by Anne Mather
Not that he could blame her any more than she blamed herself, she thought unhappily. Dear God, why had she taken the liberty of interfering in matters of which she was so ignorant? Why hadn’t she simply continued to enjoy her unaccustomed freedom, as anyone else would have done when provided with such idyllic surroundings?
Refusing the ice cream Vinnie produced for a dessert, Sara made another attempt to find out what was going on. ‘Has—er—has this happened before?’ she asked the servant. ‘I mean, have you heard what’s going on? Are they moving the patient to hospital?
‘I guess Mr Masters will tell you, when he comes down,’ replied Vinnie non-committally. ‘You want your coffee here or on the terrace? Or I can bring it to your room, if you’d rather.’
Sara sighed. ‘Forget the coffee,’ she said wearily, getting to her feet. ‘I’ll be outside, if Mr Masters wants to see me. Will you tell him that?’
She was sitting on the sun-bed, rocking it gently to and fro, when she heard a car departing. The doctor, she assumed, her nerves tightening, and as if to confirm her suspicions, a few moments later Grant came strolling across the terrace towards her. After dark, the area around the pool was lit by Japanese lanterns and Grant, in dark trousers and an open-necked shirt, was clearly visible as he made his way towards her. He seemed strained, she thought, his usual complacency replaced by a look of gravity, and her heart sank even lower at the prospect of what he had to tell her.
But he didn’t initially tell her anything. Instead, he cast an admiring gaze over the simple elegance of the white silk shirt and matching pants she was wearing, and touched her cheek with a careless hand.
‘You’re getting quite a tan,’ he remarked, subsiding on to the couch beside her. ‘I envied you today. The air in Miami was like a blast from a furnace!’
Sara allowed her breath to escape in a rush. ‘How is he?’ she asked, not prepared to play a waiting game. ‘Vinnie said Jeff has a fever. Is it true? Is he going to be all right?’
Grant hooked his elbows over the back of the couch and regarded her tolerantly. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ve just spent two hours with Doc Haswell and Alan Keating debating that very issue. Do you think you could give me a break?’
Sara swallowed. ‘Surely you can tell me if he’s going to survive?’
‘Survive!’ Grant uttered a disbelieving snort. ‘What are you talking about? There’s never been a question of him not surviving! It’s only a raise in temperature; not a life-or-death crisis!’
Sara felt weak. ‘But Vinnie said——’
‘Yes? What did Vinnie say? Did she tell you Jeff was in a critical condition?’
‘No. No, not exactly …’ Sara felt foolish, and Grant pulled a wry face.
‘I guess you overreacted, eh?’ he remarked, allowing the arm closest to her to descend along the seat at her back. ‘He’ll be okay. I just wish I knew what precipitated the attack in the first place.’
Her tongue circled her upper lip. ‘You don’t know?’
‘No.’ Grant shook his head, and she had the feeling he was more interested in the wisps of hair escaping from her braid than in his charge’s health. ‘So tell me: what have you been doing all day?’
Sara baulked. ‘This and that.’ Then, unable to leave the subject, she added: ‘What did Doctor Haswell say? Is Jeff conscious?’
‘Aw, come on …’ groaned Grant, his breath whistling warm against the curve of her neck. ‘Can we leave that subject alone?’ And then, at the determination in her face, he conceded: ‘The doctor says it’s probably a chill, brought on by the cooling system they have up there. And what do you mean—is Jeff conscious? Why wouldn’t he be?’
She took a deep breath. ‘Well, didn’t he say anything?’
He grimaced. ‘I’ve told you, Jeff doesn’t communicate. At least, not often. And certainly not in any way that could be construed as helpful. Now, can we leave it?’
Sara’s shoulders sagged. Jeff hadn’t reported her visit to his room! The mental torment she had been putting herself through had all been for nothing. For reasons best known to himself, Jeff had apparently said nothing about their conversation, and if that was the reason for his sudden relapse, they were the only ones who knew it.
‘Hey …’ Grant tugged gently at her braid, and she turned dazed eyes in his direction. ‘Did you miss me at dinner? Vinnie said you didn’t eat much. You’re not sickening for something, are you?’
