Night Heat

by Anne Mather

  ‘I lived in Warwickshire for a number of years,’ admitted Sara, after a moment. ‘But my parents are dead. They died in a car crash when I was eight.’

  ‘Aw, hell!’ Tony swallowed the contents of his glass at a gulp. ‘Trust me to put my foot in it yet again! You’re going to have to forgive me. I guess I’ve had more of this stuff than I can handle.

  ‘It’s all right.’ And Sara meant it. Curiously enough, Tony had achieved his objective. Right now, she was more intrigued with his story than with her own. She wanted to ask him to go on, to explain what he had meant about his brother and sister-in-law ignoring their son’s existence, but of course she couldn’t. Nevertheless, his words had stirred a sympathetic chord inside her, and she felt for the youth whose future had been laid waste.

  ‘I didn’t mean to depress you, you know,’ Tony muttered now, filling his glass again. ‘God, I’m such a clumsy bastard!’

  ‘You haven’t depressed me,’ Sara assured him swiftly. ‘As a matter of fact …’ She hesitated before continuing, but then silencing her conscience, she added, ‘I’m interested.’

  ‘In Jeff?’ He blinked.

  ‘Well, in the reasons why you think his parents don’t care about him.’

  ‘Oh,’ he shrugged, ‘I don’t say they don’t care about him. I guess they do. They must, mustn’t they? But Michelle has her—commitments, and Link—well, I guess he’s too busy making money to care that his son’s bleeding to death!’

  ‘Bleeding to death?’ Sara exclaimed, appalled.

  ‘Emotionally, I mean,’ Tony explained himself. ‘The kid’s neglected! Left alone in that big house, week after week, with only the paid help for company—I’m surprised he doesn’t go round the bend!’

  She moistened her lips. ‘Your brother lives out of London, then.’

  ‘Out of London?’ Tony blinked. ‘Hell, yes. He lives in New York.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I doubt you do.’ He took another mouthful from his glass. ‘My brother married an American, Sara. He’s lived in the States for almost twenty years. Jeff was born there.’

  Sara frowned. ‘But your nephew lives in England, now——’

  ‘No! Jeff lives in Florida,’ amended Tony impatiently. ‘My brother owns a property there. A place called Orchid Key, about twenty-five miles north of Miami.’

  ‘Oh …’

  Sara was beginning to understand, but before she could say anything more, Vicki’s faintly-intoxicated tones broke into their conversation. ‘You two seem to be hitting it off,’ she declared, leaning over the back of Sara’s chair and regarding the pair of them with evident satisfaction. ‘I thought you would. When are you going to come and work with us, Sara? Don’t tell me Tony hasn’t asked you, because I won’t believe it.’

  Sara sighed, turning to survey her friend with some regret. Vicki’s intervention had terminated Tony’s narration, and she guessed from the way he greeted the other girl that he was not averse to the interruption. He was probably already regretting the fact that he had confided personal details to someone he barely knew, and she suspected that without his liberal intake of alcohol, he would never have spoken so frankly. As if to confirm that fact, Tony excused himself a few moments later, and Sara was left with the unpleasant feeling that she was to blame.

  Even so, she could not resist the temptation later that night to quiz Vicki about her boss’s nephew. Having persuaded the other girl that she was tired. Sara offered to make a cup of hot chocolate when they got back to the flat, carrying it into Vicki’s room as she was creaming off her make-up.

  ‘Did—er—did you know Tony Korda’s nephew had been injured in a car accident?’ she asked casually, perching on the end of Vicki’s bed, her cup cradled in her hands. ‘He was talking about it tonight.’

  ‘Was he?’ Vicki had sobered considerably since encountering the cool October air, and her brows arched inquisitively at Sara’s well-schooled expression. ‘Yes, I knew.’

  Sara’s lids fell defensively. ‘You didn’t mention it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Vicki hesitated. ‘I thought it might upset you. Your parents, and so on.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Sara’s head lifted. ‘That was sweet of you, but honestly, it is more than ten years since the accident. And I’m not a child any more.’

  ‘No.’ Vicki grimaced. ‘Oh, well …’ She picked up another pad of cotton wool. ‘So what was Tony saying? Did he tell you the boy is only a teenager?’

