by Anne Mather
She moved one slim shoulder. ‘Oughtn’t you to be looking after your guest, Mr Korda?’ she enquired, examining the contents of her own glass, and with a muttered imprecation, he moved away.
The conversation became general, although Sara took little part in it. She was relieved that Grant proved a more than adequate substitute, and by the time they went in for dinner, Lincoln’s face had lost its grim intensity.
For her part, Sara had enough to do in controlling her errant attention. In spite of herself, her eyes were constantly drawn to Lincoln’s dark-clad figure. Although he was not wearing a dinner jacket this evening, the dark blue corded velvet which had taken its place was just as attractive, and the lazy grace of his movements was a constant source of illicit pleasure. Or was it pain? she wondered tensely, as a shivering spasm invaded her stomach. She had only to think of him with Rebecca Steinbeck for the melting fluidity of her bones to harden into brittle relics, and she was unaware he was speaking to her until Grant’s fingers jogged her arm.
‘Link was asking if there’s something wrong with your steak,’ he remarked, with heavy cynicism, and Sara’s lids fluttered wildly as she struggled to compose herself.
‘What? Oh—oh, no. No, there’s nothing wrong with it,’ she said hastily, aware of Rebecca’s resentment that she should be neglected, even for a moment. Her eyes flickered over Lincoln’s sombre face, some distance from her at the end of the table. ‘I’m—not very hungry, that’s all.’
His lips tightened. ‘If you’re worrying about Jeff, forget it,’ he advised her bleakly. ‘I was going to wait until after dinner, but I’ve spoken to Haswell, and I’m content that he knows what he’s doing.’
Sara knew a brief spark of indignation. ‘He knows what he’s doing?’ she echoed disbelievingly, meeting his gaze with the shield of her anger to protect her, and he sighed.
‘All right. You apparently know what you’re doing,’ he amended evenly. ‘Hell, anyone who can get Jeff to do something for himself has to be applauded!’
Sara bent her head. She had half hoped he would argue with her. It would have given her a way to expunge a little of her frustration. But he didn’t, and she was obliged to mumble: ‘Thank you,’ as she nudged the stem of watercress which had adorned her steak around her plate.
‘What’s so amazing about Jeff learning to use crutches, darling?’ Rebecca enquired at that moment, evidently determined to retain Lincoln’s attention whatever the cost. Talking about his son might not be wholly to her liking, but Sara could see she resented the fact that someone else had captured his interest.
‘I did tell you Jeff had refused to respond to therapy,’ Lincoln reminded her drily, and Rebecca pulled a face.
‘Well, yes, I know you did,’ she defended herself swiftly, ‘but surely it was only a matter of time before he realised it was his only option.’
He regarded her unsmilingly. ‘You don’t know Jeff, Rebecca. Options don’t mean much to him.’
‘It’s not my fault I don’t know him,’ she responded, adopting an aggrieved air. ‘You don’t know him all that well yourself!’
There was an ominous silence after this remark, and Sara, catching Grant’s eye, saw the gleam of malicious amusement that was lifting the corner of his mouth. He was enjoying this, she thought angrily, and although she had no reason to feel any sympathy for her employer, she did.
‘It’s not easy for anyone to get to know Jeff,’ she inserted quietly. ‘Accidents affect different people different ways. A few—a very few—find the strength to overcome their disabilities without any outside influence, but most people need all the patience and understanding they can get.’
‘I don’t need a sermon. I know how difficult it must have been for Link,’ retorted Rebecca, resenting her intervention, but now Lincoln himself broke in.
‘Whether or not it’s been difficult for me is not in question here,’ he exclaimed harshly. ‘What Sara’s saying is the truth. Jeff’s taken his injuries badly, and until she came he wouldn’t even look at a wheelchair. Now, apparently, he’s actually attempting to get out of bed, and it annoys me that she thought I might be angry because he’s got a few cuts and bruises.’
Sara’s lips parted. ‘You approve?’
‘Do you doubt it?’ His grey eyes were coolly intent.
