Night Heat Page 5

  What are you, then? A failed model?’ The contempt in his voice was unmistakable. ‘I suppose being lame would limit one’s capabilities. Still, I’d have thought with your looks they’d have found something for you to do.’

  Sara’s lips compressed. ‘You don’t pull your punches, do you, Mr Korda? Is this a crash course in how to be successful in business? First disable your opponent, then move in for the kill! Only in my case, the disablement was there to begin with. Are you going to fire me now, or wait until tomorrow; just to give it some credence?’

  He had the grace to colour slightly at her words, and the spasmodic palpitation of her heart steadied a little. The bastard! she was thinking, wondering how she could ever have allowed Tony to talk her into this. After all, she had been against it from the beginning. She might not agree with Lincoln Korda’s methods, but she certainly agreed with his scepticism.

  She was preparing to walk out of the room when his harsh voice stayed her. ‘All right,’ he said, and she realised it was the closest she would get to an apology for his sarcasm, ‘maybe I was a little rough on you, but you have to admit, it’s a rough situation. Hell, what makes you think you can help my son? If your behaviour outside was anything to go by, surely you can’t blame me for doubting your potential. God, you thought I was Jeff! Wasn’t that hopelessly naïve?’

  Sara was tempted to refuse the overture. Her pride argued that this man didn’t deserve an answer, and it would have given her the utmost pleasure to tell him to stuff his opinion; but something wouldn’t let her. No matter how objectionable Lincoln Korda might be, she had not come here to make friends with the family. Jeff still needed help—possibly her help—and could she really abandon Tony’s faith in her without even meeting the boy?

  Putting down her empty glass, she linked her hands together. ‘Probably it was,’ she answered, meeting his assessing gaze with enforced composure. ‘But I thought you expected that. Isn’t it true that all the sophisticated means at your disposal have failed?’

  Lincoln Korda’s mouth twisted. ‘Antony told you that too, I suppose.’

  ‘He told me a little, yes.’ A lot more than she wanted to remember, she thought uneasily. Tony had said that the boy’s parents didn’t care about him. But Lincoln Korda was here because she was. So what did that mean? Did he care more for his son than the boy’s mother did?

  He shook his head now, and she came to attention. ‘Do you have any real idea of what you’re taking on?’ His face showed the strain he was feeling. ‘Jeff won’t let you help him. He won’t let anyone help him. No one can get through to him.’

  ‘Is that why he took an overdose?’ enquired Sara pointedly, then flinched at the look of fury he cast in her direction.

  Sliding off the desk, he straightened, his superior height an added disadvantage. ‘We’ll talk again, Miss Fielding,’ he declared, terminating the interview. ‘I hope you sleep well. You’ll need your strength in the morning, believe me.’

  Now, slipping from beneath the crisp cotton sheet which was all that covered her, Sara trod across the shaggy pile of the carpet to the windows. It was early, but as she’d been awake for most of the night, it didn’t seem so. Nevertheless, it was reassuring to see the sun fingering its way between her curtains, and somehow nothing seemed as desperate then as in those early pre-dawn hours.

  Just looking out on a view, which might have been taken from a travel brochure, simply wasn’t enough, and discarding the disturbing remembrance of what she had last observed from her balcony, she stepped outside.

  It was deliciously cool, the air not yet overlaid with the sticky heat of the day. The sun’s rays still lacked the strength to burn her shoulders, and its golden benediction spread fingers over the ocean. Closer at hand, a handful of seagulls pecked among the flotsam thrown up on the shore by the tide. Sara could see seaweed strewn along the narrow bar of sand, and dwarf palms edging the beach where a low stone wall marked the garden’s boundary.

  Almost beneath her windows, but a few yards to her left, the sickle-shaped pool was another unwelcome reminder of the night before. Perhaps it would have been better if she had stumbled into the pool, she reflected cynically. Lincoln Korda might have had some sympathy for her then.

  She didn’t want to think about Lincoln Korda, not when she had so many other, more important, things to think about, but she couldn’t help it. She disliked him; she considered he was rude and autocratic, but she couldn’t forget him. He was the most infuriating man she had ever met, and she pitied Jeff Korda for being his son. All the same, he was a disturbingly attractive man, and she wondered again why he and his wife had parted. Perhaps his attraction for the opposite sex was part of the reason. No doubt with his money and his connections, he could have any woman he wanted. Except me, thought Sara drily, ignoring the obvious fact that he wouldn’t want her.

