by Anne Mather
‘Why not?’ Sara couldn’t prevent the question, and Grant Masters shrugged.
‘You’ll find out,’ he responded annoyingly, halting before a pair of double doors. ‘Well, here we are. Are you sure you’re ready for this?’
CHAPTER FOUR
A WEEK later, Sara shifted her position on the sun-bed beside the pool, rolling on to her stomach and lifting her hair so that the single braid curled about her neck and shoulder, leaving her back exposed. She had already acquired a slight tan. Although her skin was fair, if she took care it didn’t burn, and this past week she had had plenty of time to take all the care she needed.
Pressing her cheek against the fluffy texture of the towel she had spread over the cushions after her swim, Sara tried not to think about all the time she had wasted. It was eight days since Grant Masters had collected her from the pier at Cyprus Beach and brought her to the island; eight days, during which time she had swum and sunbathed, and allowed Grant—he had told her to call him that—to drive her all over Orchid Key.
But at no time during those eight days had she laid eyes on Jeff Korda. Every morning she had presented herself to his servant, Keating, and every morning he had told her that Mr Korda was not well, that he was sleeping, that he didn’t want to see her. There was no way she could get past the officious little man, and although she would have liked to have disagreed with Grant, she had had to concede that Keating was impossible.
Of course, it was conceivable that Jeff had refused to see her. From what she had heard about him—and since she had spent so much time in Grant’s company, it was quite considerable—he had been, and probably still was in Grant’s opinion, a spoiled brat. He had apparently spent most of his time charging about the country in his high-speed sports car, and Grant said everyone had known it was only a matter of time before he smashed it—and himself—to pieces. He was a high-school dropout, a typical under-achiever, with an intelligence quotient far higher than his grades would suggest. ‘At least, that’s what they say,’ Grant had added bitingly. ‘I’m more inclined to believe the kid’s a psycho. I guess I don’t have a lot of time for the poor-little-rich-kid syndrome!’
For her part, Sara was inclined to reserve judgement. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Grant exactly, but she was wary of him. He talked a lot, and she sometimes wondered if Lincoln Korda had left him here deliberately to keep an eye on her. He had confided that like Keating, he used to work in New York before Jeff’s accident, but he wasn’t grumbling about this extended vacation. All the same, she occasionally wished he wasn’t always around to share her leisure. Sometimes she liked to be alone, as she was now, and she welcomed the fact that this morning he had gone over to the mainland, to mail some papers to his employer.
‘Would you like a drink, Miss Fielding?’
The maid’s familiar voice brought Sara up on her elbows and then, grimacing, she dropped down again to fasten the bra top of her bikini. ‘Oh—thanks, Vinnie,’ she murmured, pushing her sunglasses up into her hair, and reaching for the frosted glass of iced tea from the maid’s tray. ‘Mmm, this is just what I needed! You must be a mind-reader.’
‘It’s a hot one, all right,’ agreed Vinnie, gesturing at the day. ‘It would be, just when we got extra work and all. Mr Keating, he must be real glad he chose today to go into Miami.’
Sara stiffened. ‘Mr—Keating’s away today?’
‘Like I said, he’s gone into Miami with Mr Masters.’
Sara shook her head, her mind racing. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘No—well, how could you?’ Vinnie shrugged her ample shoulders. ‘Mr Keating doesn’t take that many days off. I guess, left to himself, he wouldn’t take any time off at all, and that would suit us just fine. But Mr Link, he insists that Mr Keating takes at least one day off every week—and this is it.’
Sara liked her lips. ‘So—who is looking after Jeff?’ she asked, affecting a casual tone.
‘Well, Rosa’s going to give him his lunch, I guess, and with a bit of luck, he’ll sleep most of the afternoon. Mr Keating’ll be back around five. Whatever else, he insists on settling the boy down for the night.’
Sara came up on her knees and pushed herself to her feet. ‘Er—perhaps I could help,’ she ventured, trying not to sound too eager. She knew the number of servants Lincoln Korda kept in the house, and no way could any of them be regarded as overworked. But it could work to her advantage to let them think she thought they were. What a marvellous opportunity! she thought, hardly daring to believe her luck. Keating and Grant Masters both away! It was too good to miss.
