Night Heat

by Anne Mather

  After that, of course, he had not been so gentle. The sensuous play of tongues became only a prelude to what came after, and Sara remembered she had been just as eager to experiment with her body. She recalled, with some embarrassment now, how he had rolled her over on to her stomach, and let his lips trail the length of her spine. She had discovered she had nerves in places she had not known existed, but when she had tried to do the same for him the results had been electrifying. She could still taste him on her tongue, and she expelled her breath luxuriously, remembering his passion.

  It had been so beautiful, she thought blissfully. He had been beautiful, a darkly passionate god, who had brought her to a complete awareness of her own sexuality. She had thought she was cold; she wasn’t. In Lincoln’s hands she was liquid gold. She had discovered the true sensuality of her nature, and if it had been a little disconcerting to find scratches on Lincoln’s back, he hadn’t seemed to mind. They had been a source of amusement to him, and he had assured her they didn’t hurt much. Besides, they had been worth it; she was quite fantastic, he told her, burying his face between her breasts. And although she had thought it couldn’t happen again, it had …

  But what now? she wondered painfully, forced to face the fact that not once had Lincoln mentioned any permanency in their relationship. And, as if to reinforce that realisation, he had left her as she slept, probably to forget all about her until he returned to Florida again.

  And that was what she had to consider, she reflected now, sitting up in the huge bed. If she stayed here, if she continued her efforts on Jeff’s behalf, she was tacitly accepting that when Lincoln came to see his son, she would be available. Was that what she wanted? She knew that it was not.

  The sound of someone entering the other room sent her scuttling for cover. Even if, by some miracle, it should be Lincoln, the idea of confronting him, topless, was too daunting to consider. But it wasn’t Lincoln, it was Cora, carrying a tray set with breakfast.

  ‘Good morning, miss,’ she greeted the girl casually, drawing back the curtains with her free hand, before bringing the tray to the bed. ‘Mr Link gave orders to bring you breakfast at nine-thirty. It’s a little bit before that, I know, but I thought you might be eager to get in to see young Jeff.’

  Red with embarrassment, Sara struggled up against the pillows, tucking the sheet beneath her arms. ‘I could have got up for breakfast, Cora,’ she mumbled awkwardly. ‘Um—this is very kind of you. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Don’t say nothing,’ declared Cora cheerfully, not a bit put out at finding the girl in her employer’s bed. Did he make a habit of it? wondered Sara uneasily, and then dismissed the idea as being unworthy.

  ‘I hope you don’t think——’

  ‘I don’t think nothing either,’ retorted Cora, before she could finish. ‘Now, you tell me what you want to wear, and I’ll get your clothes from your own room and bring them to you.’

  It was a quarter to ten when Sara presented herself at Jeff’s door. A swift shower, in the unfamiliar luxury of Lincoln’s bathroom, had cleared the cobwebs, and if she was still not sure of what she was going to do in the future, she had decided to shelve it for today. Besides, work was what she needed, to take her mind off Lincoln, and being with his son was probably the next best thing.

  Alan Keating was non-committal when he let her in. ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she apologised, feeling obliged to make some explanation, and his careless shrug was hardly an acceptance.

  She felt ridiculously nervous as she walked into Jeff’s bedroom. She hadn’t been in here since he had had the accident with his crutches, and although it was only two days ago, it seemed like an eternity. At first glance, everything appeared normal, but she noticed at once that the television had been removed. The blinds, too, which she had succeeded in raising a few inches, were back in their lowered position, and Jeff himself lay motionless between his cotton sheets.

  She moved round the bed so that he could see her, not saying anything initially, allowing him to make the first move. And she didn’t have to wait long for him to make it. His eyes flickered, as if some sixth sense had warned him he was no longer alone, and his mouth compressed sullenly as he met her uncertain gaze.

  ‘What do you want?’

  Sara sighed. ‘Isn’t that a rather pointless question?’ she asked quietly, and his lips twisted.

  ‘It all is, isn’t it?’ he demanded. ‘Pointless, I mean. My being here, your being here, the whole unholy mess!’

