The Judas Trap

Now this man, Michael Tregower, was tormenting her, goading her, threatening her with she knew not what. And he had no idea of the risks he was running …

‘Eat, can’t you?’ he said now, helping himself to a generous slice of the savoury flan, and ladling salad on to his plate. ‘The food’s good—I can vouch for it. I’ve been living here for almost a week now, and Mrs Penworthy has done me proud.’

‘Mrs Penworthy!’

Sara looked up with expectant eyes, and his lips thinned. ‘Oh, no,’ he said irritably. ‘You’re not going to tell me that the housekeeper will recognise you! Sorry. She’s only been looking after the place since Adam went to live in Praia do Lobo. I doubt if you ever met her.’

Sara hunched her shoulders. ‘Haven’t you ever seen Diane?’ she protested. ‘Why, she—she’s famous!’

‘I’m afraid I’ve been living in South America for the past fifteen years.’ Did that account for his swarthy complexion? ‘Like I told you, I was always the black sheep of the family. Old Adam, our father that is, never wanted to see me around. I reminded him too strongly of his ill-spent youth.’

Sara sighed. ‘I see.’ She paused. ‘Why did—why did Adam go to live in—where was it you said.’

‘Praia do Lobo. Don’t pretend you don’t know. He inherited the villa there.’

‘Inherited? From whom?’

His eyes narrowed, ‘All right, I’ll play the game, if you like. From Tio Jorge, of course—our father’s uncle. You knew Adam’s grandmother was Portuguese, didn’t you?’

‘No.’ But that explained the dark blood. ‘I tell you, I only know what Diane told me.’

‘Who better?’ He shrugged sardonically. ‘Well—our grandmother came from Coimbra. It’s quite a famous town in Portugal.’

‘I know of Coimbra,’ retorted Sara, somewhat tartly. ‘My education has not been neglected.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ His lips curled. ‘So Jorge de los Santos was our grandmother’s brother. His wife, Isabella, is matriarch now.’

‘I understand,’ Sara nodded.

‘As it happens, I’ve been more involved with that side of the family than Adam ever was.’ His eyes narrowed broodingly as he stared into the gathering dust. ‘You may know that Brazil is a Portuguese-speaking country. I work there, for the Los Santos mining corporation.’

‘Mining?’ Sara was interested in spite of herself. ‘What kind of mining?’

‘Diamonds—industrial diamonds,’ he added evenly. ‘The Tregowers have always been involved in mining of one kind or another. You’ll know about the tin mines, I’m sure.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Yes. Well, I was sent to Portugal when I was eighteen, to the university of Coimbra. For some reason my father decided that his mistakes were best kept out of the country. In any event, he did me a favour. Old Isabella likes me. She says I remind her of her late husband. It was she who sent me to Brazil.’

‘I see.’

‘Do you? I wonder?’ His lips twisted. ‘And Adam never mentioned me to you?’

‘I tell you—’

‘Yes, I know.’ He silenced her with a look. ‘So—tell me about—Sara Fortune. What does she do? Does she have a job? Or is she an actress, too?’

‘Acting is working,’ Sara countered, almost without thinking, and then looked down at her hands in annoyance. ‘I—I work for a publishing house—the Lincoln Press. I—er—I’m an editor.’

‘Really?’ He forked a slice of ham on to his plate. ‘An editor. How interesting!’

‘It is interesting,’ exclaimed Sara hotly. ‘I love my work.’

‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ he retorted thinly, and she subsided again. ‘I suggest you have some food,’ he added, as she continued to stare mutinously down at her hands. ‘There’s no point in starving yourself.’

Sara looked up. ‘Why did you invite Diane down here? How did you hope to get her to agree to come?’

Michael Tregower looked at her for a long moment, then he cut a slice of the savoury flan and set it on her plate. ‘Eat,’ he said. ‘Before I decide to starve you instead.’

Sara’s clenched fists rested on the table beside her plate. ‘Why won’t you answer me? Don’t I have a right to know?’

He continued eating for several more minutes, then he looked at her again. ‘You thought Adam had sent that message, remember? You didn’t even care that he had died!’

‘I didn’t know!’

Sara’s defensive words were instinctive, but damning as well. Michael Tregower’s lips curved contemptuously.

‘You see,’ he said. ‘Play the game long enough and the victim always betrays himself.’

‘Oh, you won’t listen to me, will you?’

‘No.’

‘I—I mean me! Sara Fortune. I didn’t know Adam was dead.’

‘As Sara Fortune, why should you?’

‘Why, because Diane is a friend. Because she would have told me if she knew.’

