Читать книгу Night Heat - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 6

PUT like that, there had really been no answer to it, reflected Sara some ten days later, feeling the rush of adrenalin as the big jet made its approach to Miami International Airport. Melodramatic, maybe; unfair, perhaps; but Sara had acknowledged that she really could not refuse.

Oh, it was easy enough to argue that Tony had had no right to ask her, that he had put her in an impossible position by insisting that she was the only one who could help. And in all honesty, she should have refused because of the responsibility he was putting on her. But from the beginning she had been interested in the boy’s case, and shouldn’t she really blame herself for being tempted by the challenge?

Besides, once she accepted the inevitability of her decision, she had been unable to deny a sense of anticipation at the prospect of leaving England in November for the tropical warmth of this most southerly state. Even Vicki’s somewhat uncharacteristic lack of enthusiasm had been unable to douse her excitement, and only now, as she approached her destination, did more practical considerations gain the upper hand.

What did she know about psychological problems, after all? It was all very well for Tony to assure her that Jeff was looking forward to her arrival, but what faith could she put in that when in the next breath he had told her the boy was morose and well-nigh unapproachable! He had said that both his brother and his estranged wife were enthusiastic about her arrival, but he had also said that she shouldn’t take any notice if tempers sometimes got frayed. Emotions could apparently run high in the Korda household, and on those occasions she should make herself scarce.

It was all a little daunting to someone who had never even left England before, let alone to cross the vastness of the Atlantic, and only the knowledge of the return ticket in her handbag gave her the confidence to leave the plane.

If only Tony had been able to accompany her, she thought. If only he had been around to introduce her to his relatives, or at least ease her entry into the household. But Tony had only been able to spend a couple of days in America. He was a busy man, and he had to get back to England to fulfil his obligations; or so he said.

‘My guess is he’s as eager to pass the buck as his brother!’ Vicki had commented acidly. ‘Making time with a teenage schizophrenic can’t be fun for anyone. I think you’re crazy for letting him put you on the spot!’

Sara had argued that Jeff was not a schizophrenic, that there was no question of a split personality, but what did she really know? What kind of person—what kind of teenager—swallowed an overdose of some highly dangerous substance, that only the prompt action of the hospital medics had prevented from proving lethal? His situation seemed harrowing, it was true, but it was not desperate. There were obviously thousands—millions—of people worse off than he was. But as he had probably heard that particular argument many times before, it was going to require much ingenuity on her part to make it sound convincing.

Sara was not immediately aware of the humidity when she left the plane. The airport buildings were all air-conditioned, and only the scent of overheated humanity gave her an inkling of what she might have to face outside. The airport was crowded, too. A sea of dark, Hispanic faces, with only a smattering of Caucasian among them. Two flights—one from Puerto Rico, and the other from Colombia—had landed ahead of the British Airways jet, and in the confusion, Sara despaired of ever finding whoever had come to meet her.

Amazingly enough, she eventually found herself in the baggage collection area, and rescuing her suitcase and the rather scruffy carpet bag that contained her personal belongings from the carousel, she made her way to the exit. If no one had come to meet her, she was contemplating taking the next flight back to England, and she half hoped the worst would happen. Just for a moment, the unfamiliarity of her surroundings caused a wave of homesickness to sweep over her, and she would have given anything to be back in London, fog and all.

The man in the chauffeur’s uniform, carrying the card that read ‘Sara Fielding’, almost passed her by. She didn’t know what she was looking for exactly, but it was not a cardboard notice displaying her name.

‘I—er—I’m Sara Fielding,’ she admitted reluctantly, stopping in front of him. ‘Do you—I mean—have you any means of identification?’

The tall black man thrust his hand inside his jacket, and briefly Sara was reminded of all those television series, where such an action heralded the producing of a gun. But all the chauffeur produced was a driver’s licence, showing his photograph and giving his name as Henry Isaiah Wesley, and a letter introducing the man from someone who signed himself Grant Masters.

