'Aren't you making mountains out of molehills?' Brendan asked him impatiently.
'Who asked your opinion?' demanded Joe, turning on him, the powerful set of his shoulders declaring battle.
'I'm giving it anyway,' Brendan informed him, glaring back with a similar expression.
'Don't bother,' snapped Joe. 'Keep your opinions to yourself.'
'Talk to me like that and…' Brendan began, and Joe leaned towards him, smiling tightly.
'And what?' he asked.
'And you'll get a punch on the nose,' Brendan promised.
Joe smiled. 'Talk costs nothing,' he mocked, and Brendan's face went brick red.
'You…' He bit off the epithet and swung at Joe, but the blow never connected. Joe moved lightly and swiftly and Brendan went crashing backwards to hit the wall behind him. Quincy gave a cry of distress and anger, running towards him. The door of a flat on the floor above had opened and an old lady peered down at them from the landing, her bright eyes fascinated.
'You brute, his head's bleeding!' Quincy exclaimed as she saw Brendan reeling upright again, his hand going to the side of his skull where a little trickle of blood had begun to show.
'What did you want me to do?' Joe asked her coldly. 'Stand still and let him smash my face in?'
'What a lovely idea,' Quincy snapped back.
'Sorry, I'm not a masochist,' Joe told her.
'I know what you are!' she said. 'You're a bully— you know you're stronger than Brendan, you knew you could knock him down with one hand tied behind your back!' Her words cut off as she heard what she had said, and, aghast, she looked at Brendan, who had gone white. Quincy could have bitten her tongue out. She saw from his face that she had hurt his feelings badly, insulted him after the blow Joe had just delivered with such crushing effect.
'Thanks,' he said, stiffening.
'Brendan, I didn't...'
She was talking to herself. Brendan had walked out of the door and with an anxious face Quincy hurried after him, realising what a stupid, thoughtless remark that had been. It wouldn't have been quite so painful to Brendan if he had not just been forced to recognise that it was the truth.
'Where are you going?' Joe asked, catching her arm as she was at the door.
'I must speak to Brendan. How could I say such a thing? Poor Brendan, he's so upset.'
'Poor Brendan will get over it,' Joe said callously, refusing to let her go as she struggled in his iron grip.
'Will you let go?' Quincy gasped, an arm flailing towards him, pulling violently to free herself.
'No,' he said coolly. 'First things first—I have things to say to you that can't wait, you can pour sympathy out over Brendan Leary some other time.'
'Don't maul me about!' Quincy yelled, fighting in real earnest now, and half aware at the back of her mind of the silent, intrigued eye-witness on the landing above. The old lady had settled down to enjoy herself, following every word as though she was watching some film on television.
'Stand still, damn you!' Joe grated, and as Quincy dragged away from him her doorkey fell from her coat pocket, clattering to the stone floor. Still holding her, Joe bent and scooped it up. He pulled her towards the door, fighting him every step of the way while their audience on the upper floor leaned over so as to make quite sure of missing nothing of what happened. With considerable difficulty, in the face of her struggles, Joe managed to insert the key into the lock without releasing her. The door swung open as he pushed it. Controlling Quincy with that steel bracelet locked around her wrist, Joe turned towards the stairs. Quincy had imagined he was unaware of being watched, but, it seemed, he was not—he gave a little bow and a charming smile.
'The performance is over, madam,' he said, and the old lady straightened, going pink.
Joe manhandled Quincy, without compunction, inside the flat and slammed the door shut behind them with his foot. Only then did he let her go, setting his back against the door as she darted forward, folding his arms across his chest, a satisfied smile on his mouth as she glared impotently at him.
'How dare you?' she seethed helplessly. 'What do you want?'
His brows swooped upwards, mockery stealing into his eyes, and between them flashed the memory of what had happened in the flat the previous evening. Quincy was even more furious at the amused reminder of her own folly. Last night she had trusted him, been lulled into a blind over-confidence about his intentions, but she was not ever going to make that mistake about him any more.
'While you're in London to do this publicity for us I don't want you wandering off alone again,' he said before she could burst out with a biting retort. 'We have to know where you are every minute of the day, and, most important of all, you must get rid of the boy-friend.'
The insolence of th