  She moved a little nearer. ‘You’re not telling me to get out, then?’ she ventured, torn by the lines of bitterness beside his mouth, and he shrugged.

  ‘Would it do any good if I did?’ he grunted. ‘No, why should I? I don’t have the means to eject you. I can’t even eject myself.’

  Sara shook her head. ‘That’s not what I want to hear, and you know it.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Jeff, for goodness’ sake! I think I’d rather have you snarling at me than giving in like this. I thought you had some spirit. What’s happened? What’s gone wrong?’

  ‘As if you didn’t know!’

  She came closer and with a helpless gesture, seated herself on the edge of his bed. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then will you tell me about it?’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell. I’m a cripple! That’s it—period.’

  Sara took a deep breath. ‘That’s not what Doctor Haswell says.’

  ‘What does he know?’

  ‘He knows about you. He knows about cases like you.’

  ‘Cases like me!’ Jeff grimaced, and Sara wished she could call the word back. ‘Yes, that’s what I am—a case!’ he added harshly. ‘A suitable case for treatment, wouldn’t you say?’

  She hesitated. ‘Your feeling sorry for yourself isn’t going to help. Doctor Haswell says that your attitude can be psychologically bad for rehabilitation.’

  ‘Rehabilitation,’ he echoed. ‘You know all the words, don’t you? Well, here’s another one—paralysed, right?’

  ‘What about—lazy?’ suggested Sara quietly. ‘Or indolent? Or—morally insensible?’

  ‘You——’ Jeff struggled up on his elbows, and then, as if realising what she was trying to do, he slumped again. ‘All right,’ he said carelessly, ‘I’m probably all those things. That’s why people get tired of me. You will too, you’ll see.’

  She gazed at him. ‘What an opinion you have of us, of your family! Your father doesn’t get tired of you. He loves you.’

  ‘Does he?’ He didn’t sound convinced. ‘Dad loves me so much, he chucked me out when I was seven! So much for my family. Let’s talk about something else.’

  Sara bit her lip. ‘Jeff—Jeff, your parents separated when you were seven. Naturally your mother took you with her. That’s the usual way of things when young children are involved.’

  ‘Even if I didn’t want to go, and she didn’t want to take me?’ He regarded her pityingly. ‘Look, we don’t talk about my family, right? I don’t even want to think about them.’

  She hunched her shoulders, unable to make any sense of what he had said. But he was right. If he hadn’t wanted to go, and Michelle hadn’t wanted to take him, why had Lincoln insisted that he lived with his mother?

  With a dismissive gesture, she put that particular problem aside for the present and said gently: ‘So tell me what went wrong the other night. Mr Keating said you fell. Did you hurt yourself?’

  ‘What do you think?’ His face darkened. ‘I smashed the television! So much for rehabilitation, wouldn’t you say?’

  Sara shrugged. ‘That’s not rehabilitation, and you know it. You need help to achieve that kind of success. What I can’t understand is why you won’t let anyone help you. If you really wanted to get out of that bed, you’d struggle to find a way.’

  Jeff glared. ‘Oh, yes? I was waiting for the amateur prognosis! If it was up to you, you’d have me bowling about in a wheelchair. Well,
I’m not ready for that kind of existence. And what’s more, I don’t think I’ll ever be.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  IT was nearly lunchtime when Sara went downstairs. Moving somewhat disconsolately, she made her way out on to the patio, welcoming the heat of the sun on her head and bare arms, like a benison to banish the chill of the morning.

  It had not been a good morning. Struggling to make conversation with Jeff, she had known the same sense of inadequacy she had felt during her early days at Orchid Key. But at least then, she had not had the spectre of the success she had achieved to taunt her, and although she had stayed with him for the usual length of time, that had been mainly to prevent Keating from gloating that he was right. It was true, though. Jeff’s attitude had changed, and it was daunting to imagine how long it might take to regain that lost ground—if, indeed, it could be regained at all.