  ‘Mmm,’ Sara nodded. ‘It’s a tragedy, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s very sad,’ conceded Vicki slowly. ‘But I can think of worse fates.’

  ‘Vicki!’

  ‘Well! I should live in such idyllic surroundings, waited on hand and foot!’

  Sara gasped. ‘You don’t mean that!’

  ‘I do.’ Vicki reached for her cup of hot chocolate. ‘I’ve been there. I know.’ She paused. ‘Do you remember me telling you, we once did a shoot in Florida? That was where we did it. Lincoln Korda’s place: Orchid Key!’

  Sara’s eyes widened. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Go on—what?’

  ‘Tell me about it—Orchid Key, I mean. Is it very exotic?’

  ‘Very.’ Vicki’s tone was dry. ‘It’s an island, actually, just off the coast. You could swim there from the mainland, if they’d let you. But of course they don’t. It’s virtually a fortress. Guards—armed guards—everywhere. I guess Lincoln Korda owns a lot of expensive stuff.’

  Sara couldn’t resist. ‘Did you meet him?’

  ‘Who? Lincoln Korda? No chance. He seldom uses the place. According to Tony, he’s a workaholic.’

  ‘Yes.’ Sara was thoughtful. ‘He told me his brother lives in New York. But what about Mrs Korda? Doesn’t she prefer Florida?’

  ‘Maybe. As long as Lincoln Korda’s not there, of course. They’re separated, you know. Have been for years.’ Vicki finished her chocolate and got up from the dressing table stool. ‘You know,’ she said, viewing Sara’s concerned face with wry sympathy, ‘people like that shouldn’t have children. They can’t afford them—emotionally speaking.’

  Three weeks later, Sara had practically forgotten all about Jeff Korda, when she unexpectedly got a telephone call from his uncle.

  ‘Sara!’ Tony Korda sounded distraught. ‘Thank God I’ve managed to get hold of you. Where’ve you been all day? I’ve been ringing since one o’clock!’

  Sara blinked, glancing at the plain gold watch on her wrist. It was barely six. ‘I do have a job, Mr Korda,’ she reminded him drily. And then as she remembered her friend was away, in Scotland, her stomach contracted. ‘It’s not Vic——’

  ‘This has nothing to do with Vicki,’ he forestalled her swiftly. ‘Look, could you meet me? In—say—half an hour?’

  ‘Half an hour?’ Sara was taken aback. ‘Mr Korda, I don’t think——’

  ‘This isn’t an assignation,’ he declared flatly. ‘I just want to talk to you, that’ all.’ And when she demurred: ‘It’s about Jeff. My nephew, remember?’

  Half an hour later, entering the pub in Charing Cross which Tony had suggested, Sara wondered why the mention of the boy’s name should have provoked such an immediate response. And the right response, too, judging by Tony Korda’s reaction. He had known she would respond to an appeal of that kind. But was Jeff Korda the real reason why he wanted to see her?

  She had not bothered to stop and change, but her black and white tweed suit, with its calf-length skirt and thigh-length jacket, was not out of place in the smoky atmosphere of the White Lion. Worn with a high-necked blouse and a man’s narrow tie, it successfully disguised her unusual beauty, the tight coil of hair at her nape merely adding to her severe image.

  Tony Korda was standing at the bar, but when he saw her, he picked up the two drinks he had ordered and urged her into the quieter surroundings of the lounge. ‘I’m afraid it’s only lager,’ he remarked, setting the two glasses down on a low table, and squatting o
n the stool opposite. ‘But I didn’t know what to order, and at least it’s long and cold.’

  ‘Lager’s fine,’ said Sara, who secretly hated the stuff. And then: ‘So—why have you brought me here? What’s wrong? You said it was something to do with your nephew.’

  ‘It is.’ Tony hunched his shoulders, looking even more world-weary than he had at the party. Casting a glance over his shoulder to make sure they were not being overheard, he went on: ‘Jeff took an overdose yesterday evening. They rushed him into the hospital in Miami, but for a while there it was touch and go.’

  Sara was horrified. ‘How terrible!’ She shook her head. ‘Is he going to be all right?’