‘And of course, you didn’t know that Adam had been ill, seriously ill, so ill, in fact, that he wrote to you, begging you to come and see him!’

‘No!’ Sara could hardly believe it. Diane had said nothing about Adam’s writing to her. On the contrary, she had led Sara to believe that he was living quite happily in Portugal, enjoying the change of scene, the warmer weather. ‘When—when was this?’

‘At Christmas,’ replied Michael Tregower bleakly. ‘Exactly three months before he died—before he took his own life!’

‘No.’

‘Yes.’ He was implacable, and the increasing gravity of their discussion was bringing that frightening intensity back to his features. ‘He had cancer, you know. It killed his mother, and it would have killed him—eventually.’

‘Then—’

‘Stop there!’ he commanded harshly. ‘I know exactly what you’re going to say. But to the people who cared about him, his death was a tragedy, a terrible tragedy, that need never have happened. If you’d answered his appeal, gone to see him, shown him you were not completely heartless …’

Sara had no answer to that but the obvious one. She was not Diane, therefore she had not known. If she had known, if Diane had confided in her, she would have urged her to go and see the man without whom she might never have been given the opportunity to meet Lance Wilmer.

Picking up her fork, she toyed with the food on her plate, her appetite dwindling completely. Then, lifting her eyes, she said: ‘But—if—if Diane wouldn’t come to—to see Adam in Portugal, how—how could you persuade her to come here?’

‘You came,’ he retorted with cold mockery, and her lids hid her anxiety.

There was a bottle of wine in an ice bucket, and now Michael Tregower reached for this, filling both their glasses with a complete disregard for Sara’s protest.

‘Drink it,’ he said ominously. ‘You may need it.’

Sara shook her head. ‘What—what do you intend to do with me?’ She hesitated. ‘I assume you had some idea in mind.’

‘Oh, yes.’ His humour was sardonic. ‘Although I must admit you disappoint me in some ways.’

‘I—disappoint you?’

‘That’s right.’ Darkness had fallen completely now, and his features were menacing in the lamplight. ‘The woman Adam described to me was—different somehow.’

Sara held her breath. ‘How different?’

He frowned. ‘You’re—softer. I expected a hardbitten businesswoman, but instead you appear—gentle, almost fragile. Is it an act? Was that what my brother saw in you? That gentleness, that fragility? The velvet glove that hides the iron fist?’

Sara lifted her shoulders. ‘If I’m so different, why won’t you believe that I’m not Diane?’

‘Oh …’ he lay back in his chair, raising his glass to his lips, ‘I could be wrong. I’ve been wrong before. But I don’t think I am. I think you’re a very—astute woman, a very clever woman. But you won’t fool me. Not like you fooled Adam.’

‘So …’ Sara’s voice quivered a little, ‘we return to the point. What do you intend to do with me?’

‘Well …’ He put down his glass and leaned forward, resting his arms along the table at either side of his plate. ‘I’ll be honest. My initial intentions bordered on the homicidal. And when I got hold of you, I—well, let’s say, your timing was brilliant.’

‘My—timing?’

‘The faint. When you lost consciousness.’ His tongue brushed his lower lip. ‘Oh, yes, that was worthy of the true professional!’

Sara knew there was no point in denying that she had enforced her state of oblivion. To do so would entail explanations she was curiously loath to give. It was crazy, but there was something forbidden and exciting about what she was doing, and while she knew her mother—God rest her soul—would have been horrified by her recklessness, for the first time in her sheltered existence, she felt really alive! Not even Tony had been able to achieve that.

‘You—you’re saying you wanted to kill me?’ she breathed, the words scarcely audible, and thick lashes veiled his eyes.

‘Is that so surprising?’ he demanded. ‘Because of you, my brother lived a life of hell!’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You’re sorry!’ He threw the words back at her. ‘Do you think that does any good? Saying you’re sorry? My God, you sit there looking the picture of innocence, with one man’s death on your conscience, and the prospect of another’s pending.’

Her arched brows drew together. ‘I—don’t understand.’

‘Don’t you?’ he sneered. ‘Why do you think I brought you down here? Not for a cosy get-together, believe me! I intended you should pay—one way or the other—for what you did to my brother.’

‘One way—or the other?’ she echoed.

‘Yes.’ He thrust himself back so that his chair tipped on to two legs. ‘Death—or convicted as the murderess you are. I can’t decide which affords the most satisfaction.’

Sara gasped. ‘You’re mad!’ The sense of excitement was souring. ‘I tell you, I’m not Diane.’

Michael Tregower shrugged, dropping back on to the four legs of the chair with an unnerving thud. ‘No—well, there’s no hurry. We’ve got plenty of time.’