‘If you’ll follow me,’ the chauffeur suggested, after Sara’s faint smile had assured him that his credentials had been accepted, and taking her suitcase and carpet bag from her, he set off across the concourse.

The car—a huge black limousine, with smoked glass windows—was waiting, double-banked, in a no-waiting area. But apparently its size, or perhaps its owner, warranted some respect, for the police patrolman who directed them out into the stream of traffic paid no heed to any offence which might have been committed. And to Sara, bemused by the switch from air-conditioned terminal to equally air-conditioned limousine, with a blast of hot humidity in between, it was all part and parcel of the chaotic confusion of her arrival.

Nevertheless, she couldn’t help but relax in the cushioned comfort of the car. With her feet resting on a carpet, with a pile as thick as any she had ever seen, and her limbs responding to the yielding softness of fine leather, she was hardly aware of what was going on outside the windows; and not until they turned into the multi-laned elegance of a highway, lined with stately palms and bordering the ocean, did she give her surroundings her attention.

Although the flight had taken the better part of ten hours, the change in time zones meant that it was still only late afternoon in Miami. And with the sun casting long shadows across the avenue, and the blue-green waters of what she later learned was Biscayne Bay—and not the Atlantic, as she had innocently imagined—shimmering invitingly between the masts of yachts and other sailing craft„ she felt a rekindling of the excitement she had felt when the Embassy official in London had stamped her visa.

It was an effort, but summoning her courage, she leant across the seemingly vase expanse of space that separated the rear of the car from the driver’s seat. ‘It’s very hot, isn’t it?’ she ventured, in what she hoped was an encouraging tone. ‘It was raining back in London.’

‘I’ll turn up the conditioner,’ responded the chauffeur at once, and immediately, the pleasant waft of cool air emanating from the grilles beside her became a chilling draught. Within seconds, the car was reduced to a temperature bordering on freezing, and Sara sighed unhappily, before attempting to explain that that was not what she had meant.

‘I was talking about the temperature here—in Florida,’ she mumbled, after the air-conditioning had been restored to its usual level, but receiving no reply, she concluded that the chauffeur did not consider it part of his duties to make polite conversation with a paid companion.

Finding the monotonous row of high-rise hotels and office buildings on her left of little interest, Sara concentrated her attention on the recreation areas beside the beach. Acres of grassy parks and walkways, some less attractive than others, she had to admit, were nevertheless more interesting than the commercial aspects of the city, particularly as from time to time she glimpsed causeways heading out to places called Treasure Island or Indian Creek or Bal Harbor.

North of Miami, they left the impressive interstate highway for the less hectic route along the coast. Sara had read somewhere that this area was called the Gold Coast, and she could understand why. An almost unending vista of sandy beaches contoured the road, and their progress was observed by graceful seabirds, sweeping down to the breakers that lapped the shore.

Beyond the busier centres of Fort Lauderdale and Boca Raton, with their golf courses and high-rise condominiums, they entered the quiet streets of Cyprus Beach. Hiding behind high clipped hedges, a handful of luxury dwellings made Sara aware of the exclusivity of this resort, and long before they reached the harbour, with its neatly-staked pier and expensive shops, she guessed they were nearing their destination. If the chauffeur had been more approachable, she could have shared a little of her sudden apprehension with him. But after her abortive attempt to be friendly, they had spent the whole journey in silence, and she was hardly surprised when he made no attempt to reassure her now.

The long, luxurious limousine was drawn to a halt as close to the pier as possible. Once again, their arrival was marked by an armed policeman, leaning against the bonnet of his squad car. But, once again, he made no move to stop them parking in what would appear to be a no-parking area, and when Wesley opened the car door for Sara to alight, she scrambled out with alacrity.

