Fever

by Charlotte Lamb

  Fever

  By

  Charlotte Lamb

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the. Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown

  to the Author, and all the incidents are pure invention. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise,

  without the written permission of the publisher. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade, or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the pub­lisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  First published 1979

  Australian copyright 198o

  Philippine copyright 198o

  This edition 1980

  © Charlotte Lamb 1979

  ISBN 0 263 73168 5

  Set in Linotype Baskerville 11 on 12 pt.

  Made and printed in Great Britain by Richard Clay {The Chaucer Press), Ltd., Bungay, Suffolk

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sara was worried about Greg. She had barely taken her eyes off him since they arrived at the party although he was on the far side of the room, with a large circle of people around him, who were roar­ing with laughter at everything he said. People always laughed when Greg chose to make them. Although he looked like a sad clown he could be bitterly funny, his tongue like a rapier, annihilating with a phrase or pinning down character like a moth on a card.

  Her host suddenly appeared beside her, bending to say: 'Miss Nichols, may I introduce...’

  She wasn't listening although she gave a fixed, courteous smile in the vague direction of the man who was being introduced to her, offering her hand. It was taken, held, while their host, after a mur­mured apology, moved away. Sara kept her smile, but her eyes were still on Greg, trying to keep track of the number of drinks he had had.

  Suddenly she realised that her hand had not been given back. She looked up then, her eyes focusing, and found herself being watched by hostile blue eyes.

  'Can I have my hand back? I've always found two rather useful,' she said tartly, pulling free of his grip. Almost at once her eyes turned back towards

  Greg, a concerned frown drawing her brows to­gether.

  She was aware of a voice speaking beside her and without realising it was giving automatic little smiles, nodding, as though listening, but actually merely wishing the stranger would go away. It was a shock when a hand suddenly clamped down on her wrist, swinging her round so that her gaze flew up­wards in startled enquiry.

  'You haven't heard a word I said, have you?'

  She looked at him properly then, her catlike green eyes wide and sharp, absorbing the tall, powerful body and black hair, the harsh, strong lines of his face, realising that he had a face she would like to paint; drivingly individual with features which were at war with each other, a sensuality in the mould of his mouth which did not match the hard, cold blue eyes. Sara gave him a cool little smile.

  'I'm sorry, Mr....?' She broke off, unable to re­member his name, and his face darkened.

  'Rawdon,' he said with a bite. 'Nick Rawdon. We were just introduced, not that you noticed.'

  'What do you do, Mr. Rawdon?' she asked, because she had always found people loved to talk about themselves and if this stranger launched into a monologue it would give her a chance to watch Greg uninterrupted.

  His eyes narrowed, their colour a blinding blue, holding her gaze. 'You don't give a damn what I do,' he retorted.

  She didn't, but he was breaking the rules of polite conversation to state it openly, which surprised her, keeping her eyes on his face in curious enquiry.

  'Is it a secret?’ she asked, suddenly amused.

  The curl of her mouth drew his attention. The blue eyes dropped to stare and she felt an abrupt heat coming into her face at something in the way he looked at her, then he glanced from her mouth to her eyes, one dark brow rising sardonically.

  'Are you a spy?' Sara murmured, deliberately teasing now. 'Or do you do something one doesn't mention in polite society?'

  'You've never heard of Rawdon's Bank?' he asked in a voice which was dry and incredulous.

  'Oh, you're a bank,' she said mockingly, laughter in the green eyes now. 'Heavens, I've never met one before. I must put it in my diary. Today, I met a real live bank.'

  'Very funny,' he said, but he wasn't laughing. 'Quite a wit, aren't you?'

  She knew she was being childish, but at this moment she didn't care because he was trying to keep her attention from Greg and he was annoying her. Her lashes fluttered down to hide the quick flick of her eyes to the far side of the room. Greg was laughing and, thank God, he had empty hands. It was rare for him to drink, but when he did, he always went too far. He only drank when he was reckless, and tonight he was certainly in that mood.