  ‘So they say. He’s still in the hospital, of course—something to do with testing the toxicity of his blood. But he’ll be home in a day or so. I’m flying out there tomorrow to see how he is for myself.’

  Sara nodded. ‘It must have been a terrible shock!’

  ‘It was. When Link rang to tell me, I could have wrung his bloody neck!’

  She hesitated, not quite knowing what was required of her. Then, awkwardly, she put out her hand and squeezed his arm. ‘Thanks for feeling you could tell me,’ she murmured. ‘I appreciate your confidence.’

  ‘My confidence?’ Tony’s expression was suddenly even grimmer. ‘Is that why you think I rang? Just to share this confidence with you?’

  She moved a little nervously on her seat. ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘No!’ He leant across the table towards her. ‘Sara, I rang because I thought you might be willing to help. You seemed—sympathetic when I spoke to you at Chris’s party. Or was that an act?’

  ‘No!’ She was indignant. ‘I just don’t see——’

  ‘I want you to consider a proposition I have to put to you,’ said Tony swiftly, and the sudden input from a juke-box in the bar made what he was saying almost inaudible. ‘I’ve spoken to Link, as I’ve said, and he’s agreeable. How does the idea of spending the winter months in Florida appeal to you?’

  ‘In Florida?’ Sara was sure she had heard him wrong, but Tony was nodding.

  ‘As a companion—a friend, if you like—for Jeff. You’d get a salary, of course. A more than generous one, I can guarantee that. And all expenses paid, naturally——’

  ‘Wait a minute!’ She held up a dazed hand. ‘Why would you think I can help your nephew? Surely a psychiatrist——’

  ‘He’s had psychiatrists,’ Tony interrupted her harshly. ‘And psychologists, and psycho-therapists, and goodness knows what else! That’s not what he needs.’ He paused, before continuing urgently: ‘Sara, what Jeff is missing is someone young, someone of his own generation, someone who understands what he’s going through. Someone like you.’

  Sara gulped. ‘You can’t compare my injury——’

  ‘I know that. But you’re the closet Jeff’s going to come to facing the truth about himself, to dealing with it.’

  ‘But I know nothing about nursing!’

  ‘I’ve told you—Jeff has had all the nurses and doctors he can cope with.’

  She was finding it difficult to believe what she was hearing. ‘But, Tony,’ she said, trying to speak reasonably, ‘I have a job——’

  ‘What job? Secretary to some small-time businessman, with offices in Kilburn High Street? It’s hardly high-priority!’

  She stared at him. ‘How do you know where I work?’

  ‘How do you think? I asked Vicki.’

  Sara struggled with a feeling of indignation. ‘She had no right to tell you.’

  ‘Why not? She didn’t know why I was asking.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to her today?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tony grunted. ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t tell her why I wanted to know. I just slipped it into the conversation.’

  She shook her head. ‘Well, you must know I’m going to refuse.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’ She made a helpless gesture. ‘Well—because it’s crazy! Asking me to go out to Florida to meet someone I don’t even know! Someone who might take a dislike to me at first sight.’

  ‘He won’t.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  Tony sighed. ‘Haven’t you looked at yourself lately, Sara?’

  She was running short of excuses, and she wondered rather impatiently why she felt she needed one. It was a ludicrous idea, asking her to go to Florida, to try and reason with some boy who, despite his injuries, was probably far more capable of handling his own life than she was. But she hadn’t tried to kill herself, a small voice reminded her insistently. She wasn’t alone in some palatial Southern mansion which, no matter how luxurious, apparently bore all the hallmarks of a prison.

  ‘But what about your brother?’ she persisted, fighting the insidious demands of compassion. ‘And your sister-in-law? Don’t they have any ideas of their own?’

  Tony was silent for so long that Sara began to wonder whether the noisy juke-box had drowned out her words. But, eventually, he spoke again. ‘Michelle’s no good around sick people,’ he admitted at last. ‘It’s not her fault, she’s always been that way. And Link just doesn’t have the time.’

  ‘For his own son?’

  ‘For anyone,’ said Tony obliquely. ‘Well? What do you say? Is typing someone’s letters really more important than saving someone’s life?’

  CHAPTER TWO

  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.