Her appearance did generate a mild response from the policeman. He was probably unused to seeing rather travel-worn young women emerging from the Korda family limousine, Sara reflected wryly, brushing down the creases in her wine-coloured corded pants suit. If she had only thought about it in the car, she could have retouched her make-up and re-coiled her hair before meeting her employer—if that was the correct way to regard the young man who was to be in her charge. As it was, she was obliged to hope that the strands of hair escaping from her chignon would not look too untidy, and that her nose was not as shiny as she imagined it to be.

Wesley slammed the car door, but didn’t lock it. Why bother, reflected Sara wryly, with a policeman to stand guard over it? But then she saw the boat that was apparently to transport her and her belongings to Orchid Key, and the luxury of the car distinctly faded by comparison.

The yacht moored at the pier was the kind of vessel Sara had hitherto only seen in advertisements. The Ariadne, as she was called, was at least fifty feet in length, with cabins fore and aft, and the sun reflecting from its gleaming hull accentuated its look of controlled power. A ribbed gangway gave access to its polished deck, and as Wesley indicated that Sara should precede him aboard, another man came forward to greet her. This man was less formally dressed, in white pants and a short-sleeved white shirt, his blond good looks in no way diminished by the deepness of his tan.

‘Miss Fielding,’ he said, his smile warm and friendly. ‘Or can I call you Sara? I’m Grant Masters, Mr Korda’s personal assistant.’

‘How do you do?’ murmured Sara, relieved, responding to his smile. ‘You’re the person who wrote the letter that—that the chauffeur——’

‘Wesley, yes.’ Masters’ gaze moved past her to the black man who was presently depositing her luggage on the deck. ‘That’s okay,’ he dismissed him. ‘I’ll take care of Miss Fielding from here on in.’ And then, returning his attention to Sara, ‘Come into the saloon. I’m sure you wouldn’t say no to something long and cool and thirst-quenching.’

‘Oh, no.’ In all honesty, Sara was beginning to feel the heat, and wishing she had thought to bring another set of clothes to change into on the plane. The corded suit was decidedly too heavy for this climate, and with a murmured word of thanks after the departing chauffeur’s back, she followed her host into the forward cabin.

Above her—or was it below her, she couldn’t be exactly sure—engines fired to life, and glancing round, she saw another man casting off the lines that had moored the Ariadne to the pier. But her own attention was immediately absorbed by the luxurious appointments of the cabin, and as Masters poured drinks at a refrigerated bar, Sara shed her jacket and looked about her.

The cabin was panelled in oak, with a curved elevation forward, and smoked glass all round. There were long cushioned banquettes, and onyx lamps with pleated shades, and the soft carpet underfoot gave the feeling of walking on velvet. As in the car, the air supply was controlled, and the presence of both a television and a hi-fi system assured her that the yacht had its own generator too.

‘There you are. I think you’ll like it,’ Masters was saying now, and turning somewhat bemusedly, Sara took the tall tumbler from his hand.

‘Er—what is it?’ she asked, looking down into a glass frothing with a creamy fluid, and frosted with sugar.

‘It’s just fruit juice with a little coconut milk added,’ Masters declared smoothly, and as the movement of the craft caused her to take an involuntary step, he gestured to the banquette behind her. ‘Won’t you sit down? The trip only takes a few minutes, but I think you’d feel safer.’

Sara subsided on to the cushions gratefully. It was all a little too much to take in and, sipping her drink, she wondered if anyone ever got used to such luxury.

‘Did you have a good flight?’

Masters was speaking again, and she turned to him almost guiltily. ‘Very good, thank you,’ she answered, wiping a film of foam from her lip. ‘Um—this is lovely.’

Masters himself was not drinking, she noticed. He had draped his elegant frame on the banquette opposite, and was evidently enjoying the novelty of watching her. From time to time, he cast a thoughtful glance in the direction in which they were heading, but mostly he studied her, which was a little disconcerting.

‘Have you ever been to Florida before, Sara?’ he asked, his confident use of her name seeming to indicate that in his employer’s absence, he had the authority. It made her wonder if perhaps he was the person with whom she would be dealing. After all, if Tony Korda’s brother spent most of his time in New York, it was possible that he employed someone like Grant Masters to act as his deputy.