  'You're an artist, I gather? What do you paint?'

  She turned again at the insistent questioning, sighing slightly, her irritation barely disguised.

  'Landscapes,' she said curtly.

  He placed one hand against the wall, lounging in front of her, blocking her view of Greg, and she suddenly had the suspicion that He did it deliber­ately, that he knew she was trying to keep track of what was happening over there. Her eyes lifted again to his face and found him staring down at her, the black bar of his brows meeting over his eyes. Sara tilted her head, her red-gold hair glittering in the light as she moved, and his blue eyes took on an open insolence, slowly wandering down her body in a fashion little short of insult.

  She had been unaware of herself all evening, but now under those insolent eyes she was forced to become briefly conscious of the daring nature of her low-cut dress, the silver drift of it outlining every curve of her body. Greg had chosen it, teasing her. She had nothing in her wardrobe which would have done for this party, but it infuriated her to blush like a schoolgirl and she wished Greg had not per­suaded her to wear it.

  At that moment she caught the movement of Greg's hand as he lifted a glass to his mouth and was horrified to see him tip the whole contents down his throat. My God, at this rate he'll be roar­ing drunk soon, she thought. Drunk, Greg became outrageously frank and his frankness could have lasting consequences if he offended the people here tonight, people he hoped would offer him commis­sions.

  She walked away towards him without a word, leaving Nick Rawdon staring after her with a savage expression.

  She slid a hand through Greg's arm and he looked down at her, kissing her on her small nose.

  'Home, buster,' she said softly.

  Greg grinned again recklessly. He was a tall, thin man of thirty-four, his hair thick and curly, the colour of melting toffee, a warm golden brown. His brown eyes could be remote, they could be mocking. His features were sensitive and intelligent but. filled with melancholy, attractive in an ugly-handsome way. Women found his sad, funny face highly attractive. The glamour of his sudden smile made conquests in the most unlikely places.

  'Keeping an eye on me, darling?' he asked her lightly now. 'Not counting my drinks, I hope.'

  He knew she was and their exchanged smiles ad­mitted it.

  'Come on, Greg,' she said easily.

  From the circle behind him she caught Lorna Robert's eye and gave her a polite smile which was not returned. Lorna detested her. For the past three years she had been crazy about Greg, who fled her like a hunted fawn, his brown eyes rueful. Lorna persisted in believing that Greg's evasions were due
to Sara. She would not accept that Greg just did not fancy her.

  Greg slide an arm round her waist and they moved away together, Sara's slender body seduc­tive in the silvery gauze dress which gave tantalising glimpses of her as she walked.

  'Had a good party?'

  Sara shrugged. 'You did, I noticed.'

  'You noticed everything, little sharp eyes.'

  'I'm driving home,' she said as they moved towards their host, and Greg gave her a laughing, mock irate glance.

  'You aren't suggesting I'm intoxicated!'

  'Not while you can still say it, but any minute now,' she retorted.

  'The Leith police dismisseth us,' he intoned piously. 'And I can walk a chalk line.'

  'Show-off!'

  Their host was a stockbroker who also happened to own a number of racehorses, one of which Greg had recently painted after it won a final brilliant race before retiring to a stud farm. The heavily built man shook hands with Greg warmly, his bald head glistening under the lights.

  'Good of you to come.' He launched into a second string of compliments about the painting and Greg smiled sweetly at him as he listened. Sara was re­lieved to be getting him away before he reached the stage where he told the man precisely what he thought of him. Greg was well aware that his com­mission owed more to the fact that his work was already appreciating and therefore was a good in­vestment, than to any real admiration the man had for his work.

  A movement behind her made their host glance over her shoulder and a totally different smile broke' over his cherubic pink face, a look of real awe and respect.

  'Nick, my dear fellow!' he breathed, beaming wider. 'I was just telling Mr. Halliday here how pleased we are with his painting. You must run down to my place some time and see it.'