‘I wasn’t sure.’ She swallowed. ‘Mr Keating——’
‘You’ll get no more obstruction from him,’ said Lincoln flatly. ‘I’ve threatened to take him back to New York if he refuses to co-operate. I don’t think he will.’
‘Well, I think Michelle should be held responsible,’ said Rebecca firmly, evidently deciding she was having no luck with her previous method of approach. ‘I mean, Jeff can’t have had much of a life with her all these years, can he? I heard that there was a rumour going around that the crash wasn’t exactly an accident——’
‘Where did you hear that?’ Lincoln did not try to conceal his anger now, and Rebecca hurried to defend herself once again.
‘Oh, I don’t know, darling,’ she protested, shaking her head. ‘You know how these rumours get around. No one admits to starting them, but they’re there anyway. And you did intimate to Grandpa that Jeff had—well, attempted to take an overdose …’
‘That’s different,’ said Lincoln harshly. ‘For God’s sake, he’s only nineteen, Rebecca! How would you like to be paralysed, confined to a wheelchair, compelled to use sticks for getting around the rest of your life? Don’t you think, in those circumstances, a feeling of hopelessness would be quite natural?’
‘Don’t get angry with me, Link darling,’ Rebecca pouted sulkily. ‘It’s not my fault that Jeff’s—the way he is.’ She shrugged. ‘As I said, Michelle——’
‘Let’s leave Michelle out of his, shall we?’ Lincoln pushed back his chair and got abruptly to his feet, just as Vinnie appeared with a tray of coffee. ‘I’ll take mine in the den,’ he declared, walking past her to the door. ‘Join me in fifteen minutes, Sara. I want to talk to you before I leave.’
‘You’re not leaving tonight, Link!’ Rebecca exclaimed in dismay, but he barely glanced her way.
‘I did warn you this was only a flying visit,’ he remarked ironically, halting in the doorway. ‘And you’re welcome to stay, if you want to. My house is your house, isn’t that what they say down here?’
The atmosphere after he had departed was, if anything, even more charged than before. Rebecca’s jaw was compressed with a mixture of frustration and fury, and the looks she kept casting in Sara’s direction would have fuelled a furnace could their power have been harnessed. It was obvious she needed someone to blame, and Sara was the equally obvious choice.
‘I suppose you think you’re very clever, don’t you?’ Rebecca demanded of the younger girl, as soon as Cora had left the room. ‘How did you persuade Jeff to get off his back, I wonder? Do paraplegics have sexual urges? I’d really like to know.’
‘Becca!’ said Grant warningly, but Rebecca was indifferent to anyone’s feelings but her own.
‘No, I mean it,’ she persisted maliciously. ‘There has to be a reason why Sara has succeeded when everyone else has failed. And she is rather attractive, don’t you think, even if she wouldn’t win any prizes for deportment!’
This unsubtle reference to her lameness brought a hot flush of colour to Sara’s cheeks, but before she could say anything, Grant intervened. ‘You really are peeved, aren’t you, Becca?’ he mused infuriatingly, ‘What’s the matter? Can’t you stand the competition? Or are you afraid Link will see the attraction, too?’
As Rebecca was formulating a suitable retort, Sara decided she had had enough. ‘It’s all right, Grant,’ she said evenly, getting to her feet. ‘Miss Steinbeck can think what she likes about my association with Jeff. I don’t mind. In fact, it’s quite a compliment, considering she has problems with perfectly normal relationships!’
‘You bitch!’
Rebecca was incensed, and Sara steeled herself for the stream of abuse she wa
s sure was to follow. But, as if realising she was unlikely to enhance her image by acting like a fishwife, Rebecca thought again, and a veneer of sophistication descended on her features.
‘I’m sure you realise I shall have to tell Mr Korda of your quite—unprovoked rudeness,’ she declared, reaching for her wine and taking a studied sip. ‘You shouldn’t think because you’ve aroused some latent spark of paternity in Link that you’re indispensable. A few well-chosen words—at the right time, of course, if you get my meaning—and you could find yourself on a plane back to England.’