  Discovering it was barely seven o’clock, she had a refreshing shower in the fluted-gold luxury of the cubicle beside the jacuzzi, and she finished with an all-over pummelling that acted much the same as a massage. She emerged from the shower feeling infinitely sharper, and physically prepared at least to face the other pressures of the day.

  After drying her hair with the hand-drier, also provided, she brushed it out and regarded its tawny length with some misgivings. Perhaps, now that any hope of her becoming a dancer had been squashed, she should have it cut, she mused doubtfully. After all, the present fashion was for short, spiky hairstyles, or smooth Twenties-style bobs. Long hair might be attractive, but it also took a lot of looking after, and what was the point? Who cared—except herself? All the same, as she plaited it into the single braid which she thought might be most suitable for the job that was facing her, she had come to no definite conclusion, and for the present it would have to stay as it was.

  She dressed in cream cotton pants and a lime green vest, putting on a pair of comfortable trainers instead of the sandals she had worn the night before. She found trousers most easily disguised the lameness Lincoln Korda had so ruthlessly exposed, and besides, she was here to do a job of work, not to laze about in the sunshine.

  Her rooms were off a wide corridor which led from the galleried landing, and although it had not been dark when she arrived the previous afternoon, she had been too overwhelmed to really absorb the beauty of her surroundings. She had an entirely different perspective, too, from the way she had felt the night before, and in broad daylight, she was half inclined to believe she had exaggerated the night’s events.

  A maid was using a buffing machine on the hall tiles, but she switched it off at Sara’s approach had wished her good morning. ‘You want something to eat, Miss Fielding?’ she enquired, in the same Southern drawl that Cora used. ‘There’s a table set out by the pool, if you’d like to help yourself.’

  ‘So early?’ Sara was surprised.

  ‘Mr Lincoln left for New York about a quarter of seven,’ replied the maid smoothly. ‘I’ll bring you some fresh coffee. You go take it easy.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Sara managed to be polite, even though her thoughts were racing. So Lincoln Korda had left as unexpectedly as he had come. She was not going to have to face his remorseless appraisal as she took her first steps towards getting to know his son. Whatever his misgivings, he was prepared to give her a chance. So why did she feel so depressed all at once, as if all the excitement had gone out of the day?

  Outside, under a striped umbrella, a round, glass-topped table was laid for breakfast. Fresh orange juice, with ice still floating in the jug, croissants keeping warm over a small flame, butter, preserves, and a jug of thick cream. Hearing her tummy rumble in anticipation, Sara poured herself a tall glass of juice, and after savouring its texture, she buttered a crisp golden roll.

  It was a heavenly spot, she thought, looking about her. The flagged patio was set with tubs of geraniums, fuchsias, and lilies, smilax spilling its trailing fronds over tub and paving alike. A scarlet hibiscus rioted over a trellis separating the patio from
the lawned area beyond, and beside the pool, wooden cabanas were disguised beneath a patchwork of bougainvillaea. The bare bones of the pool furniture she had glimpsed the night before were now comfortably covered with cushions, which matched the awning over her head. There were chairs and loungers, and even a swinging sun-bed, its pillowed couch swaying in the breeze.

  The light from the pool was dazzling, and she didn’t realise the maid had returned until the jug of coffee she had brought was set down on the table ‘Now then,’ she said, ‘how would you like scrambled eggs, or French toast, or waffles? Or maybe you’d prefer some pancakes, with a nice jug of maple syrup——’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Sara shook her head. ‘No, thank you. This is fine, honestly.’ She indicated the croissant she was eating. ‘These are delicious!’

  ‘Made this morning,’ agreed the maid, with a grin. ‘You sure now? It’s no trouble.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Sara, with an answering smile, and the woman shrugged expressively before sauntering away.

  Sara poured herself some coffee, added cream, and then resting her elbows on the tabletop sipped the aromatic beverage slowly. The food she had consumed, the warmth of the day, the unspoiled beauty of her surroundings, soothed her, and she thought how delightful it would be to just soak up the sun. Even Jeff could do that, she reflected thoughtfully, feeling an unwelcome sense of apprehension at the daunting task ahead of her.

