Night Heat

by Anne Mather

  ‘But what about Mr Keating?’

  ‘Alan Keating doesn’t employ you; Link does,’ responded the doctor firmly. ‘My information is that you’ve been given a free hand with the patient. Unless I decide to the contrary, I want you to exercise that privilege.’

  It was easier said than done. Given Jeff’s attitude, Keating evidently thought he had every right to bar her from seeing his patient, and when Sara presented herself again, just before lunch, he was no less belligerent than before.

  ‘I don’t take my instructions from Doctor Haswell,’ he declared, when she mentioned what the doctor had said. ‘Mr Korda—Mr Lincoln Korda, that is, is my employer. Until he knows—and endorses—what’s been going on, I insist that you leave Jeff alone.’

  Over lunch, Sara considered her options. She could wait until the following day and hope that Jeff might have changed his mind by then, which didn’t seem likely. Or she could delay any further action until Keating’s day off, in the hope that she could then gain entry as before. Though, knowing her adversary as she was beginning to, she suspected he would put off any free time until the present crisis was over. Or, finally, she could attempt to force her way into the suite, maybe even asking Grant to help her. But, none of these alternatives appealed to her, and she unconsciously betrayed her frustration in a long-drawn-out sigh.

  ‘You know, you’re going to have a few grey hairs before you leave here,’ commented her companion drily. ‘What’s wrong now? Did Jeff throw another tantrum?’

  Sara looked at Grant doubtfully and then, realising she couldn’t bottle it up any longer, she explained what had happened. ‘So you see, I don’t know what to do,’ she finished unhappily. ‘That suite is like a fortress, with Keating acting as overlord!’

  ‘Why don’t you phone Link?’ Grant suggested at once, helping himself to a peach, and she frowned.

  ‘Could I?’

  ‘Why not?’ he shrugged. ‘I do it all the time.’

  ‘I know, but——’

  ‘But what? It’s an emergency, isn’t it? I’ll get you the number if you like.’

  Sara hesitated. She knew that half of Grant’s eagerness to help stemmed from a desire to score against Keating. The two men barely tolerated one another at the best of times, and she couldn’t deny that in the beginning, Keating’s attitude had been unbearably supercilious. However, since her erstwhile success with Jeff, he had a lot more free time on his hands, and because he had had to offer his services elsewhere, Grant had taken a delight in baiting him with it.

  Now she looked troubled. ‘What do you think Mr Korda will say?’ she asked, her own pulses racing at the thought of making the call. She hadn’t spoken to Lincoln since that evening on the terrace, and looking back on it from a distance of two weeks, she was half inclined to believe she had imagined what had happened.

  ‘Speak to him and find out,’ suggested Grant, with a shrug, but his eyes were intent. ‘What’s the matter? Are you afraid to do it? I thought you told Doc Haswell you could handle Link.’

  ‘I don’t think I said that exactly,’ said Sara, with some embarrassment. ‘All right. All right, I’ll speak to him. When do you think I should do it? When you call him this evening?’

  ‘There’s no time like the present,’ drawled Grant, and she guessed he was enjoying her confusion, too. ‘Come on. You can use the phone in Link’s den. I guess you’ve never been in there, have you?’

  Her nervous smile was non-committal, but she looked round the not-unfamiliar environs of Lincoln’s study with some apprehensiveness. She remembered the room only too well from the never-to-be-forgotten night of her arrival, and she smoothed the grain of the leather-topped desk with reminiscent fingers.

  In the event, Grant made the call for her, and only when Lincoln’s secretary came on the line did he hand the receiver to her. ‘Her name’s Olivia Simons,’ he hissed, his palm covering the mouthpiece, and Sara nodded gratefully as he let himself out of the room.

  But Lincoln wasn’t there. In spite of Sara’s fervent attempts to locate him, his secretary had no definite information as to his whereabouts. ‘I know he had a luncheon engagement, Miss Fielding,’ she replied regretfully, ‘but Mr Korda did not leave a number where I could reach him. Shall I ask him to ring you, if he does come back in to the office? Or I could leave a message with his answering service just in case he doesn’t come back today.’