‘Plenty of time?’ Sara stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean exactly what I say. We’re not going anywhere. Not either of us.’

CHAPTER THREE

THE TELEPHONE was the only link with the outside world. Seated in the library, in front of a now-roaring fire, with a glass of brandy cradled between her fingers, Sara reviewed her situation. It was not particularly reassuring. Short of betraying her physical condition, Michael Tregower was unlikely to listen to her pleas, and no doubt he had already taken the phone into consideration. The front door was locked. He had not even allowed her to get her night things from the Mini. It was raining. But strangely, Sara was not afraid.

She couldn’t decide about that. She couldn’t decide whether her lack of fear was due to the knowledge that whatever Michael Tregower intended, it would not happen tonight—and time to delay was time to reconsider—or whether the curious sense of fatality which had gripped her since she encountered the man had made her philosophical. There was also her own reactions to him, of course. A kind of fascination—half curiosity, half revulsion, that had successfully rid her mind of all thoughts of Tony for the past few hours …

The door behind her opened, and she started out of her reverie. He had installed her here while he attended to other things, and although she seldom drank, she was glad of the warming fire in the brandy. As once before, a strange look crossed his face as he stared at her, then he closed the door behind him and said:

‘You look quite at home. How many evenings have you curled up in that chair with Adam for company, I wonder?’

Immediately Sara pushed her feet to the floor. It was a favourite position of hers, kicking off her shoes, and curling her legs up under her. But now she sought around for her ankle boots again, feeling too vulnerable without them.

Michael Tregower crossed the carpet swiftly and kicked them aside, causing her to look up at him indignantly.

‘You won’t need them tonight,’ he said, and the corners of his mouth turned up slightly in a humour-less smile.

Sara sighed, determining not to let him disturb her again. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I intended to stay here anyway. Diane’s loaned me the house for a fortni—’

‘The hell she has!’ he snapped. ‘This house is not hers to lend.’

‘Hers?’

Sara couldn’t resist the taunt, but it was quickly over-ridden. ‘Yours, then,’ he agreed coldly. ‘You forfeited the right to Ravens Mill when you walked out on my brother.’

‘Oh, yes?’ Sara couldn’t let that go. ‘You’ve been out of the country too long, Mr Tregower. The law is changed. Half of everything goes to the wife at the time of a divorce or separation. And Diane and Adam were never divorced. That means—’

‘You scheming little bitch!’ he bit out furiously, grasping her arms and hauling her up out of the chair, so that the brandy glass spun out of her hand and splintered noisily in the grate. ‘Are you daring to suggest that you own this house? That what was Adam’s is now yours?’

Sara was trembling so much she could hardly stand, but his hands supported her, cruel hands that bit into the flesh of her upper arms, through the thin material of her blouse now that she had shed the jersey jacket.

‘I—I was only telling you—’ she stammered, as he glared down at her, and his expression changed as her colour receded.

‘So pale,’ he muttered. ‘So fragile! No wonder you drove poor old Adam out of his mind!’ and dragging her closer, he forced his mouth down on hers.

With one hand imprisoned at the nape of her neck, he held her close against him, her rounded breasts crushed against the hardness of his chest. His possession was total and suffocating, but although Sara’s heart fluttered, she could feel other emotions stirring inside her. No man had ever kissed her so brutally, so adultly, so angrily—and yet, as he continued to hold her, she sensed the reluctant change that came over him.

The hand that still gripped her arm relaxed its hold, sliding across her shoulder to her neck, pushing aside the neckline of her shirt and invading the tender warmth within. She offered only a tentative resistance as his fingers caressed her bare shoulders, but when the buttons parted, she tore her mouth from his.

‘No—’

‘No?’ he mocked, bending his head to touch her skin with his tongue. ‘Hmm, you taste delicious.’ His voice hardened. ‘You’re not wearing a bra. Did you think I didn’t know?’ His eyes were half closed. ‘I knew. And you’re beautiful … beautiful …’

His hand cupped one rose-tipped breast as he spoke, massaging its swollen fullness with caressing appreciation, exploring the hardening nipple with disturbing effect.

‘You—you shouldn’t,’ she protested, but the hands she raised to stop him only clung to him, and as if he sensed her weakness, his gentleness fled.

With a rough gesture he dragged the shirt across her breasts and turned away from her, saying violently: ‘I swore on my brother’s grave that I would make you pay for what you’d done to him! God, how was I to know you’d enjoy it?’