‘Oh—no.’ She dislodged his hand from her hair and stood up. The last thing she needed was that kind of complication. ‘I—was worried.’
‘About, the kid?’ Grant’s lips thinned. ‘You know something? You’re getting to be like the rest of the folks around here. You think the world revolves around Jeff Korda. Well, it doesn’t. Believe me, it doesn’t. God, you don’t even know him!’
Sara took a deep breath. Now was her opportunity. Now was her chance to confess that she did know him, or at least that she had met him. But she didn’t. Something, some cowardly impulse, she suspected, kept her silent, and Grant scuffed his foot against the flags and set the couch swinging.
‘Anyway,’ he cast her a belittling glance, ‘have you decided what you’re going to tell Link when he arrives? I mean, he might think you’re not making much of an effort to fulfil your purpose in coming here. Oh, I mean, we all sympathise with your predicament. Link might not.’
His tone was mocking, but Sara was more concerned with what he was saying. ‘Mr Korda—is coming here? When?’
‘When he can find the time,’ Grant shrugged indifferently. ‘The weekend, maybe. Haswell insisted on phoning him. My guess is he’ll be here Friday night. You haven’t met him yet, have you? I bet you wish it could have been under happier circumstances.’
Friday! Two days yet! Sara breathed more easily. Surely Jeff would have recovered by Friday.
Now she smoothed her damp palms down her thighs and lifted her shoulders. ‘Well,’ she said, endeavouring to sound casual, ‘I’m tired. Would you mind if I went to bed? Thank you for telling me about Jeff. I’m really glad to hear it’s nothing serious.’
Grant frowned. ‘Yes, you are, aren’t you?’ he remarked, suddenly thoughtful, and she felt her colour rising.
‘Goodnight,’ she said, not responding to the latent query in his voice, and hoped like mad that her hasty exit would not arouse any more suspicions.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE following morning Grant appeared to have forgotten his irritation of the night before. ‘Why don’t we go sailing?’ he suggested, joining Sara as she was eating her breakfast on the terrace. ‘There’s nothing spoiling here. Cora can handle any calls, and Jeff is hardly likely to send for you today, is he?’
‘Oh, but——’ Sara wetted her lips, ‘I think I should stay around—just in case.’
‘In case of what?’ Grant said dismissively. ‘Keating’s not going to let you near the kid today. He’s fussing like a mother hen!’
‘You’ve seen him? Jeff, I mean?’
Grant’s expression cooled. ‘And if I have?’
‘Well, how is he?’
He moved his shoulders in a careless gesture. ‘How is he ever?’ And then, with resignation: ‘His temperature’s down. Almost normal, in fact. Whatever it was, he’s gotten over it.’
‘Thank goodness!’ Sara was fervent, and he looked at her curiously.
‘For someone who’s never even met the kid, you seem pretty concerned,’ he observed drily. ‘Anyone would think you were to blame for what happened.’
Sara looked down into her cup. ‘Perhaps I am,’ she ventured, the urge to confess overcoming discretion, but Grant did not allow her to finish.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘no one expects miracles, least of all me. What you need—what we both need—is to get away from this place for a couple of hours. We could ask Cora to make us a picnic lunch and have it on the boat. Sun, sea, and—isolation.’
It was doubtful whether Sara would have agreed. The sun and the sea were attractive en
ough, as was the yacht, but the isolation was something else. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Grant exactly, but she did have the feeling that he thought, because of her background, that she was more experienced than she was. And fending off his advances was not going to make her job any easier. If indeed she had a job after Friday.
But to her relief, she did not have to make the choice. While she was struggling to answer him, he was called to the phone, and when he came back his expression said it all.
‘I guess we’ll have to take a rain check on that trip,’ he remarked gloomily. ‘That was a call from Link’s bankers in Miami. There’s some complication with the figures I gave them yesterday. I’ve got to go see them this morning, so we’ll have to go sailing some other time.’
‘Oh.’ Sara tried to hide her relief. ‘Well, never mind. I have a letter I should write anyway.’
Grant frowned. ‘To your family?’