  Of course, her worries over Jeff had succeeded in masking her own problems. For the past couple of hours, she had managed to put all thoughts of Lincoln Korda to the back of her mind, and if she couldn’t prevent herself from thinking about him now, at least that particular problem did not demand an immediate solution.

  The heat on the patio was intense, and Sara felt a wave of weariness sweep over her. She was so tired, she thought, with some perplexity, and then was glad she could blame the sun for her suddenly deepening colour. And why not? she reflected unhappily. No wonder she felt so depressed. She had had a very restless night …

  ‘You look grim,’ a voice commented drily, and she saw Grant rising from his seat beside the pool to come and meet her. ‘Tough time, eh?’ he added, adjusting the waistband of his shorts. ‘Well, you were warned.’

  Sara stifled an impatient rejoinder. It would be too easy to argue with Grant in her present mood, and right now, she didn’t need another argument. ‘I can handle Jeff,’ she retorted, avoiding his outstretched hand, and then caught her breath instinctively, when a second voice remarked softly: ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

  It was Lincoln who spoke, and she jerked round abruptly to find him seated at the table behind her. The shady canopy had shadowed the man, and the briefcase and papers on the glass-topped surface in front of him, and her heart pumped rapidly at the realisation that he had apparently ducked his New York meeting.

  But it wasn’t just that thought that caused the sudden moistness in her palms, and sent the blood rushing fiercely through her veins. It was the knowledge that Lincoln was here, not in New York, and that she might have to face her decision sooner than she thought.

  ‘You’ve seen Jeff,’ he said now, getting up from his chair and coming towards her, and she knew a quite ridiculous desire to run. It didn’t seem possible that she and this man had just spent the night in each other’s arms, and his cool, controlled expression gave the lie to her chaotic thoughts. Unlike Grant, he was wearing cream cotton trousers and a short-sleeved shirt, and although his attire was not formal, no one could be in any doubt as to his superiority. It was something about his manner, something about the way he moved and spoke, that defined his precedence. And that was why Sara had to steel herself to face him. It did not seem conceivable that she could stay here now. He probably wouldn’t want her to, she reflected, as he dismissed Grant with a casual gesture. He probably regretted last night just as much as she did. Or did she? She wasn’t absolutely sure.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked, as Grant disappeared into the house, and looking up into his dark disturbing face, Sara was amazed anew at his capacity to hide his real feelings.

  ‘With Jeff?’ she asked unnecessarily, giving herself time to gather her thoughts, and at his brief nod: ‘Not a lot.’

  ‘You did see him, though?’

  Lincoln was persistent, and she knew a stirring sense of injustice. Last night—last night he had made love to her, for heaven’s sake! Didn’t that mean anything to him? Had he no feelings?

  ‘Yes, I saw him,’ she said now, forcing herself to move past him, removing the necessity to look at him at all. ‘He’s—morose; uncommunicative. In spite of what I said to Grant I’m not at all sure I can repair the damage. He seems to have lost heart.’

  ‘That has happened before,’ Lincoln spoke tersely. ‘You’re not giving up, are you?’

  ‘Giving up?’ Sara cast him an indignant look over her shoulder. ‘How do I know that my being here has achieved anything? Jeff might have been attempting to use his crutches for months, not just weeks!’

  He swore then. ‘You know that’s not true,’ he exclaimed, overtaking her as she walked across the patio and blocking her path. ‘I told you last night, we hadn’t even been able to get him to have a television in his room, let alone anything else.’

  Sara concentrated on the toes of her sandals. ‘The television’s gone now.’

  ‘I know.’ Lincoln expelled his breath impatiently. ‘It was damaged when he fell. Another set is available, as and when you can persuade him to have it.’

  She caught her breath. ‘And if I can’t persuade him?’

  ‘You will.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’ She looked up at him then, stung by his complacency. ‘I may not be here.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What do you think I mean?’ She bolstered her failing courage with an effort. ‘I have to go back to London some time. Christmas will be here soon. I’ve been here over a month.’