  ‘Oh, no. No, that won’t be necessary,’ murmured Sara hastily, half relieved at the reprieve. ‘I—er—Mr Masters will be speaking to him later. I’ll ask him to deliver my message.’

  Grant was philosophical when she found him on the terrace.

  ‘I guess you’re going to have to leave Jeff to his own devices for today,’ he declared, not without some satisfaction. ‘It sounds as if Link is occupied with something—or someone—more attractive than business, hmm?’ He gestured towards the pool. ‘Why don’t we follow his example?’

  Sara had to admit that the idea was inviting, but right now the beauty of her surroundings had never meant less. It was ridiculous, she knew, but Grant’s careless remarks concerning his employer’s activities had scraped a nerve, and excusing herself on the pretext of changing into her swimsuit, she left him and went up to her room.

  She spent some time tidying her room and washing those items of her laundry she preferred to attend to herself. She left them to dry on the towel rail in the bathroom, and then seated herself on her balcony, prolonging her isolation. An oil tanker appeared on the horizon, its massive decks unmistakable even from a distance, but it came no nearer the mainland, and she wondered if it was on its way to Cuba. Closer at hand, a handful of seabirds were squabbling over the remains of a shellfish, which had been washed up by the tide, and immediately below her windows, Grant sprawled on a sunbed beside the pool. It was all very peaceful and civilised, she reflected broodingly—except there was nothing particularly soothing in the thought of Jeff trapped in his room. He was as much a prisoner of his own frustrations as if Keating had actually locked his door with a key.

  It was late afternoon when the drone of a low-flying aircraft disturbed her meditation. Looking up, she saw the chrome and silver livery of a sleek executive jet heading towards the airstrip at the other side of the island. As she watched, its under-carriage lowered to break its speed, and she realised with sudden apprehension that it was going to land.

  Sara had not seen the aircraft Lincoln Korda used to fly back and forward to New York, but she had little hesitation in deciding that this must be it. Contrary to her suppositions, it seemed, he had not been spending the afternoon with a woman. He had been flying south to see his son. Doctor Haswell must have phoned him, after all? He must have decided she might need some support in her dealings with Keating and Jeff.

  The aircraft had disturbed Grant, too, and he grunted and sat up, shading his eyes to watch the jet making its approach. ‘Hot damn!’ he muttered, and then slanting a glance up to Sara’s balcony he pulled a wry face. ‘Looks like you’re going to get to speak to Link in person,’ he added, revealing that he had been aware of her presence all along. ‘You’d better come down now. I’d guess it’s you he wants to see, not me.’

  Sara didn’t answer him, though she did beat a hasty retreat from the balcony. She, too, suspected Lincoln might be expecting an explanation of the previous night’s events, and she wanted to be ready for him this time.

  Her hand was not quite steady as she secured the coil of silky hair in a knot on top of her head. It would have been easier to braid it as usual, but for once she wanted him to see her as an equal, instead of a contemporary of his son’s. So far, he had always caught her at a disadvantage. This time she was determined to erase that previous image.

  Of course, it did cross her mind that her desire to gain his approval was not just a matter of pride. As she stroked eyeshadow on to her lids and applied a tawny gloss to her lips, she was not unaware of the light tremor in her fingers. After all, she was not so blasé that she could
dismiss what had happened between them without feeling some emotion. He had kissed her! Even if she had provoked him—unwittingly or otherwise—he had taken her in his arms and made passionate love to her, and she was not indifferent to the change this must have wrought in their relationship. She wasn’t sure what she expected exactly; she wasn’t even sure how she wanted him to react. But she had to feel she was looking her best, even if he chose to ignore her.

  A lemon-yellow camisole dress completed her ensemble. The lace-edged straps exposed her shoulders and the golden tan that was so attractive on her pale skin, and she viewed her reflection composedly before descending the stairs. She intended to be there, on the terrace, when Lincoln arrived. She intended to behave as if his arrival had not taken her by surprise, and that she had made no special effort on his behalf. She wanted to lift her head casually, and greet him from the depths of a sun-lounger. She wanted him to be the intruder, and herself the established occupant of his house.