‘I don’t have any family,’ she admitted ruefully. ‘Except for an uncle in Leamington.’ And at his blank expression, she elaborated: ‘That’s in Warwickshire, about a hundred miles north-west of London.’
‘I see.’ Grant’s brows arched. ‘You’ve got a boy-friend, then.’
Sara was tempted to say yes, and thus alleviate the problem she suspected she might have with Grant, but she didn’t. Lying did not come naturally to her, and besides, she felt he would make a better friend than an enemy.
‘I have—male friends, yes,’ she conceded. ‘But not a boy-friend, as such. In any case, I was going to write to Vicki. She’s the girl I share a flat with.’
Grant seemed satisfied with her answer, and after he had gone Sara took up her usual position by the pool. After smoothing a protective cream over the exposed places of her bikini-clad body, she determinedly turned her attention to the writing pad and ballpoint pen in her hands, but it was surprisingly difficult to think of how to begin. Bearing in mind that whatever she wrote to Vicki would doubtless find its way to Tony Korda eventually, she could hardly confide her anxieties to her friend, and without that freedom she was in a cleft stick. Should she lie and say that she hadn’t as yet communicated with the patient and risk Tony’s frustration? Or should she simply avoid all mention of the reason why she was here? Both alternatives seemed equally unsatisfactory, and she half-wished she hadn’t felt the need to identify her correspondent to Grant.
The sun was hot, and after an abortive half hour, she laid the pad aside and gave herself up to supine lassitude. The letter to Vicki would have to wait until she had some positive news to tell her. Right now, she had to decide what her next move was going to be.
The morning slipped away. Sara grew too hot lying on her back and rolled on to her stomach, loosening the bra of her swimsuit so that the straps did not mark her tan. She was sweating freely, her whole body bathed in heat, her brain numbed and listless. It was too hot to think; it was almost too hot to breathe; the only sounds the distant ones of ocean, birds, and aircraft, making for the international airport at Miami …
She suspected she must have fallen asleep for a few moments. After the upheaval of Jeff’s sudden relapse—and her part in it—she had slept badly the night before, and it was hardly surprising that she should have lost consciousness for a short time. It was not something she had done before, always conscious of the dangers of over-exposure to the hot Florida sun, but when she opened her eyes and found herself in the shade of a huge beach umbrella, she could think of no other explanation. She struggled up, clutching the shreds of her bra to her chest, only to find the terrace was deserted. Whoever had shifted the umbrella had gone, and she blinked somewhat resentfully at the thought of someone watching her as she slept. It must have been Grant, she decided tautly, fastening the straps of her bikini. Thank goodness she hadn’t written anything incriminating in her letter. Her ‘Dear Vicki’ was all that marred the naked page.
It was the unexpected splash of water that alerted her to someone’s occupancy of the pool behind her. Of course, she thought, impatiently, turning her head to see a dark shadow gliding beneath the surface of the water, Grant wouldn’t have been able to resist a cooling dip after his trip to Miami. It must be later than she thought. For heaven’s sake, why hadn’t Vinnie awakened her?
The emergence of a dark head sent all her preconceptions spinning. Jeff! she thought incredulously. Jeff had actually left his bed to swim in the pool! How fantastic! Scrambling to her feet, she hurried to the poolside, blinking back the sunspots that dazzled her eyes. Was this her doing? she wondered excitedly. Had their argument forced the breakthrough his doctors had been striving for? She couldn’t wait to ask him. She couldn’t wait to find out.
Squatting on her haunches, she opened her mouth to voice her enthusiasm—and then closed it again. Feeling somewhat foolish, and not for the first time, she rose uncertainly to her feet again, suddenly—and embarrassingly—conscious of her near-nudity. For it was not Jeff Korda who was reaching up to pull himself out of the pool; not a boy, who pressed his hands down on the tiled surround and levered his long lean body out of the water. It was Jeff’s father, Lincoln Korda, who rose like an avenging god beside her, his dark muscled body barely clothed in a pair of wet-clinging shorts.