  Sara half turned, her eyes lifting, and found the hard blue eyes on her profile. Nick Rawdon shifted slightly to face Greg, holding out his hand.

  Their host obliged quickly. 'Mr. Halliday, this is Nick Rawdon.'

  Greg shook hands, the rapid thrust of his gaze moving over the other man, interest in his brown eyes.

  'He's a bank,' Sara told him. 'Fascinating, isn't it?'

  Their host looked blankly at her, but Greg's eyes lit up.

  'A bank? Really?' He gazed limpidly at Nick Rawdon. 'Do you give cheques or only receive them?'

  'Banks never give anything,' Sara reminded him. 'They take it and they keep it. Great big iron bars on their strongrooms and computers clicking away night and day. What an exciting life!'

  Nick Rawdon didn't say a word,' he just watched Sara with that cold, blue stare, the taut bones of his face immobile. She did not look at him; she was grinning at Greg. But she was aware of his eyes and vaguely of the emotions behind them. It didn't bother her since she was unlikely ever to see Nick Rawdon again, and this was amusing Greg, it was lifting him out of the black depression which had been engulfing him all day. For that, Sara would sacrifice almost anything.

  A tray passed within reach and Greg's hand moved to take a glass. Sara caught it, drew it down beside her, holding it tightly, and Greg slid an ironic glance at her, his mouth quizzical.

  She shook her head very slightly at him, her green eyes steadily loving, and Greg shrugged.

  'We must go,' he said abruptly, and without a word or a look to the others he pulled her after him towards the door,

  Sara drove them home. Greg lolled beside her in the passenger seat, his hands in his pockets, staring into the lamplit darkness. Now that he had left the party, his face had lapsed into brooding melan­choly.

  Sara had already forgotten the tall, dark figure of Nick Rawdon. She was consumed with anxiety as the car turned into the garage of their home. Greg wandered off into the house while she was closing the garage door and when she went inside she found him on the phone. She went into the kitchen and began to make coffee.

  Greg came whistling in a moment later and she looked round, her eyes eager.

  'He's better, the injections are taking hold.'

  'Thank God!' She wound her arms round Greg's waist and put her head on his shoulder. 'You really shouldn't have gone to that party, Greg. You should have stayed at home tonight.'

  'I'd have gone crazy,' Greg said. He opened the. fridge and took out a prepared stick of celery, bit into it with a crunch of white teeth.

  She turned to get down cups. 'How was she?' Her voice was very casual.

  'Fine,' Greg said as casually. 'I think I'll have a shower. I'll have that coffee later.'

  When he had gone Sara finished making the coffee and left it for a moment, staring out of the window at the dark garden. The calm lines of Greg's face as he left the room had not deceived her. Lucy would have been exhausted, drained, and that would hurt Greg, hurt him the more because he could not, dare not, show how much he cared.

  Sometimes Sara wished to God that Greg had never met Rob and Lucy. No, she corrected her­self at once, grimacing, that wasn't true. Both Greg and herself loved Lucy and Rob. Everyone loved Rob. He was a darling lamb, the kindest man you could wish to meet. Severely crippled by a progres­sive illness, he spent his life between his bed and a wheelchair, yet he made everyone laugh when­ever they saw him, he was witty in a warm, sweet way which held no unkindness. Greg's humour had a black tinge to it at times, but she had never heard Rob say a word against anyone. His wife, Lucy, adored him. He was her life. She looked at him with love whenever her eyes touched him.

  It was a tragic irony that Greg, who was so self-sufficient, so clever, so strong, should fall deeply and hopelessly in love with Lucy. He had never, in Sara's presence, given a hint, a sign, of his feel­ings to Lucy herself. Sara only knew about it because, drunk and therefore reckless, he had blurted it out to her, later wishing to God he had never said a word. Sara had sworn never to mention it to a living soul; Greg had made her swear to that. Particularly he did not want Lucy or Rob to know.