‘This is my first trip to the United States,’ she answered honestly, and as if anticipating her reply, he inclined his blond head.

‘You worked as a secretary in London, didn’t you?’ he probed, after a moment. ‘But that wasn’t what you really wanted to do.’

‘No.’ Almost unconsciously, Sara moved to tuck her right foot behind her left, and although he said nothing, she sensed Masters had noticed.

‘What do you know about Jeff?’ he asked now, and she was glad of the glass in her hands, which acted as a convincing diversion.

‘Not a lot,’ she admitted, lifting her shoulders. ‘I—I was told he had had a car accident. And—and that there’s some paralysis.

‘There’s total paralysis from the waist down,’ Masters told her, with some emphasis. ‘Jeff is wholly incapacitated. He can neither walk, nor dress himself; he has negative control over his bodily functions, and because he refuses to co-operate, he has to be washed and groomed and fed, just like a baby!’

Sara stared at him aghast. Tony had told her none of this. From the little he had said, she had assumed the boy was depressed and unhappy, suicidal even, but not outwardly aggressive. After all, taking an overdose was not such an exceptional thing these days. Lots of people took drugs, some of them using attempted suicide as a cry for help, without any real intention of taking their own life. Not that she’d actually believed that Jeff Korda’s overdose had been a cry for help—heavens, with his background, he could want for nothing—but she had thought it might have been a spur-of-the-moment decision, a desperate fit of depression culminating in a desperate act.

But now, listening to Grant Masters enumerating the boy’s disabilities, she was horrified by her own inadequacy. In heaven’s name, why had Tony sent her here? What did she know of a mentality that defied all normal precepts? How could she expect to reason with someone who had already spurned all attempts to rehabilitate him? How could she help the boy when he evidently had no desire to be helped?

‘You look a little pale, Sara,’ Masters remarked now, and for a moment she wondered if he had deliberately tried to disconcert her. He might be exaggerating, she told herself without conviction, and in any case it was too late to turn back.

‘I expect I’m tired,’ she responded, refusing to let him think he had upset her. ‘After all, although it’s only early evening here, my body tells me it’s almost bedtime.’

A trace of faint admiration crossed Masters’ face. ‘Of course,’ he said, taking his cue from her. ‘It’s after eleven in England. It’s just as well we’re almost there. I expect you’ll be glad of a rest before dinner.’

Won’t I just? thought Sara fervently, swallowing the rest of her drink, and when Masters suggested they go out on deck so that she could see the island, she was eager to accept his invitation.

Her first view of Orchid Key was disappointing. After the car and the yacht, she had expected something more inspiring than the rocky shoreline that confronted them, and the line of barbed wire fencing running right around the headland seemed to confirm Vicki’s assertion that the island was inaccessible without an invitation. There was a guard, too, waiting for them on the stone jetty, with a snub-nosed automatic pistol tucked into his belt.

The yacht was berthed and the gangway slung across, and instructing one of the crew to bring her luggage, Masters strode off the boat with Sara close behind him. Shades of Alcatraz, she thought gloomily, thinking she understood why Lincoln Korda spent all his time in New York.

A shallow flight of stairs, dug out of the cliff, lay ahead of them, and Sara followed her guide up the steps. They emerged on to a grassy plateau, with an all-round view of the island, and her impression of a barren outcrop swiftly changed. Ahead of them now at this, the narrowest, end of the island, were acres of sand-dunes, sloping away to a shell-strewn beach. An uneven line of palms framed the blue-green waters of the Atlantic, and not even the thought that some security guard was probably patrolling the shoreline could rob the scene of its natural beauty.

Closer at hand, a single-storied building with several jeeps parked outside served as a kind of guard station. Although the island was not big—no more than two or three square miles, Sara estimated—the jeeps would prove invaluable in an emergency. But as well as the utility vehicles, there was also a sleek silver convertible, and it was to this that Masters led her after acknowledging her approving gaze.