His words were hurting and humiliating, as he had intended them to be, and Sara’s fingers shook as she fastened the buttons of her shirt. She felt ashamed. What was the matter with her? she asked herself disgustedly. This man had already threatened to take her life, and she was permitting him intimacies she had never permitted any man before. Tony had tried to pet with her, but she had always maintained a certain detachment before, something she had put down to the uncertainty of her condition. Now, she realised, she was no different from any other woman. She had wanted Michael Tregower to touch her, she had wanted to touch him! He was right: she had enjoyed it.

He turned back to her then, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his pants as if afraid he might be tempted to touch her once more. ‘Go to bed!’ he ordered curtly. ‘Get out of my sight! I need to think.’

Sara’s mouth was dry. ‘Bed?’ she echoed. ‘You really expect me to go to bed?’

‘Why not?’ He was contemptuous. ‘You have nothing to fear from me!’

Sara glanced towards the door. ‘But where do I sleep?’

‘How about the room you shared with Adam? That should prove unpleasant enough. Just think of the memories it will invoke.’

Sara held up her head. ‘At—at the risk of being a bore, I must repeat that as I am not Diane, I have no idea which room she shared with your brother.’

His mouth tightened. ‘You really are a bitch, aren’t you?’

‘No!’ Sara was indignant. ‘Mr Tregower—’

‘Oh, shut up, will you?’ He glared furiously at her. ‘Just get out of here, can’t you? Before I do something I, for one, will regret.’

Sara pressed her lips together. ‘Mr Tregower—’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ With an oath, he crossed the room, swung open the door and strode towards the stairs. ‘Follow me,’ he directed angrily, and albeit hesitantly she did so.

The portrait at the first landing mocked her. It had to be Michael’s father, or his grandfather, but the likeness was unmistakable. Indeed, judging by that elder Tregower’s dour expression, Michael was more like his ancestors than Adam had ever been. This man, like Michael, would never let a woman make a fool of him, and she guessed Adam’s mother must have been responsible for the weaker side of his nature.

Noticing her hesitation before the portrait, Michael paused and said contemptuously: ‘Yes, old Adam’s still here. What’s the matter? Afraid he might come and exact his own revenge?’

Sara shuddered. ‘No.’ But she looked over her shoulder as she followed Michael along the landing. ‘Who—who is he? Adam’s grandfather?’

He halted before double panelled doors, and looked at her with scornful eyes. ‘As if you didn’t know,’ he retorted. ‘Do you know why he went to Portugal to choose a wife? Because he found the English women too forward—they had too much to say for themselves. Can you imagine what he would have thought of someone like you?’

Sara chose not to answer, and Michael swung open the doors into what was obviously the master bedroom of the house. A switch brought several lamps into warm illumination, and she saw a room of generous proportions, squarely dominated by a large fourposter bed. The walls were hung with cream silk damask, which matched the covers on the bed; the furniture was dark wood, oak or mahogany, tallboys vying with the triple-mirrored dressing table for space. There were two striped Regency chairs, a matching chaise-longue, and an antique writing desk stood in the window embrasure. The room had been clearly used, there were no dust-sheets here, and various articles of male usage were draped over the backs of the chairs or set upon the dressing table.

‘This—this is your room,’ said Sara faintly, as he gestured her inside. ‘I can’t use your room.’

Michael made a sound of disgust. ‘You’ll have to. It’s the only bed that’s made up, and if sleeping between my sheets is distasteful to you, I should tell you Mrs Penworthy changed them this morning.’ Sara gulped. ‘Where—where will you sleep?’

‘You care!’ he sneered. ‘Well, not here, at any rate. You can face your ghosts alone.’

Sara made a helpless movement of her hands. ‘Mr Tregower—’

‘Go to sleep!’ he retorted, and strode out of the room.

The door slammed dully behind him, and she heard his footsteps receding along the landing. Only then did she realise exactly how tautly she had been holding herself, and her shoulders sagged beneath a weight of unexpected depression.

It had been an incredible evening, but now that it was over the anti-climactic feeling of dejection was crippling. For the past few hours she had been living on a high stimulus that was all the more debilitating to someone who had never experienced it before. Fencing with Michael Tregower had been an intoxicating game that left her feeling drained and weary.

Looking round the room again, she remembered with a pang that she had left her handbag downstairs. The bottle with the tablets she was supposed to take was inside it, and the prospect of going downstairs again and braving Michael’s anger and his cynicism was more than she could anticipate. She would just have to wait until he was in bed—however long that might be.

The bathroom adjoining the bedroom was just as luxurious. Cream tiles, inset with yellow roses, chrome-plated taps, and a metal shower compartment. There were fluffy yellow towels, and a dark blue bathrobe hung behind the door, a suitable garment to wear after she had shed her clothes.

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