pulled the newspaper from his coat and tossed it on the desk. As the man picked it up Steed noticed the coffee he was holding for the first time. He stood, placed the cup on the desk and walked over to the drinks tray to the right of the big desk. Mother always kept a good supply. It was clear that Steed had already had quite a bit to drink when he arrived which is why Mother had ordered the coffee. He saw Rhonda take a step behind Steed, but he caught the woman’s eye and slowly shook his head holding up the paper so she could see the picture and headline. Rhonda’s head lowered and she stepped back. Steed saw none of their exchange. Mother knew the situation was worse than he had imagined. He was personally saddened by the loss of Mrs. Peel. He’d had a soft spot for the lady not only because she was a brilliant, imaginative, strong, trustworthy, if unofficial agent, but more importantly for the calming affect she had had on Steed. The agent had ranked as one of the department’s best, but when he teamed with Mrs. Peel he’d truly come into his own. She seemed to smooth his ruff edges, to quiet some of his restlessness and reckless habits. They’d functioned as a most unique unit each supporting and inspiring the other. For this reason he had always lied when those higher up questioned the nature of the pair’s relationship. `They’re just close friends’ his official reports stated. Although few who spent any time around the two would believe it. The looks that passed between them, the communication at a glance, the way one seemed to come to life in the presence of the other and the almost unerring ability to maintain physical contact without ever touching when near one another left only marginal room for doubt and was enough to fuel the wagging tongues of many gossip hounds. However, he had always pointed out, to those who so crudely listened to such rampant nonsense, that their profession required them to deal in facts, not gossip. Until he was presented with positive proof to the contrary, he had seen no reason to break up a winning team and he had always reminded these self same superiors that Steed and Mrs. Peel had handled some of the Ministry’s most difficult, not to mention bazaar, cases with success. It was for this reason he had always made certain that he was the one given the assignment to investigate whenever these annoying questions arose and had made sure that neither Steed nor the lady ever heard about them. Besides, he doubted Steed would have or could have given the lady up. That opinion was strongly supported when Peter Peel returned from the dead. The devastation that Steed suffered through when she walked out of his life was lengthy. With help of friends, work, time and Tara King he had appeared to make peace with it, but with Steed appearances could often be deceiving. When the news of Mrs. Peel’s divorce was made public, those that knew the two assumed there would be a reconciliation. When that failed to happen, curiosity ran wild for some time, but when the anticipated reunion failed to materialize it eventually faded away. He had wanted to ask Steed about the possibility himself, but it just wasn’t the done thing. Despite what many may have thought, he too, had a heart and he thought he understood. He surmised, some might say romanticized, that Steed had loved her with a love so deep he probably didn’t understand it himself and to risk that again would require overcoming his fear of loosing her again. Fear was something that was foreign to Steed and he did not deal with it easily. Still, fear would have been preferable, Mother thought, to the pain and sorrow he carried today. This time Mother wondered if there was anything that could help his friend or if they would lose Steed completely. He placed the paper on his desk and wondered if maybe he should give Tara a . . ., his eyes caught the date. He picked the paper up again making sure he saw it properly. “Steed,” he said. “This can’t be right.” Steed swallowed a mouthful of brandy. “I know,” he agreed. “She isn’t the type.” “No,” Mother corrected. “I mean, I agree with that, but that’s not what I’m talking about.” Steed sat on the edge of the desk and looked at the man waiting for him to clarify. “This paper is dated two days ago,” Mother explained. “Do you really think someone of Mrs. Peel . . . er . . . Miss. Knight’s social standing could commit such a heinous act anywhere in the world and not have it picked up by the local press?” Steed felt like he was sinking in mud. Mother was right. Why hadn’t he thought of that. He had even told Reed that he was doing a follow-up for the Times. Follow-up to what? What was happening to him? He had to think. “Steed, I think you better tell me where and how you got this,” he said. He motioned for Rhonda to take the abandoned coffee away and she nodded at the look he passed to her disappearing through a concealed door at the other end of the room. Steed related the story of Peter’s visit to his country home leaving out the vulgar nature of most of his comments. He then told Mother of his conversation with David Reed. Mother’s eyebrows raised when Steed told him that Peter had failed to mention the note. “So you thought you’d go to this town in Georgia and find out things for yourself,” Mother concluded. “Yes.” “It sounds to me like you don’t have enough information about anything yet. Why not wait until I’ve had a chance to look into this from this end?” he suggested, but he knew it was wasted breath. He wasn’t sure having Steed so far away in another country, even if it were a friendly one, was such a good idea in his condition. Right now he seemed somewhat controlled, no doubt do in part to the quantity of alcohol he had consumed, but Mother knew