  There had always been a strong, close relation­ship between Sara and Greg. They shared a house largely because of force of circumstances. They were not linked by any blood tie, but their parents, both having lost a partner in middle life, had married each other and lived very happily together until their deaths. Greg and Sara had both lived with them and so the house, eventually, became their joint property. They might have sold it and shared the proceeds, but they decided to go on living to­gether because it was easier.

  For the sake of privacy rather than any idea of propriety, they had had the house divided into two flats. Sara had the downstairs flat, Greg the upstairs, largely because it was Sara who did all the launder­ing and so needed access to the garden more often. She did all the gardening, too. Greg's idea of a garden was to have a lawn on which he could paint or sunbathe. Sara loved pottering around the garden. She had a functioning garden—vegetables, fruit bushes, herbs. She liked to cook with vegetables she had freshly picked that morning. It gave food a better flavour.

  If they had moved in different circles, eyebrows might have been raised at the way they lived, but they were both artists and their friends merely accepted their relationship on the face of it. Sara thought of Greg as her brother and she knew Greg cared for her in the same way. What the world thought did not bother her. They had lived to­gether for twelve years altogether now, ever since his father married her mother. It was due to Greg that Sara had gone to art school. She owed him a debt she could never repay. She knew him better than anyone in the world did and she loved him.

  Watching Greg with Lucy she sometimes wondered if she had imagined his confession. Greg was a past master at pretence. He smiled at Lucy casually, he joked with her and Rob, he was at ease with them, friendly, cheerful, never betraying any emotion.

  Only once or twice Sara had caught the merest flicker in him. One Christmas two years ago Lucy had kissed him under the mistletoe at a party, her eyes teasing. Greg had grinned back, but he had been white as he turned away, a look in his eyes making Sara feel sick.

  She had never been in love herself. Now and t
hen she had played with the idea, amusing herself by pretending to be in love, but somehow the real thing had never hit her. Watching Greg, she was often glad about that. His love for Lucy dominated his life, although it never showed on the surface. Sara knew that in a cupboard in his flat were sheaves of sketches of Lucy. They never saw the light of day. Greg had only shown them to her once, the night he told her about the way he felt. They had been incredibly good, so acute and yet passionate that she had been moved and horrified. She had a fear that Greg would destroy them one day and that would be tragic because they were the best thing he had ever done, but he was afraid that one day Lucy might sec them and then she would know about him. That was something Greg could not bear. He would fight like mad to stop Lucy guessing.

  It had increased Sara's respect for Greg to watch him with Rob, to see the genuine love and caring he gave Lucy's husband. Greg often sat with Rob to give Lucy a break. He would draw cartoons for Rob, making the other choke with laughter at the wicked, perceptive humour. He would read aloud to him. It even tired Rob to hold a book these days; his hands were weakened by the disease. Greg casu­ally attended to Rob's physical needs like a brother, lifting him in and out of his chair, the wiry thin strength of his body astonishing. Rob was much heavier than Greg. It was difficult for Lucy to do these things—she was a slight, small woman. Greg welcomed the chance to ease the problems her life piled on to her shoulders.

  For the last few days Rob had been appreciably worse, in much more pain, and Greg had been tense with anxiety over it. Now Sara heard him whistling as he showered and knew that he was limp with relief because Rob had responded to the new treat­ment. It was only a temporary relief; there was no long-term cure. But at least Rob was better for the moment.

  She went up to yell to him to hurry before the coffee was ruined. 'I've left a cup in your sitting-room,' she told him through the door. 'Goodnight.'

  He called back cheerfully, 'Goodnight, darling.' Sara went down to her own part of the house and got ready for bed, slipping into it with a sigh. It had been a wearing evening and she was glad it was over. Lying in the darkness she had a brief memory of a cold, dark face and blindingly bright blue eyes. What had his name been? She couldn't remember for a second, then it came back. Nick. Nick the bank, she thought, giggling. He had looked furious when she and Greg were playing the fool, but at least it had briefly lifted Greg's sadness.