‘Well …’ Vinnie sounded uncertain now, ‘perhaps you ought to speak to Cora.’
‘Yes, perhaps I ought,’ murmured Sara softly. ‘Okay. Thanks, Vinnie. For—er—for the iced tea, I mean.’
The maid sauntered away and Sara snatched up her cotton wrapper and slipped it over her shoulders. It matched the all-over pattern of pink, lilac and white of her bikini, and was an attractive foil for the honey-gold texture of her skin. She was barefoot, and in spite of her weakness, she strode swiftly into the house, her long legs moving lithely as she made her way upstairs.
She had intended to go to her own rooms, and bathe and dress before visiting Jeff’s apartments. But at the head of the stairs, where the corridors parted, her pace slowed. It would be just her luck if Grant came back unexpectedly early, maybe even bringing Keating with him. She doubted Lincoln Korda could protest if Keating chose to spend his leisure time on Orchid Key, and as it was so hot, it was a definite possibility. Which left her in a quandary. What should she do? Vinnie’s suggestion that she should ask Cora, she had silently vetoed. Cora would not want to take responsibility for any change in Jeff’s routine, and she might get the older woman into trouble if she involved her at all. Her best chance—her only chance—was to take the initiative herself. And the sooner the better, before she chickened out.
Jeff’s rooms were not difficult to find. After passing the lift she and Grant had used the previous week, she had all the confirmation she needed, and swallowing her doubts, she halted at his door. She knew that beyond these doors was a comfortable sitting room—she had glimpsed it over Keating’s shoulder on the numerous occasions she had attempted to reach Jeff—and beyond that was Jeff’s bedroom, which she had never seen.
She knocked first. Her sense of bravado would not allow her to burst into his suite unannounced, but, as she had hoped, there was no response from within. Evidently it was too early yet for Rosa to bring him his lunch, and in Keating’s absence, there was no one to guard the inner sanctum.
As she had expected, the sitting room was empty. Not even a magazine littered the cream satin cushions of the window seat, or disturbed the polished surface of the table, where Keating presumably took his meals. Silk-hung walls, a soft cashmere carpet underfoot, a high-backed sofa, with a striped Regency pattern: the room looked nothing like the kind of living quarters she would have expected a boy of nineteen to have. It was elegant, but impersonal; luxurious, but lacking in any character; that was what was wrong, there was no imprint of its occupant on this room. It was like a suite in a hotel, cooled by air-conditioning, all the windows tightly closed behind half-drawn Roman blinds.
As she picked her way across the silky carpet. Sara’s toes curled appreciatively. But her nerves were taut and anxious, and when she reached the door which must lead into Jeff’s room, her courage almost deserted her. What if she upset him by coming here? What if her intervention caused some irreparable damage? What did she know of the mental state of failed suicides? What if her bungling efforts precipitated a crisis?
Pushing thoughts like these to the back of her mind, she reached for the handle. What was the point of coming here, if she was going to think so negatively? She had to believe that she might have something new to offer. Hadn’t Tony Korda told her that the doctors had tried every way to reach him? If she gave up now, what alternative did they have?
The bedroom was shadowy, the blinds here d
rawn almost totally, bathing the room in a milky light. The low buzz of the cooling system successfully drowned out any external sounds, and Sara felt astonished that anyone could live like this.
The bed was angled away from the door, and she was able to let herself into the room without its occupant being able to see her. But she had hardly taken a step before a harsh voice halted her, its resemblance to another voice she had heard only tempered by its lack of maturity.
‘Who’s there?’ he demanded, and she heard him swear as he attempted to turn and see. ‘If it’s you, Rosa, you can get lost. I don’t want anything to eat. I’m not hungry.’
‘It’s not Rosa,’ said Sara abruptly, taking her courage in both hands, and moving swiftly around the bed so that he could see her. ‘It’s Sara. Sara Fielding.’
For what seemed a long moment—but which was probably only a few seconds—he gazed at her with a mixture of indignation and fury. For a heart-stopping space of time, his eyes—brilliant blue eyes, she noticed inconsequently—surveyed her with a crippling look of injustice, before dark, stubby lashes dropped to block their expression. ‘You can get out, too,’ he stated then, without emphasis, and rolling on to his side, he turned his head away from her.