  But, as she stepped out on to the patio, she realised she had taken just a little too long over her appearance. She emerged into the sunlight the same moment that Lincoln appeared at the end of the terrace, and she guessed he had strolled round from the front of the house. The jacket of a navy blue suit was looped over his shoulder, the collar of his shirt loosened and the tie pulled down in deference to the heat of the afternoon. He looked as dark and disturbing as ever, Sara struggled to control her colour as he looked in her direction.

  However, before she could formulate any kind of greeting, a second person appeared behind him. Small and slim and dark, also, Lincoln’s companion was a young woman, not much older than herself, Sara estimated, and all her good intentions dissolved in a wave of indignation. The girl’s bloused leather flying suit and the fur jacket draped casually about her shoulders were so obviously expensive, much like the girl herself, thought Sara tensely, but it was the look of indulgence that Lincoln bestowed upon her as she confidently caught his arm that caused Sara the most irritation. If he was truly concerned about his son, why had he brought his mistress with him? she asked herself bitterly, not so naïve that she couldn’t recognise their intimacy for what it was.

  To her relief, it was Grant who filled the role of welcoming committee, allowing her to remain in the background as he went to greet his employer. She would have withdrawn altogether had it not looked so obviously ill-mannered, and she reminded herself it was for Jeff’s sake that she was here at all.

  ‘Hey, Rebecca!’ exclaimed Grant, identifying the young woman by his words. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure. Come, sit down. Link didn’t tell us he was bringing you.’

  ‘Link didn’t know,’ admitted the girl slyly, and to Sara’s mortification, she seemed to rub herself against him as she said the words. ‘I persuaded him to let me join him,’ she added, her eyes drifting to Sara rather speculatively as she spoke. ‘Grandpa’s still in New York, but I was desperate for some sunshine!’

  ‘Well, you got it. I hope it was worth the trip,’ remarked Lincoln, extricating himself from her clinging fingers and tossing his jacket on to a chair. Then he levelled his intent gaze at the young woman standing in the shadow of the house. ‘Hello, Sara. Are you waiting to speak to me?’ He frowned. ‘Is everything all right?’

  Sara wondered how he dared ask that after what had happened at their last meeting, but it was obvious it had meant nothing to him. And by his attitude, he was inviting her to resume their previous relationship, probably bringing Rebecca Steinbeck with him just to prove his point.

  Her mouth was dry, but she refused to let him see how he disconcerted her. Instead, she held up her head and said stiffly: ‘I suppose that rather depends how you look at it. I assume you’ve spoken to Doctor Haswell. He will have told you what happened. And I want you to know I accept full responsibility—’

  ‘Wait a minute!’ Lincoln’s intervention was harsh and swift, and she wondered if for a moment he had misinterpreted her words. She hoped he had, she thought savagely. It would serve him right if she embarrassed him now, in front of his—friend. ‘Run that by me again,’ he added, taking the steps necessary to narrow the space between them, halting with one hand raised to support his weight against one of the creeper-hung posts of the balcony. ‘Why would I have spoken to Haswell? Do I take it that something has happened?’

  Sara swallowed, her composure wilting. ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘Does it sound like it?’ Lincoln was watching her with narrowed eyes. ‘What am I supposed to know?’

  She took a deep breath, fixing her attention on the exposed vee of brown skin visible above his tie. She knew this wasn’t the moment to think of such things, but she couldn’t help remembering the sensual pressure of his mouth on hers, and the muscled urgency of his thighs against her own. If she looked at him now, she was afraid of what he might read in her face, and she had to force herself to answer him with equal detachment.

  ‘You didn’t get any message then?’ she queried, endeavouring to behave as if he had never laid a hand on her, but his muffled oath brought her unwary gaze to his.

  She need not have worried, however. The expression in his eyes was far from indulgent, and his: ‘Will you get to the point?’ was uttered in an almost threatening tone.

  ‘All right.’ Sara made a helpless gesture to hide her resentment. Rebecca Steinbeck was staring at her with unconcealed impatience, and she realised her prevarication was only increasing her dilemma. ‘Jeff tried to use his crutches last night and fell,’ she explained hurriedly. ‘I did try to ring you to tell you myself, but your secretary didn’t know where you were.’