With her bags securely stowed in the back of the convertible, Sara joined Masters in the front. No chauffeurs here, she thought, not without some relief. She wasn’t used to the presence of so many helping hands, no matter how deferential they might be. She breathed a sigh of relief as they drove off along a gravel track, and Masters gave her a thoughtful look as he swung the wheel through his hands.

The island was roughly triangular in shape, with access by boat only available at the narrowest point. ‘We’re situated above a sandbar,’ Masters explained. ‘The ocean to the east of the island is too shallow to allow a craft of any size to approach that way, although windsurfers have been known to come ashore in rough weather.’

Sara lifted a nervous shoulder. ‘Are they allowed to?’

‘We’re not running a top secret establishment here, Sara,’ he responded drily. ‘Visitors have been known to arrive and depart without any hassle. We don’t encourage intruders, it’s true, but Mr Korda has to protect his property.’

Sara made no comment. It was not up to her to question her employer’s security arrangements. If they made her feel a little like a prison visitor, that was her hang-up. She was not here to make her opinions felt—not about security anyway.

The centre of the island, which was flat, apparently served as a landing pad. Across a stretch of rough turf, she could see two hangars, one of which had its doors open to reveal the tail of a helicopter. Of course, she thought cynically. There would have to be a helicopter. It was all part and parcel with what she had seen so far.

The Korda house was situated above a stretch of golden sand. Three stories high, it rose majestically from a pillared terrace, its white-painted grandeur far more redolent of the 1920s than more than half a century later. Surrounding the house were gardens that reminded Sara of the gardens of an Italian villa she had once read about. There was a profusion of waterfalls and statuary, and a stone-flagged fountain splashing sibilantly in the foreground. She guessed a small army of gardeners would be required to keep the place in order, and her nerves prickled anxiously at this further evidence of her employer’s wealth.

Grant Masters brought the car to a halt and thrusting open his door, got out. At the same time, a woman of perhaps forty emerged on to the terrace, and Sara’s escort went to speak to her. Left briefly to herself, Sara too vacated the vehicle, leaning into the back to rescue her bags, just as Masters turned back and saw her.

‘Leave them,’ he called, and although the words were spoken carelessly enough, it was an order. ‘Come and meet Mr Korda’s housekeeper. She’ll show you to your rooms and explain about dinner and where we eat.’

Sara was tempted to bring her carpet bag anyway, just to show she preferred to be independent, but the older woman was watching their exchange, and she decided not to argue. Instead, she looped the jacket of her suit over one shoulder and, making a determined effort not to drag her right foot, she climbed the steps to the terrace.

‘This is Sara Fielding, Cora,’ said Masters, performing the introduction. ‘Cora will take care of you, Sara,’ he added. ‘Anything you need, just ask her.’

Thank you.’

Cora was polite, but Sara was aware that the housekeeper was regarding her rather guardedly. She probably thinks I’m as incapable of helping Jeff as Grant Masters evidently does, Sara reflected unhappily. And why not? If the best brains in medicine couldn’t help him, how could she?

At Cora’s summons, a young black boy appeared, and after directing him to fetch Miss Fielding’s luggage, she invited Sara to follow her. ‘Go ahead,’ said Grant Masters, pushing his hands into his trouser pockets and giving her a vaguely sympathetic grin. ‘I’ll see you later.’

They entered the house through double doors that stood wide, but which had fine-meshed screen doors in their place. ‘The insects are attracted by the light,’ said Cora, who spoke with a decidedly Southern accent and seldom actually finished off her words. ‘The house is air-conditioned, but Mr Link, he likes for the breeze to blow right through on days like this. He says it’s more healthy, and what Mr Link says goes.’