Sara folded her napkin and laid it on the table with a quite remarkable show of calmness; remarkable, because inside she was a quivering mass of jelly. ‘If Mr Korda gives me notice, then that’s his decision, isn’t it?’ she said steadily. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me …’
It wasn’t until she was closing the door of her room that she remembered Lincoln had said he wanted to see her in fifteen minutes. It was already almost fifteen minutes since he had walked out of the dining room, and the prospect of meeting him now, in her present state of nerves, was barely feasible. How had she dared to speak to Rebecca like that? she asked herself miserably. However provocative the other girl had been, she was a guest in this house. Sara was not. She was an employee, nothing more, and just because she was allowed to live like a member of the family was no reason to behave like one. Rebecca was right. She had been rude; unforgivably so. And if Lincoln was persuaded to fire her, she had only herself to blame.
But for the present, she had the coming interview to face. She would need all her wits about her if she was to meet his coolness and detachment in equal measure. He obviously expected her to take her cue from him, and if she wanted to help Jeff she had to put her own emotions aside. Besides, nothing momentous had happened, she argued for the umpteenth time. She had provoked him, that evening on the terrace, much as she had provoked Rebecca a few minutes ago; only in Lincoln’s case, his reaction had been typically chauvinistic.
With this conclusion ironed out in her mind, Sara added a touch of powder to her cheeks, to subdue their hectic colour, and tucked an errant strand of red-gold silk back into place. Then, resigned to the fact that she still looked disturbed, she left the room again before she could lose what little courage she had.
She was halfway downstairs when she saw Rebecca going into Lincoln’s study. Her sandalled feet had made little sound on the treads, and she guessed the other girl was unaware of her observation. But the fact remained, Rebecca was now closeted with her employer, making sure he heard her side of the story before he heard Sara’s, she guessed. Still, whatever her purpose, Sara could not intrude without encountering more hostility, and with a feeling of frustration, she turned back. He would have to send for her, she decided, re-entering her own room and closing the door. He could hardly expect her to hang about downstairs, waiting for Rebecca to leave.
An hour later, Sara looked at her watch with some misgivings. Either he had forgotten all about the summons he had issued earlier, or he expected her to make herself available when he was free. But how was she supposed to know when that was? There was no chance that Rebecca might inform her when she was leaving, and short of watching the door to his study, she was helpless. Of course, she could go down and press her ear to the panels in the hope of hearing some sounds from within, but she could imagine the reaction if someone caught her at it. She had thought she might hear Rebecca come upstairs, or voices even from the hall, but the house was silent. It was barely ten o’clock, but it could have been midnight, and she sighed in frustration at the remembrance that Lincoln was leaving in the morning.
Leaving her seat in the blue and cream luxury of the sitting room, she opened her door and stepped out into the corridor. Wall-lights burned all night in their sconces along the wide hallway, and there was no sense of the lateness of the hour as she walked towards the galleried landing. Below, in the hall, no one stirred, but there was a line of light beneath Lincoln’s study door, and abandoning discretion, Sara knocked.
Predictably, there was no reply, and she expelled a quivering breath. Asleep or—asleep, she pondered uneasily, reaching for the handle. Oh, please, let him be alone, she added, and silently opened the door.
The room was empty. A brief glance around elicited the information that although Lincoln had evidently been here—there was a coffee cup and a glass holding down the papers on his desk—he was no longer in residence. Was he coming back? she wondered. The lamps still burning seemed to indicate that he was. Or had he simply left them for Cora or one of the other servants to extinguish? Did someone as wealthy as Lincoln Korda care about conserving energy?
Closing the door again, she chewed thoughtfully at her lower lip. What should she do? Leave him a note? Apologise for not keeping their appointment, but explain that she had seen Rebecca going into his room and she hadn’t wanted to intrude? There was something about putting her excuses into words she didn’t like, and she finally decided it was the thought that Lincoln might suspect that that was exactly what they were. Would he believe her? Or would he assume she was simply avoiding him again?
The draught of warm air that swept about her ankles at that moment ended her speculations. A door banging and the unmistakable smell of the ocean alerted her senses, and she had no time to co-ordinate a course of action before Lincoln turned the corner and saw her. He had evidently been swimming. His dark hair was plastered slickly to his head and his feet were bare. For the rest, a navy-blue towelling bathrobe was tied loosely at his waist, and the towel he had used to dry himself hung carelessly over his shoulder.