  ‘Last night!’ exclaimed Lincoln blankly, and Sara sighed.

  ‘No, this afternoon,’ she corrected him, dreading the inquisition she was sure was to come. ‘It—it’s created a problem, you see. I wanted your endorsement before going any further.’

  He straightened then, the proof of his own reaction evident in the sudden pallor of his skin. ‘Did I hear you correctly?’ he asked at last. ‘Did you say Jeff actually tried to use crutches? My God! When was this? Did you say last night?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sara moistened her lips. ‘He—he’d got out of bed. Doctor Haswell thinks it might not have been the first time.’

  ‘God!’

  Lincoln was obviously astounded, but she had no time to assimilate his reaction further before Rebecca intervened.

  ‘Would you mind if I asked Cora to take my bags up to my suite, darling?’ she asked, in a plaintive tone. ‘I’m sure you’re dying to hear all about Jeff, but I’m truly desperate for a shower. I want to get out of these clothes and into something more—comfortable. If you don’t mind …’

  ‘What?’ It was obvious from the dazed look on Lincoln’s face as he swung round to face the other girl that he was still absorbed with what he had learned. But he quickly recovered his good manners. ‘I’m sorry,’ he exclaimed, pushing his long brown fingers through the virile thickness of his hair. ‘Of course. I’ll have Thaddeus take them up right away.’ He glanced back at Sara, and now his expression was cool and controlled. ‘I guess we’ll have to continue this later,’ he added, taking the hand Rebecca held out to him, and shaking his head as if to clear it. ‘Until later. Grant.’ He inclined his head. ‘Sara.’

  They went into the house, leaving Sara feeling cold and bereft. Once again their conversation had been inconclusive, she thought tensely. And once again, she felt as if she had come off worst.

  CHAPTER NINE

  GRANT was in the hall when Sara came down for dinner that evening.

  ‘We’re having drinks outside,’ he told her wryly, guiding her through the French doors of the dining room. ‘A cosy little foursome, wouldn’t you say? Or perhaps you wouldn’t.’

  Sara looked up at him warily. ‘Is Miss Steinbeck staying here, then?’ she asked, in an undertone. ‘I thought her grandfather owned a house in Miami. Isn’t that what you said?’

  ‘Oh, there’s a house all right,’ conceded Grant, with some i
rony. ‘An enormous place overlooking the bay. However, you heard the lady say her grandfather is still in New York. I guess she thinks it’s more fun to stay here. And more—convenient, hmm?’

  Sara looked away from his sardonic face. Grant might know nothing of her infatuation with Lincoln Korda, but he knew women, and it amused him to stir her resentment. He must know she was on edge over her dealings with Keating, and he evidently enjoyed reminding her that Lincoln considered Rebecca Steinbeck’s comfort was more important than her own.

  A more galling discovery was that they were first down. Lincoln and his guest did not appear until some fifteen minutes later, and then they arrived together, which to Sara’s mind was significant. Tonight, the dark girl was wearing a backless gown of silver moiré, with a cuffed collar and long batwing sleeves. It made Sara’s cream silk shirt and pants look very ordinary, but there were only a limited number of changes Sara could ring with her wardrobe. Besides, she told herself impatiently, what did it matter what she wore? No one was going to look at her with Rebecca Steinbeck in their sights. Which was just as well, she decided grimly. Any involvement with Lincoln Korda could only mean trouble, and she didn’t think she could handle him in any case. With her hair plaited and coiled in a coronet on top of her head, she looked neat, but not exotic, a fair description of her looks as compared to the American girl’s.

  ‘Are we late?’ Rebecca asked coyly, as Grant gallantly took charge of the drinks, and as she went to join him, Sara was briefly alone with her employer.

  ‘I’m sorry our conversation was interrupted earlier,’ he remarked, joining her as she hovered somewhat nervously near the rim of the pool, and Sara shrugged.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, watching the progress of a leaf that had fallen into the water, but Lincoln was insistent.

  ‘It does,’ he said. ‘And can’t you look at me when I’m talking to you, dammit? After the way you behaved this afternoon, I’m beginning to believe you’re avoiding me.’