She smiled as she made this statement, proving she had a sense of humour, and Sara felt a little more reassured. If the housekeeper could joke about her employer, the atmosphere at Orchid Key couldn’t be all bad. Nevertheless, it did prompt her to wonder exactly what Tony Korda’s brother was like. Up until then, she had been more concerned in anticipating his son’s reaction to her, but now she found herself speculating what manner of man cared more about his business than his family. Physically, she assumed, he would resembled his brother. Tony Korda was not a handsome man, but she supposed he might be attractive to some women, who didn’t mind his affectations. Still, without the curl in his rather mousy hair, and the stylish clothes he seemed to favour, he would have been rather nondescript, and that was how she had pictured Lincoln Korda. A man of medium height and medium build, possibly running to fat, with that certain look of avidity that went with material success.

The entrance hall was marble-tiled and impressive, with an enormous chandelier suspended above their heads. There was a semicircular table, flanked by two crystal blue armchairs, set against the far wall, and two alabaster plinths, on which were set two enormous bowls of flowers, in the foreground. The hall was filled with the fragrance of the flowers and, admiring their waxed petals, Sara was compelled to ask if they were orchids.

‘Miss Michelle’s father used to cultivate them in the glasshouse out back,’ said Cora, after acknowledging that they were. ‘It was Mr de Vere who built this house and named the island Orchid Key.’ She shrugged. ‘I guessed he spent too much time cultivating his orchids. Things went bad, and after Mr Link married Miss Michelle, he bought it from her father. But Mr Link doesn’t have time to grow orchids. These days, the gardeners do that.’

‘I see.’

Sara felt a pang of pity for the man who had evidently spent so much time and effort in making this such a beautiful home. Was that why Michelle and Lincoln Korda had split up? Because they wanted different things from life?

She was being fanciful, and pushing her unwarranted thoughts aside, she hurried up the stairs after the housekeeper. But, in spite of her haste, she found her progress hindered by her need to take in her surroundings, to absorb them, to tell herself somewhat incredulously that for the next few weeks—possibly months—this was to be her home.

The hand-wrought iron balustrade curved above arched recesses giving access to the ground floor apartments of the house. A corridor disappeared to the right, with windows overlooking the gardens at the front, and beneath the stairs another passageway led towards the back. A gallery of pastel-tinted watercolours mounted the silk-covered wall beside her, and she didn’t need to examine their legendary signatures to see for herself that they were originals. She doubted there was anything in the house that wasn’t totally authentic, except perhaps its occupants, she reflected somewhat cynically.

The rooms which had been alotted to her overlooked the beach. A large sitting room, with its own dining area, was adjoined by an equally large bedroom, the colonial-style fourposter set on a shallow dais, allowing its occupant to view the ocean without even sitting up. Sara was still absorbing the view from the balcony outside when Cora left her, announcing that she would send up a tray of tea.

‘You might like to have dinner in your room this evening,’ she added, and Sara wondered if the suggestion was as innocent as it seemed. But it probably would be wiser to have this time to take her bearings, she conceded shrewdly. Not to rush into anything until she knew exactly what was expected of her.

Her suitcase and carpet bag were delivered as she was rinsing her face in the bathroom. She had spent some time admiring the circular bath, with its jacuzzi attachment, and delighting in the gold-plated luxury of the taps, but the sound of the outer door closing was a sobering signal. Casting a regretful glance at tinted mirrors and intriguing crystal flagons, set on a fluted crystal shelf, Sara went to unpack her belongings, promising herself a more thorough exploration when she had the time.

As well as her luggage, a tray of tea and some tiny shortbread biscuits resided on the table beside the bed. Evidently, whoever had brought the tea had assumed she could drink it while she unpacked her cases, and Sara blessed their thoughtfulness as she poured herself a cup.