  ‘Good morning!’

  Once again she had not heard anyone’s approach, and she looked up to find Grant Masters striding across the patio towards her. In an open-necked shirt and Bermuda shorts, he looked more like a tourist than she did, and she wondered if Lincoln Korda had spoken to him before his dawn departure.

  ‘Good morning,’ she answered, putting down her coffee cup as he pulled out the chair beside her and lounged into it. ‘It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s why people like Florida,’ he agreed, helping himself to some juice. ‘Did you sleep well? You must have been exhausted.’

  Sara didn’t know how to answer him. ‘I—er—I woke up around midnight,’ she offered, giving him the opportunity to tell her that he knew that, but he didn’t. ‘I’m sorry if I caused a problem. I—er—I didn’t realise Mr Korda was here.’

  ‘Link?’ Masters gave her a swift look. ‘How do you know Link was here? You didn’t meet him—did you?’

  Oh, lord! Now what? Sara moistened her lips. The—er—the maid said something about—about him leaving early this morning,’ she mumbled, feeling the colour mount in her cheeks. For heaven’s sake, why hadn’t she just told him outright that she had mistaken Lincoln Korda for his son in the wheelchair? The wheelchair which, she saw with a hasty turn of her head, had disappeared this morning. ‘Um—was I supposed to meet him?’

  Grant Masters frowned. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so, but he did arrive here last night with that intention.’

  ‘Last night?’ Sara couldn’t hide her astonishment, and Masters shrugged.

  ‘A trip down here is no big deal to a man like Mr Korda,’ he remarked, reaching for the coffee pot. ‘I guess you’re not used to someone flying over a thousand miles to see his son, and flying back the next morning, huh?’

  ‘Not very,’ admitted Sara wryly. Then, remembering the conversation she had had with him, she commented: ‘He mustn’t need a lot of sleep.’

  ‘I guess he sleeps on the plane. It does have a bed.’ And at her astounded expression: ‘The plane belongs to Mr Korda, Sara. He doesn’t have the time to use the scheduled service.’

  ‘Oh! Oh, I see.’ But it was a bit too much for her to take in. Private planes; private yachts; private islands; it made her wonder how she had had the nerve to stand up to him.

  ‘So …’ Masters buttered a croissant. ‘Have you settled in? Are your rooms comfortable?’

  ‘Very,’ Sara assured him, glad to get on to firmer ground. ‘I’ve never slept in a bed on a pedestal before!’

  ‘And it’s quite some view, isn’t it?’ Masters agreed. ‘If I owned this place, I don’t think I’d ever want to leave.’

  ‘No.’ Sara silently endorsed his words, content for the moment just to gaze at the ocean.

  ‘Of course, it depends who you share it with,’ Masters commented after a moment. Wiping his hands on a napkin, he gestured towards the house. ‘I guess this place doesn’t have too many happy associations for Link.’

  Sara turned to look at him. ‘No?’ she ventured enquiringly, and consoled her conscience with the thought that the more she knew of the boy’s background, the easier it would be to understand his personality.

  ‘Mmm.’ Masters seemed to be thinking. ‘You see, the house and the island used to belong to Mrs Korda’s parents.’

  ‘I know.’ And in explanation: ‘Cora told me.’

  ‘Ah.’ He grimaced. ‘Well, that’s true. Link stepped in when Michelle’s father got into financial difficulties. If he hadn’t, the old man could have ended up in jail. He was an attorney. He used to handle wills, probate, that kind of thing. But he’d been defrauding his clients for years, setting up trusts in his own name, and using clients’ funds to finance his fancy life style. He was facing an indictment for grand larceny when Link bailed him out. Don’t ask me how he did it, because I don’t know. Maybe he bought up the jury, or the judge—or both.’ He grunted. ‘All I know is, old man de Vere was allowed to live out his days here, on Orchid Key.’

  Sara moistened her lips. ‘He’s dead now?’

  ‘The old man? Yes. I guess he should never have married Michelle’s mother. She’s years younger than he was, and my guess is it was Mrs de Vere who spent all the money.’