If she was startled at seeing him, he was no less surprised to find her outside his study door. The dark brows arched enquiringly, almost as if he had not issued that summons earlier, she thought crossly, trying to control her racing pulses. There was even the suspicion of a frown in the downward tilt of his mouth, and she wondered if he imagined she had deliberately delayed this meeting.
Sara spoke first, compelled to say something to justify her position. ‘I—er—I’ve been waiting to see you,’ she murmured stiffly, pushing her hands into the pockets of her pants. ‘I didn’t know you’d gone out.’
‘How could you?’ Lincoln’s voice was cool. ‘But aren’t you a little late? I believe I said nine o’clock, not a quarter after ten.’
She sighed. ‘I did come at the proper time, but you already had a visitor,’ she replied. ‘Naturally, I assumed you’d let me know when you were free.’
‘You assumed that, did you?’ There was irony in his voice. ‘It didn’t occur to you that as you had the prior claim to my attention, you could have let me deal with my—visitor, as you put it?’
‘I didn’t think you’d want to be interrupted.’
‘Didn’t you?’
‘No.’ Sara squared her shoulders. ‘In any case, I’m here now, Can we talk?’
‘Like this?’ Lincoln’s mouth twisted. ‘It may have slipped your notice, but I’ve been swimming.’
‘I do realise that.’ She held up her head. ‘Tomorrow, then.’
‘No. Tomorrow I shall be in New York,’ he answered, shaking his head. Then, evenly: ‘You’d better come up to my suite. We can talk while I get changed.’
She stared at him. ‘I don’t think that’s at all suitable.’
‘No?’
‘No.’ She could feel her colour deepening. ‘Mr Korda——’
‘Oh, call me Link, for God’s sake,’ he muttered impatiently. ‘We’re not exactly strangers, are we? That’s one of the things I want to talk to you about, and perhaps it would be as well if we spoke somewhere privately. My suite seems the most logical place.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why?’ His nostrils flared. ‘You’re not afraid of what I might do to you, are you? You can always scream, you know. If what I hear is true, Jeff’s yelling woke the whole household.’
Sara pursed her lips. ‘Mr Korda——’
‘Do you want to keep th
is job?’ he snapped suddenly, and she flinched.
‘Of course.’
‘Then follow me,’ he ordered, and strode away towards the stairs.
Lincoln’s rooms were, as Grant had told her, in the opposite wing from that of his son. Lights had been left burning there, too, and their huge pleated shades illuminated a comfortable sitting room, with ivory-silk walls, highlighted by misty Japanese prints, and squashy striped sofas, in shades of apple green and ice-blue leather. The carpet was silk, too, and led into the adjoining bedroom, but Sara resolutely seated herself in the sitting room. Even being here, in Lincoln’s apartments, was nerve-racking enough, without the added trauma of seeing where he slept. She had been half afraid they might find Rebecca already in residence after the way she had behaved earlier, but that particular fear was unfounded. Evidently the other girl had decided not to push her luck, although she could well be waiting for Lincoln to join her in her rooms after his swim.
‘I’m going to take a shower,’ he remarked now, flicking a switch that brought music from a concealed hi-fi system flooding into the apartments. ‘Make yourself at home. I won’t be long.’
‘Thank you.’
Sara’s response was clipped, but she couldn’t help it. Lincoln was unloosening the cord of his bathrobe as he walked through to the bedroom, and her eyes were drawn compulsively to the lean expanse of chest exposed by the parting panels. He was not a particularly hairy man, as she already knew, but she had glimpsed the arrowing curls low on his stomach. And although she fought the image, she couldn’t help the unbidden thought that he might not have been wearing anything else.
The sound of running water assured her that he was at least taking his shower, and deciding she was behaving like a schoolgirl, she left her seat. The music was soothing, a delightful sonata by Chopin, that Sara recognised from her days of classical ballet training. Giving in to an urge to exercise her abilities, she allowed herself a little pirouette, only to falter badly when her ankle refused her weight.