Fifteen minutes later, with the more crushable items of her wardrobe hung in the capacious walk-in closet, Sara decided the rest could wait. Stepping out of her trousers, she tossed them on to the pale green velvet chaise-longue that was set between the long windows, and doffing her shirt, stretched on the bed in only her bra and bikini briefs. She felt so weary, suddenly, and the fading light was very restful. If she could just close her eyes for a few minutes, she thought, and knew no more …

She awakened, chilled, to the dazed lack of awareness strange surroundings invariably invoked. She lay for several minutes in the darkness, struggling with a sense of panic, and then relaxed again at the soothing, sucking sound of the ocean, just beyond the bedroom windows. Of course! She was in Florida. At Lincoln Korda’s house on Orchid Key, to be precise. But what time was it? And how long had she slept? She had taken off her watch to have her wash, and she evidently hadn’t replaced it.

Shivering, she groped for the lamp beside the bed, which she was sure she had noticed earlier. Its light was attractively muted by a Thai silk shade, a shade she noticed—quite inconsequently at this moment—which matched the coverlet on her bed and the long drapes at the windows.

There was a clock beside the bed, too, and blinking, Sara discovered it was almost twelve o’clock. Midnight! she breathed, inaudibly. She had slept for almost six hours! What must the rest of the household be thinking of her? Not least, Jeff himself!

She was hungry, too, ravenously so, the kind of hunger that comes from not having eaten a proper meal for more than twelve hours. It had been approximately two p.m. London time when lunch had been served on the plane and, apart from the fact that she had been too excited to do justice to what was offered, that was almost fifteen hours ago now. Oh, there had been a few sandwiches offered as afternoon tea before they landed at Miami, but nothing to satisfy an appetite sharpened by anxiety. Even the tray of tea, which she had enjoyed earlier, had been taken away as she slept, preventing her from salving the ache inside her with the few shortbreads that were left.

The arrival of a rather large moth curtailed her remorseful musings. Realising that the door to the balcony was still open and that the light was attracting unwelcome visitors, she scrambled off the bed to go and close it. But before she did so, she stepped out on to the balcony, delighting in the unaccustomed warmth of the night air. Cooler than in the day, obviously, but far more appealing, the sky overhead absolutely bedizened with stars. She couldn’t see the ocean, but she could hear it more clearly here, the shushing sound she had identified earlier accompanied by the deeper vibration of the waves. What a heavenly place, she though romantically. How could anyone choose to live in New York when this place was waiting?

Resting her hands on the iron railing, she looked down, and as she did so, she saw the sudden flaring of a cigarette in the darkness. She was momentarily shocked, was instinctively drawing back, when her common sense told her that whoever it was could not see her. She didn’t have the glow of a cigarette end to give her away, and sheltered by the balcony, the illumination from her room was visible only to the insects. The man—woman? whoever it was, was seated directly below her, and forcing her eyes to adjust themselves to the gloom, she was astounded to make out the unmistakable lines of a wheelchair. A wheelchair!

Her heart flipped over. Was it Jeff down there? Did he find it difficult to sleep, and use this time to exercise the abilities he spurned during daylight hours? It was a tantalising thought. And it could be true. Was it possible his refusal to accept rehabilitation was only an act? Had she inadvertently stumbled on his secret?

She stepped back from the rail, breathing unevenly. She had to find out. There was no way she could mention her suspicions to Grant Masters without at least trying to prove that she was right. Pulling the balcony doors closed behind her, she drew the curtains and then put on the corded pants she had shed earlier. A pink sweat shirt was easier than the shirt she had worn to travel in, and fretting at the time she was wasting, she spent more precious minutes brushing the now mussed length of her hair. Deciding she couldn’t afford to wait while she plaited her hair, she tied it back with a silk scarf and after slipping her feet into low-heeled sandals, she opened her door.

She had no definite idea about how to reach the back terrace, but trusting her instincts, she made her way to the galleried landing. Low lights illuminated the hall below, and trying to control her breathing, Sara sped silently down the stairs.

Rejecting the corridor at the front of the house, she headed for the archway beneath the curve of the stairs, feeling a thrill of excitement at the unmistakable draught of air that greeted her. She was on the right track, she was sure of it, and as if to confirm her belief, she turned a corner and saw the darkness of the terrace only a few yards ahead of her.