better than most what could happen when the grief slipped under the blunting effects of the distilled liquor and ignited the anger. Steed could be a very volatile man and this could be enough to make him snap. Steed’s eyes held the other man. This is Emma they were saying. “I have to go,” he said. The other man nodded his understanding. Rhonda slipped back into the room and handed a note to her boss. He glanced at the words and looked at Steed. “It’s confirmed,” he told him. “Knight Industries, London have known for two days, but are not releasing the news or a statement at this time at the family’s request. I’m sorry, Steed.” He had secretly hoped that it had been a hoax perpetrated on the agent. “How they kept it from the press I don’t know. So what is it you want me to do? You said something about locating her body.” Mother noticed the, almost, imperceptible shiver that ran through Steed when he spoke those words. Steed swallowed the rest of his drink. He needed the warmth it provided if only temporarily. “I don’t have time to wait to find out where . . .” he just couldn’t say it. “I want a second autopsy.” Mother looked down at his desk and shuffled some papers before returning his eyes to his friend. He cleared his throat. “Of course I can find out where the body is,” he stated, “but, Steed, I can’t order an autopsy. I haven’t the authority.” “What are you talking about, Mother. An agent dies . . .” Mother held up his hand. “That’s just it, Steed,” he explained. “You know as well as I do that Mrs. Peel was never an official member of the department. Maybe if it had happened over here. If there was something suspicious or it hadn’t been so many years since her last involvement with a case . . .” his words trailed off and he looked at Steed almost apologetically, but firmly. “I can’t order an autopsy without the family’s consent. Have you spoken to any of her family outside of Peter Peel that is.” “Peter Peel is not her family!” Steed snapped. There was a moment of silence as Mother let him regain control. “Have you spoken to anyone?” he repeated. “No.” The truth was he didn’t believe his appearance would be well received. He hadn’t seen or spoken to anyone in her family since that terrible day. It wouldn’t have been appropriate. To show up now . . . and if they did blame him for her . . . it just wasn’t something he considered. “Steed,” Mother broke his train of thought. “I can’t arrange to have Purdy or Gambit pulled out of their current assignment. They’re too far undercover, but if you need any . . .” “I don’t need that kind of help,” he told him. “And right now I’d just as soon not have to deal with that.” “I understand. I might not be able to get that autopsy,” he said sympathetically, “but I may be able to delay things for awhile. At least until you find some answers. I can request a copy of the original autopsy and the police report. That should give us a copy of the note as well.” Steed looked at his watch. “I’m hoping my trip will make that unnecessary,” he said. Mother eyed the man seriously. “Steed, while I have a great deal of personal latitude on this side of the ocean, I have very little on that side especially with small town authorities. When need be I rely on goodwill. You realize that anything you do over there will have no official status.” Steed nodded. “Be careful and keep me informed. We can’t make this an official inquiry - yet,” he stressed, “but I still have some resources I can put into play without getting us into too much trouble.” “Thank you, Mother, but I really don’t know if there is anything to find. I just want answers.” Rhonda appeared and wheeled Mother’s chair to follow as Steed opened the door to leave. They found the small outer office crammed with agents who parted to let Steed pass. When the lift doors closed Mother looked around at the group. Michaels, a tall, older agent spoke first. “Mother,” he said, “I have some holiday time coming, if Steed needs any unofficial help . . .” There was a chorus of voices from the group, each volunteering their time. Mother’s eyes went around the room, a soft glint in the steel blue that didn’t entirely disappear before he said sternly, “Eavesdropping is a talent that should be cultivated in an agent, but not in this office. I’m happy to know that the state of the nation is in such good order that we seem to have a bevy of free agents. Perhaps more training needs to be scheduled.” He turned back to enter his office before adding, “Thank you all.” Chapter Three The flight was long and uneventful. Steed tried to relax, but found his mind restless and unwilling to let his memories remain hidden behind doors that had been closed and locked for so many years. Aided by exhaustion and the quiet drone of the engines his mind slipped back to a similar flight taken long ago. A return flight from Bermuda to London, one they had managed to catch just after completing a particularly trying case. Mrs. Peel had spent nearly forty-eight hours without sleep. Traveling through the night sky it was only natural that she dozed off soon after take off. Worn out, her dreamless sleep was so deep that she never realized that she eventually rested her head on his shoulder, her hand wrapped around his bicep. She was so beautiful. Her hair smelled of spring honeysuckle and although their relationship at the time was one of only friends, he couldn’t resist placing a kiss so lightly on the top of her head he felt certain she wouldn’t feel it. It was a stolen moment of pure selfishness, but he had already begun to feel the draw and power she would come to have over him. It shocked him when he heard her sigh and tighten her grip on his arm. The fire that ran through his body at her unconscious response had shocked