  ‘I know exactly how long you’ve been here.’ Lincoln informed her flatly. ‘I just didn’t realise there was a restriction on the length of time you stayed.’

  Sara held up her head. ‘I can’t stay here for ever!’

  ‘I wouldn’t have called one month for ever,’ he retorted bleakly. ‘Tell me, this sudden desire to leave wouldn’t have anything to do with what happened last night, would it?’

  ‘Last night?’ She repeated his words uncertainly, and his voice hardening, Lincoln intervened.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what happened last night,’ he snapped, thrusting his hands into his pockets, as if to quell an uncontrollable urge to shake her. ‘We spent the night together, remember? In my bed?’

  Sara’s shoulders jerked. ‘I hadn’t forgotten.’

  ‘No, I didn’t suppose you had.’ He stared at her grimly. ‘That’s what all this is about, I suppose.’

  ‘What all what is about?’

  ‘This sudden desire to return to London,’ he grated harshly. ‘These threats you’ve been making concerning Jeff’s treatment. What do you want from me, Sara? A promise that it won’t happen again?’ His lips twisted. ‘Or a marriage proposal?’

  She choked. ‘You can’t be serious——’

  ‘It was clever ploy. I’ll give you that,’ he went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘A rather sophisticated form of blackmail, wouldn’t you say? Make it worth my while, or I’ll withdraw my—what shall we call them?—services?’

  ‘You—you——’

  Unable to find words to voice her contempt, Sara swung away from him then, but before she had taken a dozen steps, his fingers grasped her arm. Curling about the soft flesh above her elbow, they arrested her progress, forcing her to turn and face him if she wanted to pry them loose.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ he muttered, as she struggled to tear his fingers from her arm, ‘I take that back. You’re not blackmailing me. Not consciously, at least.’ He winced. ‘For the Lord’s sake, Sara, that hurt!’

  ‘I’d like to hurt you a whole lot more,’ she told him tearfully, and with a muffled oath, he released her.

  ‘Listen to me, will you!’ he exclaimed, before she could walk away. ‘All right, I’m sorry I said what I did. I didn’t mean it. Does that satisfy you? Put it down to—frustration! I’m not used to being in a situation like this.’

  ‘Do you think I am?’

  ‘I’m in a better position than most to know you’re not’, he retorted, bringing a hot flush of colour to her cheeks. ‘So,’ he sighed, ‘is that why you wanted to leave? Because of
what happened?’

  ‘No!’

  Lincoln hesitated. ‘You don’t hate me, then?’

  ‘No.’ Sara turned away from him, unwilling for him to see how much his words disturbed her.

  ‘But you don’t want to repeat the experience,’ he suggested quietly, and taking her cue from him, she shook her head. ‘So …’ He was silent for so long, she wondered what he was thinking. But then he appended, ‘… you’ll stay.’

  She moistened her lips. ‘I don’t know.’

  Impatience stirred in the lighter depths of his eyes. ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s not that simple,’ she murmured unsteadily, knowing there was nothing simple about this whole situation. ‘I—I just don’t know if I can help your son.’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that.’

  ‘Do you think you have that right?’ she asked huskily, and he swung her round to face him with ungentle hands.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said, do you think——’

  ‘Damn you, I know what you said!’

  ‘But you asked——’

  ‘I asked what you said, I know. What I should have said was: what do you mean?’

  Sara quivered. ‘Why—why did you abandon your son when he was seven years old?’ she asked, hearing the words, yet doubting her own temerity in using them. Whatever was she thinking of? she fretted. It would serve her right if he threw her into the pool. However worthy her motives, it was nothing to do with her. She had taken momentary leave of her senses, and retribution was bound to follow.

  But Lincoln’s voice was expressionless when he answered her: ‘Who told you I did?’ he asked evenly, and Sara realised then that as with Jeff, she would have preferred his anger.

  ‘Um—Jeff,’ she admitted honestly, too startled by his response to equivocate. And Lincoln nodded as she spoke, as if he had already guessed her informant.

  She took another breath. ‘Is it true?’