Immediately, her feet slowed, and in spite of the silence all around her, she felt unbelievably exposed. She glanced back over her shoulder, half expecting someone must be following her, but she was alone in the lamplight shadows. All the same, there was something uncomfortably alien about what she was doing, and a sudden twinge in her foot reminded her she was unused to abusing her ankle in this way. Running down the stairs, she had given little thought to its weakness, but now she leaned against the wall, wishing she had not been so precipitate.

Still, she was here now, and unless she wanted Jeff to come upon her as he returned to his room, she had to make an effort. Having come so far, it would be foolish to return to her room without at least trying to see him, and moving slowly, she edged towards the terrace.

A mesh door, similar to the ones that protected the front of the house, stood ajar, and guessing the progress of the wheelchair made opening doors difficult, she was encouraged. Besides, the open door enabled her to emerge unnoticed, though her heart was beating so loudly, she was sure it must be audible.

Ahead of her, something glinted in the darkness, and she realised it was a swimming pool. It was just as well she hadn’t tumbled into that, she thought wryly. What a way to announce her presence! She could just imagine Grant Masters’ anger if she crowned her arrival by destroying Jeff’s efforts to cure himself.

Inching forward, she found herself on a flagged patio, which was doubtless a suntrap in daylight. The ribbed outlines of low chairs around the pool seemed to point to this conclusion, though the obvious absence of any cushions gave them a skeletal appearance. But where was the wheelchair? she wondered uneasily. Surely, after all her efforts, Jeff had not abandoned his vigil.

And then she saw it. Set some yards along the terrace, the chair still rested below the level of the balcony, and even as she gazed towards it, she saw the revealing circle of fire as his cigarette was drawn to his mouth.

If only she could see more clearly, she thought frustratedly, cursing the moonless night. She wondered what he would do if she spoke to him. Would he be shocked, or angry, or both? Dared she intrude on his isolation? Or might she, as she had thought earlier, destroy any desire to recover his strength by exposing the frailty of his efforts?

‘Why don’t you come and join me?’ he asked suddenly, evidently aware of her quivering observation, and Sara gulped. His voice, coming to her in the darkness, was low and harsh and attractive, and undeniably mature for a boy of his age. ‘What were you hoping to see, I wonder?’ he added, turning his head towards her. ‘Will you be making a habit of sneaking about the place, when you’re supposed to be in bed? If so, I’ll have to watch I don’t do anything to shock you!’

‘I wasn’t sneaking …’ Sara took an unsteady breath, and then continued: ‘How—how did you know I was here? How did you know it was me?’

‘Call it—intuition.’ He shifted slightly towards her, and moving closer, she saw the long, useless legs stretched in front of him. ‘Miss—Fielding, isn’t it? Tony’s final solution! Forgive me if I beg to doubt his confidence. He always was hopelessly romantic!’

The harsh disturbing voice scraped on Sara’s senses, but in spite of the cynicism of his words, she knew a kindling surge of encouragement. Surely if Jeff could speak to her like this, he was not the grim, despairing youth she had been led to expect. If, by exposing his nightly ritual, she had pierced the surface shell he evidently presented to the other members of the household, surely she must stand some chance of reasoning with him.

Her excitement was blunted somewhat, however, by the sudden reminder of why she was here. If Jeff was making such obvious progress, why had he attempted to take his own life less than two weeks ago? Why, if he could speak so philosophically about his uncle, had Tony told her no psychiatrist could reach him?

She was still pondering this enigma, when the wheelchair squeaked and its occupant rose easily to his feet. ‘Forgive me.’ The tall, lean man who had vacated the seat sent the remains of what he had been smoking shooting away in an arc across the terrace. And as Sara backed away in sudden panic, he came towards her holding out his hand. ‘I should have introduced myself,’ he finished easily. ‘I’m Lincoln Korda. And you, I believe, are a friend of my brother.’