Sara felt an overwhelming surge of compassion. She wasn’t absolutely sure what she had expected, but after Grant Masters’ description of his employer’s son, she had been prepared to dislike Jeff Korda on sight. But somehow, the image of the spoiled selfish rich kid Grant had described was difficult to hold on to when she was faced with the reality of Jeff’s condition. It was such a waste, she thought, her heart aching at the sight of the thin wrists poking from the sleeves of his silk pyjamas; such a tragedy that someone with undeniably attractive features and sun-bleached blond hair should have such lines ingrained in his face and such bitterness twisting his mouth.
‘Jeff …’
She said his name almost involuntarily, and his eyes snapped open to gaze at her with dislike. ‘I said get out!’ he repeated harshly. ‘If you don’t understand polite English, I can use a coarser expression.’
Sara swallowed, but she stood her ground. ‘I bet you can,’ she remarked steadily. ‘I know a few of those words myself. And I’ve used them on occasion—particularly when I don’t get my own way.’
The epithet he used to describe his reaction to this amateur attempt to reason with him was both coarse and crude, and Sara knew a quite uncharacteristic desire to respond in kind. But it was a fleeting impulse, just as swiftly squashed, and she blamed herself for her ignorance in imagining that approach had not already been tried.
‘Did—er—did Mr Keating tell you I was here?’ she began again, hoping for more success this time. ‘Your uncle—your uncle Tony, I mean, asked me to come. I live in London, you see, and just recently I had an accident too.’
It sounded patronising and it was, and inwardly Sara groaned. But it wasn’t easy talking to someone who wouldn’t even look at you, and when he resumed his position with his head turned away from her, she felt like giving up. Still, he hadn’t ordered her to leave again, and taking courage from that small advantage, she moved a little further round the bed. Now, if he opened his eyes, he would be forced to look at her, and choosing her words carefully, she made another attempt.
‘I was beginning to think you didn’t really exist,’ she ventured lightly. ‘I’ve been here for over a week and I’ve tried to visit you every day, but Mr Keating always had an excuse why I couldn’t. Either you were ill, or you were sleeping, or you—wouldn’t see me——’
‘Look, butt out, will you?’ Jeff was abrupt and the term he used to endorse his words made Sara wince. ‘Did nobody bother to tell you? I don’t have visitors! I don’t like them, and I don’t need them. And if this is some idea my father’s dreamed up to stimulate my interest, then tell him he’s wasting his time. God, if he’s had to stoop to buying up cheap talent to try and arouse my libido, he must be desperate!’
‘That’s not why I’m here!’ Sara was horrified.
‘No?’
‘No.’ She felt her spine stiffening in anger, and she had to force herself to remember who he was and why he was saying these things. Taking a deep breath, she said: ‘My being here has nothing to do with your father. At least, only indirectly. I’ve told you, it was your uncle who asked me to come. He thought we might have something in common.’
‘Really?’ Jeff said contemptuously. ‘Is that why you came here half naked? Is that why you’re wearing nothing under that robe?’
‘You——’ Sara caught back the epithet that sprang to her lips. ‘You’re—mistaken.’ Pulling the cord of her wrapper free, she allowed the two sides to part, revealing the bathing suit beneath. ‘I was by the pool when Vinnie told me you were on your own, and I came straight up. I was afraid Mr Keating might arrive back from Miami at any moment, ready to re-establish his role as your watchdog!’
Jeff’s mouth twisted. ‘Well, you’ve seen me now, so you can go back to your sunbathing. And thanks for the offer, but no, thanks!’
Sara’s fist clenched, but she was unable to prevent the automatic retaliation. ‘You flatter yourself!’ she declared, striding towards the door. ‘I may be lame, but I’m not desperate. And I’d have to be to throw myself at a nasty-minded little prig like you!’
‘You can’t talk to me like that!’ he exclaimed furiously.
‘Can’t I?’ Sara halted in the doorway. ‘I just have.’ Ignoring the hollow feeling in her stomach, she lifted a careless shoulder. ‘Sorry if I’ve scraped a nerve, but you shouldn’t think you’ve cornered the market on self-pity!’