‘You don’t learn, do you, Miss Fielding?’ he greeted her without warmth, reaching for the towel she now saw he had left on the arm of a cushioned lounger. ‘Don’t tell me—you thought I was my son again. Now why would you make that mistake? Is Jeff in the habit of coming down here to swim?’
Sara drew a steadying breath. ‘You know he’s not.’
‘Do I?’ Lincoln Korda raised one eyebrow. ‘But I understood you were here to effect a sea-change. Isn’t that what you told me the last time we spoke together?’
She took a deep breath. ‘Are you saying you’re not satisfied with—with my being here?’
There was silence for what seemed an inordinate length of time, and then Lincoln Korda dropped the towel he had been using on to the tiles at his feet and regarded her critically. ‘I’m glad you didn’t say—with developments,’ he remarked sardonically. ‘I’m told you haven’t spoken to my son since you took up residence, and while I can appreciate your reluctance to abandon your present surroundings, this is not a charitable institution, Miss Fielding.’
Sara’s face burned. ‘I never thought it was.’
‘No?’ His eyes dropped insolently over her scantily-clad figure. ‘So why do you spend your days improving your tan instead of attempting to justify your position?’
Sara had never felt so humiliated. It might have been less painful if she had been fully clothed; as it was, she could hardly deny his accusation when the truth of it was there for him to see.
‘I’ve tried,’ she said at last, endeavouring to ignore the ignominy of her appearance. ‘But Mr Keating always has an excuse why your son should not be disturbed. Ask him. He can hardly deny it.’
‘You’re putting the blame on Keating, then.’
‘Not exactly.’ She pursed her lips. ‘But if I can’t get to see Jeff, how am I supposed to help him?’
‘A good question.’ Lincoln Korda’s lips twisted grudgingly. ‘Keating is an old woman, and I imagine he does guard his position jealously. But surely someone with as much ingenuity as you led me to believe you had could have found a way to circumvent his authority—if you’d tried.’
Sara held up her head. ‘Is this your way of telling me I’m fired?’
‘Have I said so?’
She held on to her crumbling dignity with an effort. ‘You didn’t need to.’
‘Why?’ He shrugged. ‘Because I stated the obvious?’ Giving her a sidelong look, he lowered his weight on to one of the cushioned lounges and stretched his length upon it. ‘You can hardly deny it, you don’t look as if you’re earning your keep, do you?’
‘Perhaps not.’ She quivered. ‘So—do you want me to leave?’
‘How you do persist in that! Do you want to leave?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
>
‘So …’ He gave her a wry glance. ‘Suppose you tell me why you think my son suddenly developed this fever.’
Sara moistened her lips. ‘How would I know?’
‘That’s not an answer.’ He ran an exploring hand across his midriff. ‘Surely you must have a theory, at least.’
Her knees felt decidedly unsteady now, and reaching for her cotton wrapper, she took some time over putting it on. But her mind was racing. She didn’t like this turn in the conversation, and while logic told her that if Jeff hadn’t confided in either Grant or Mr Keating, or the doctor, he was unlikely to have confided in his father, she still felt uncertain. Grant had said that Jeff and this man didn’t get on, yet Lincoln Korda had again flown over a thousand miles just to assure himself of his son’s welfare. That was not the action of an indifferent father.
Choosing her words with care, she said: ‘Doctor Haswell said it might have been caused by the air-conditioning.’
‘Did he?’ Lincoln Korda shifted a little impatiently, she felt.
‘And—and Grant agreed with him.’
‘How convenient!’
Sara sighed. ‘Mr Korda, what do you want from me? I’m not a doctor; I’m not even a nurse! What earthly use is my opinion to you?’
There was silence for a few pregnant moments, and then Lincoln Korda looked up at her, his eyes glacial. ‘Perhaps I’m waiting for the truth, Miss Fielding,’ he told her harshly. ‘Perhaps I’m waiting for you to admit that you may have been responsible for Jeff’s rise in temperature. You did go to see him, didn’t you? Yesterday some time.’
Sara thought of denying it. Unless Jeff had told his father, he could have no proof. But the relief was so great, she barely hesitated before asking quietly: ‘How did you find out?’