him even more and he was thankful he had a magazine on his lap. It was quite some time after that before he would taste of her tender and luscious lips. Secretly he had always remembered that stolen moment as their first kiss. Because she had been relaxed and comfortable enough with him that her subconscious had let her feelings for him tweak out from behind the playfulness they used as a wall between them. He had remained absolutely still during the rest of the flight afraid his slightest movement would cause her to change position and he wanted that contact for as long as possible. It was a memory he had never shared with her and one that he tried desperately to turn away from now as he felt the sorrow dragging him down into the pit again. Tears returned to his red, swollen, burning eyes and he rubbed at them to dissipate his obvious pain. It took some time, but he eventually drifted into fits of dozing. After claiming his bag Steed rented a car and bought a map of the area. He estimated it wouldn’t take much more than half an hour to get to Beckon once he cleared the city limits of Atlanta. Airport traffic was heavy, but once on the main hi-way he found he had managed to miss most of the morning rush hour. Rush hour times seemed to be universal in most civilized countries. The southern United States could be beautiful in the spring and Georgia was no exception, but a cool front had moved in and brought with it a low hanging cloud bank. A steady drizzle fell casting the business district with its concrete structures in a cold, depressing light. The distant tree lines that began to show as he pushed further out appeared to stand in a mist shrouded, shadowy fog. Despite the sixty degree temperature he reached out and turned the car’s heat on to drive away the gray chill the rain affected on him. As he pulled off the hi-way he found himself on a winding, two lane road that lead through thick trees into the backwoods and hills. The redbud and dogwood trees were already in bloom, the latter’s limbs weighted down by the rain drops until they drooped slightly downward, their white petals contrasting richly against the darkened, wet bark. The road had a hypnotic quality as it twisted and turned, curves not sharp enough to require braking enabled a steady and monotonous speed. More than once he caught himself jerking the wheel back to the right as an oncoming vehicle suddenly appeared. He had to remind himself to stay on the right anyway and being so very tired didn’t help. He wondered why Mrs. Peel would choose to stay so far away from the city where her business was located. The travel time back and forth would have been exhaustive. Eventually the trees parted and he found himself driving down the main street of Beckon. He stopped at a roadside diner for some coffee and to ask for directions to the bed and breakfast. Steed’s appearance, his tailored suit and bowler, caused a few heads to turn in the diner, but the curious whispers were kept to a minimum and he left the diner and started down the main road following the directions the waitress had given him. He noticed the local police department on his way and considered stopping there first, but decided he’d come back later after he had more information and could ask better questions. The Peach Grove wasn’t too far from the diner, as it turned out nothing in the small town was too far. He turned onto the long, circular, gravel drive in front of the hotel’s sign. The sound of the gravel crunching under the tires was a familiar one and reminded him of his home. The front of the hotel sat in among rows of, what looked like, magnolia trees. The expansive front entrance was also circular with three long, wide steps that lead up to an elegant hardwood porch on the lower level. Four white, carved pillars on either side of the steps supported a rounded balcony above. Vine covered brick walls stretched north and south away from the entry. Eight foot windows, dressed from the inside by delicate lace curtains, were evenly spaced on both sides. His footsteps echoed on the highly polished hardwood as he crossed and entered the lobby. A young girl, about seventeen years old, approached and stepped behind the reception desk as he put his bag down. “Welcome to the Peach Grove. My name is Margaret. How can I help you?” She wasn’t very tall. The counter she stood at came up almost to her shoulders. She had a pleasant if not pretty face with caramel colored eyes that smiled when she did. Her dark brown hair wasn’t too short or too long and worn brushed back from her face. There was an indentation on either side of the bridge of her narrow nose. Obviously she had the need for glasses a great deal of the time and he wondered absently why she wasn’t wearing them now. “John Steed,” he said. “I’d like a room if you have one.” Margaret was at that age when the opposite sex was something that occupied most waking thoughts. She looked at the tall stranger. He was very handsome even if it did look like he hadn’t slept in a week. She wondered if the lack was due to business or some wild time. She hoped it was the latter. She liked older men and although he was probably three times her age, his gray eyes fascinated her. His voice had a seductive quality when he wasn’t even trying, and that accent! His hair was thick, dark and looked as soft as velvet. She wanted to touch it. She wished he would smile. “Of course, will you be staying with us long, Mr. Steed?” “I’m not sure. Perhaps only a few days.” “You’re British, aren’t you,” she said as he filled out the registration card. He slid the completed card across to her. It’s time to go to work, he told himself and managed a smile that seemed to work on most women. She was just a child, but you never knew where your best information would come from. He saw his effort pay off as she tiptoed just enough to raise her breasts above the counter. For a moment he marveled that, at his age, he could still have that affect on someone that young. “It was my socks,” he said taking the girl by complete surprise. “That’s what gave me away, wasn’t it.” Margaret giggled. “Actually, it was your hat. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one of those except in the movies.” His smile was like lightening at midnight on a moonless night. She was trying to remember which room she had neglected to put towels in that morning, a perfect excuse to visit a man’s room. “Tell me, Margaret, I’m not the only person from England that you’ve met recently am I?” She selected the key to room 214 from the peg board behind her. “No, there was another fella about a week ago,” she told him. “But he didn’t stay here.” Fella, Steed thought, now who could . . . “Was his name Peel by any chance?” he asked, leaning on the counter and placing his broad shoulders a bit closer to her. Margaret could smell the hint of alcohol on his breath, but that didn’t surprise her. A lot of the men who checked in at the hotel were drinkers and frequently made passes at her as they swayed back to their rooms at night. She wondered if Steed was flirting with her. The scent of his cologne was better than the booze. “Yeah, that was his name,” she admitted. The smirk on her lips and the tone of her voice suggested she hadn’t cared much for him. “You didn’t like him?” “No. He was too smarmy,” she said. Steed’s brows drew down as he tried to process that. “Smarmy? I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’m not too familiar with that expression.” “Smarmy is like bad bologna before it molds,” she explained. “Slick and slimy with a sour odor.” Steed couldn’t help but laugh. He had never heard such an outrageous description in his life and, when applied to Peter Peel, one so appropriately accurate. He wondered what Peter had done to garner such an opinion. He didn’t have to wonder long. “I didn’t like the way he treated that lady,” Margaret volunteered. “She was British too.” The smile left Steed’s face. “Mrs. Peel,” he said without thinking. “Heaven forbid!” the girl responded and she saw his eyebrows raise. “That’s what the lady said when I made the mistake of callin’ her that,” she explained. “You see, I wasn’t here when she checked in. I was on a date.” She winked at him, got no response, shrugged her shoulders and continued. “I didn’t know that she checked in as . . . ah . . . Knight, I think it was. Yeah, Knight, that was it. Anyway, I overheard a conversation she and this fella’ had and the way he was talkin’ to her, kind of nasty and cruel,” she looked at Steed, “you know what I mean . . .” “Smarmy,” he supplied. “Yeah, exactly. Well I just figured she must be his wife. Who else would put up with that? You know it’s funny cause there for a minute . . .” “Margaret!” The voice came from behind Steed and the girl leaned close to whisper, “Cheese it, the cops.” efore Steed could respond, “Hello Gran, this is Mr. Steed. He’s checking in for a few days. Mr. Steed, this is my grandmother Mrs. Spencer. She owns The Peach Grove.” Mrs. Spencer was an elderly woman somewhere between seventy and forever about the same height as her granddaughter thin and frail looking with paper thin skin, snow white hair and piercing blue eyes. She was the perfect picture of a southern, genteel, little old lady, right down to the shawl she had wrapped around her shoulders. “How do you do, Mr. Steed,” she said as she offered him her hand. Steed took the hand and kissed the back politely in the truest southern tradition. This caused Margaret to giggle again which drew a look of annoyance from her grandmother. “How do you do, Mrs. Spencer. It’s very nice to meet you.” “Did I hear you asking about one of our guests?” “Yes, I was inquiring about Miss. Emma Knight.” Mrs. Spencer looked from Steed back to Margaret with just a hint of suspicion showing in her eyes. “I don’t encourage idyll gossip, Mr. Steed.” “Nor do I, dear lady,” he hastened to assure her. “Miss. Knight is . . . was an old friend of mine.” She sighed deeply. “I see, in that case I suppose you’d better come with me.” She lead as they passed through a spacious common room. There were several comfortable sofas, numerous over stuffed chairs the arms of which were covered by dainty, lace doilies. Two antique, roll top, writing desks adorned opposite ends of the room and a natural, stone fireplace sat inside the north wall. They exited onto a screened-in porch that over looked the south garden area. Mrs. Spencer took a seat at a white whicker table and motioned for him to join her. “I was about to have some tea. Won’t you join me?” To his surprise a regular English teapot, cup and saucer sat waiting on the table. Americans were so fond of iced tea he grimaced when she mentioned it. “I so despise ice tea,” she said as if she’d read his mind. “It seems to have no flavor what-so-ever. I much prefer the old fashioned kind. Oh,” she said, standing. “We’ll need another cup. No, please, stay where you are,” she told him as he started to rise, but he stood anyway. “I’ll just be a moment.” She headed across the porch where he could see a cupboard with extra utensils and china. “Isn’t the garden coming along nicely. Of course, it will be even lovelier when the trees fill out properly.” She returned with the cup and poured for them both. “Do you prefer milk or lemon, Mr. Steed?” “Mrs. Spencer,” he began while stirring his tea. It really did smell good. “I’d like to ask you some questions about what happened, if you don’t mind.” “I’m terribly sorry for your friend’s pa