She heard his angry use of her name as she stalked across the sitting room, and again as she let herself out of the suite; but she didn’t go back. Her indignation carried her all the way to her bedroom, and by then it was much too late to have second thoughts.
Sara went down for dinner that evening with some reluctance. She invariably shared the meal with Grant Masters, in the small primrose yellow dining room that overlooked the ocean at the back of the house, and she was not looking forward to having to tell him of her abortive exchange with Jeff.
She had thought about what she should do during the long afternoon hours, when it had been too hot to go outside and she had been compelled to remain in her room. In the normal way, she didn’t mind her own company. But not today. Today, she had the memory of that awful scene on her conscience, and no matter how she tried, she couldn’t justify her behaviour. It was all very well telling herself that everything Grant had said about him was true, that he was morose and mean-spirited, and his attitude did not encourage sympathy. But nothing could excuse her own appalling lack of self-control, or defend the urge to use his weakness against him.
However, Grant was not waiting for her this evening as she had expected. The table was laid for two, as it usually was, but he had not yet put in an appearance, and Sara felt an unwelcome twinge of apprehension, which she swiftly put away.
Crossing her arms across her body, she cupped her elbows in her hands and walked to the long windows. The palest of yellow curtains framed a view of the terrace, with a low stone wall edging a sloping garden bright with trailing rock plants. It was getting dark, and the ocean looked grey instead of blue—a reflection of her mood, she thought disconsolately, wondering if Lincoln Korda would come to dismiss her or if he would leave that to his assistant.
The sound of brisk footsteps in the hall brought her about face, but whoever it was did not approach the dining room. Instead, she heard low voices, a muffled conversation, and then their passage on the stairs as whoever had arrived made their way upward.
Frowning slightly, Sara started towards the door, only to halt uncertainly as Vinnie appeared in the entrance. The woman was carrying a tray, which she set down efficiently on a marble-topped side table, then gestured Sara to her seat, placing a juicy slice of fresh fruit in front of her.
‘There you are,’ she said, straightening, and moved to take another dish f
rom the tray. ‘Melon, baked snapper, and I’ve got a mess of home-made ice-cream cooling in the freezer. You want me to pour the wine?’
‘No, I can manage, thank you.’ Sara didn’t immediately sit down, but regarded Vinnie with some misgivings. ‘I—er—isn’t Mr Masters back from Miami?’
‘Heck, yes.’ Vinnie picked up the tray. ‘He was back about five o’clock.’ She walked towards the door. ‘You got everything you want now?’
Sara put out her hand to stop her. ‘Isn’t—isn’t Mr Masters joining me?’
‘Not right now, Miss Fielding.’ Vinnie looked as if she would have preferred not to be asked. ‘Enjoy your meal. I’ll be back later with——’
‘Why isn’t he joining me?’ asked Sara urgently, suddenly convinced there had to be a reason. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘You don’t know?’ Vinnie sounded sceptical, and Sara stared at her.
‘No. How could I?’
‘I thought you might,’ Vinnie shrugged. ‘It’s Jeff—he’s got a fever.’
‘A fever!’ Sara’s mouth felt dry. ‘Is it serious?’
‘It could be.’ Vinnie was regarding her with wary eyes, and Sara wondered what she was thinking. Did the woman know she had gone to Jeff’s apartments that morning? Or did she only suspect?
Swallowing, Sara endeavoured to speak casually. ‘Is Mr Masters with him?’
‘Mr Masters and the doctor both,’ agreed Vinnie tautly. ‘Fevers can be dangerous for a boy in Jeff’s condition. Maybe they’ll take him into hospital. Maybe they won’t.’
Sara nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yes, so’m I,’ returned Vinnie obliquely, and walked away before Sara could ask her what she meant.
Needless to say, Sara did not enjoy her meal. She tasted the melon, but the fish—a speciality of the area—returned to the kitchen untouched. She was too tense to eat, too anxious to think about anything but the boy upstairs possibly fighting for his life. She did drink some wine, two glasses of the chilled white Chablis that was no doubt delectable, but which she scarcely tasted, except as a texture on her tongue. For the first time in her life, she felt completely helpless, and more than a little apprehensive of Lincoln Korda’s reaction when he discovered she was to blame for the deterioration in his son’s condition.