  She hesitated. ‘Does she still live here?’

  ‘Hell, no!’ Masters snorted. ‘Mrs de Vere’s like her daughter. Orchid Key’s too quiet for her.’ He paused. ‘She never comes here now.’

  ‘Not even to see her grandson?’ Sara frowned.

  ‘Not even for that,’ replied Master wryly. ‘She married again some years ago, and I somehow think a nineteen-year-old grandson would cramp her style.’

  Sara was amazed, but she kept her own counsel. She still had questions, of course, dozens of them, not least how Jeff came to have his accident, where he was living at the time, and if it was his choice to live at Orchid Key, or his father’s. But they could wait. Right now, it was time to make the acquaintance of her charge.

  Taking a deep breath, she said: ‘Tell me about Jeff: where are his rooms? On the ground floor, I suppose, if he’s confined to bed.’

  ‘Jeff?’ Grant Masters grimaced. ‘No, Jeff’s rooms aren’t on the first floor—they’re upstairs. There’s a lift at the other end of the hall. I’ll get Cora to show you around later, so you can find your way about without it being a problem.’

  ‘Thank you.’ But Sara had less interest in the house than its occupant. ‘When can I see Jeff?’

  Masters finished his coffee before replying. But then, putting aside his napkin, he made a careless gesture. ‘Whenever you want, I guess. But there’s no hurry.’ His eyes moved speculatively over her shining hair and slim figure. ‘What say I show you over the island this morning? We could swim and get some sun. You do swim, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I can swim,’ Sara agreed diffidently. ‘But I think I ought to meet Jeff first, don’t you? I mean, he is the reason I’m here.’

  He sighed, his expression hardening. ‘If you like,’ he essayed, abruptly getting up from the table. ‘Okay, let’s go. Right about now, Keating should be getting him his breakfast. It’s probably a good idea for you to meet him while he’s still comatose.’

  Sara blinked. ‘Comatose?’

  ‘He needs barbiturates to sleep. How do you think he got the pills to take an overdose?’

  ‘Oh.’ She felt hopelessly ignorant. Lincoln Korda was right, she was naïve; and stupid.

  Accompanying Grant Masters across the splendid hall and along the carpeted corridor she had observed the previous day, she
tried again. ‘Who is Keating?’ she asked, grasping at the name.

  ‘Keating looks after the patient,’ replied Masters rather scathingly, and Sara couldn’t decide whether his contempt was for Keating or the boy. ‘He’s English, as a matter of fact. He came over with Link in the sixties. He used to work in the Manhattan apartment, but when Jeff was injured, he took over here.’

  ‘So he’s a sort of valet?’

  ‘Valet, nurse, cook, you name it, he can do it. Looking after Jeff suits him just fine. Link never relied on him like Jeff does.’

  Sara looked at him cautiously. ‘You don’t like him.’

  ‘It’s that obvious, huh?’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Keating’s an old woman! He treats Jeff like he was made of glass. You may find your job doubly difficult with Keating looking over your shoulder. He won’t welcome someone who’s going to try and take his patient away from him.’

  Sara swallowed a little convulsively as she stepped into the wide lift—surely designed with an invalid’s needs in mind. At every turn she seemed to encounter some new complication. Tony would have a lot to answer for when she finally got back to London.

  The lift transported them up one floor—to the second floor, as Grant Masters described it. ‘Wouldn’t it be simpler if Jeff’s apartments were on the ground floor?’ she asked, as they rode up, and her companion bestowed her with a mocking smile.

  ‘Much,’ he agreed flatly. ‘And if it were left to me, that’s where they’d be.’

  ‘Then why——?’

  ‘Jeff doesn’t want to be near the ocean. He doesn’t want to hear the ocean, and he certainly doesn’t want to see it. It reminds him that he’s paralysed, that he’ll never swim again. That’s why he’s shut away up here. That’s why he nurses his neuroses in a darkened room.’

  The lift doors slid back to reveal a similar corridor to the one Sara’s rooms opened from. But this was the main corridor which led from the landing, and Grant Masters explained as they went that Jeff’s rooms were at the far end.

  ‘As far from his father as possible,’ he intimated carelessly. ‘You might as well hear it from me: Jeff and his father don’t exactly hit it off.’