Night Heat

‘Vicki!’

‘Well! I should live in such idyllic surroundings, waited on hand and foot!’

Sara gasped. ‘You don’t mean that!’

‘I do.’ Vicki reached for her cup of hot chocolate. ‘I’ve been there. I know.’ She paused. ‘Do you remember me telling you, we once did a shoot in Florida? That was where we did it. Lincoln Korda’s place: Orchid Key!’

Sara’s eyes widened. ‘Go on.’

‘Go on—what?’

‘Tell me about it—Orchid Key, I mean. Is it very exotic?’

‘Very.’ Vicki’s tone was dry. ‘It’s an island, actually, just off the coast. You could swim there from the mainland, if they’d let you. But of course they don’t. It’s virtually a fortress. Guards—armed guards—everywhere. I guess Lincoln Korda owns a lot of expensive stuff.’

Sara couldn’t resist. ‘Did you meet him?’

‘Who? Lincoln Korda? No chance. He seldom uses the place. According to Tony, he’s a workaholic.’

‘Yes.’ Sara was thoughtful. ‘He told me his brother lives in New York. But what about Mrs Korda? Doesn’t she prefer Florida?’

‘Maybe. As long as Lincoln Korda’s not there, of course. They’re separated, you know. Have been for years.’ Vicki finished her chocolate and got up from the dressing table stool. ‘You know,’ she said, viewing Sara’s concerned face with wry sympathy, ‘people like that shouldn’t have children. They can’t afford them—emotionally speaking.’

Three weeks later, Sara had practically forgotten all about Jeff Korda, when she unexpectedly got a telephone call from his uncle.

‘Sara!’ Tony Korda sounded distraught. ‘Thank God I’ve managed to get hold of you. Where’ve you been all day? I’ve been ringing since one o’clock!’

Sara blinked, glancing at the plain gold watch on her wrist. It was barely six. ‘I do have a job, Mr Korda,’ she reminded him drily. And then as she remembered her friend was away, in Scotland, her stomach contracted. ‘It’s not Vic——’

‘This has nothing to do with Vicki,’ he forestalled her swiftly. ‘Look, could you meet me? In—say—half an hour?’

‘Half an hour?’ Sara was taken aback. ‘Mr Korda, I don’t think——’

‘This isn’t an assignation,’ he declared flatly. ‘I just want to talk to you, that’ all.’ And when she demurred: ‘It’s about Jeff. My nephew, remember?’

Half an hour later, entering the pub in Charing Cross which Tony had suggested, Sara wondered why the mention of the boy’s name should have provoked such an immediate response. And the right response, too, judging by Tony Korda’s reaction. He had known she would respond to an appeal of that kind. But was Jeff Korda the real reason why he wanted to see her?

She had not bothered to stop and change, but her black and white tweed suit, with its calf-length skirt and thigh-length jacket, was not out of place in the smoky atmosphere of the White Lion. Worn with a high-necked blouse and a man’s narrow tie, it successfully disguised her unusual beauty, the tight coil of hair at her nape merely adding to her severe image.

Tony Korda was standing at the bar, but when he saw her, he picked up the two drinks he had ordered and urged her into the quieter surroundings of the lounge. ‘I’m afraid it’s only lager,’ he remarked, setting the two glasses down on a low table, and squatting on the stool opposite. ‘But I didn’t know what to order, and at least it’s long and cold.’

‘Lager’s fine,’ said Sara, who secretly hated the stuff. And then: ‘So—why have you brought me here? What’s wrong? You said it was something to do with your nephew.’

‘It is.’ Tony hunched his shoulders, looking even more world-weary than he had at the party. Casting a glance over his shoulder to make sure they were not being overheard, he went on: ‘Jeff took an overdose yesterday evening. They rushed him into the hospital in Miami, but for a while there it was touch and go.’

Sara was horrified. ‘How terrible!’ She shook her head. ‘Is he going to be all right?’

‘So they say. He’s still in the hospital, of course—something to do with testing the toxicity of his blood. But he’ll be home in a day or so. I’m flying out there tomorrow to see how he is for myself.’

Sara nodded. ‘It must have been a terrible shock!’

‘It was. When Link rang to tell me, I could have wrung his bloody neck!’

She hesitated, not quite knowing what was required of her. Then, awkwardly, she put out her hand and squeezed his arm. ‘Thanks for feeling you could tell me,’ she murmured. ‘I appreciate your confidence.’

‘My confidence?’ Tony’s expression was suddenly even grimmer. ‘Is that why you think I rang? Just to share this confidence with you?’

She moved a little nervously on her seat. ‘Didn’t you?’

‘No!’ He leant across the table towards her. ‘Sara, I rang because I thought you might be willing to help. You seemed—sympathetic when I spoke to you at Chris’s party. Or was that an act?’

‘No!’ She was indignant. ‘I just don’t see——’

‘I want you to consider a proposition I have to put to you,’ said Tony swiftly, and the sudden input from a juke-box in the bar made what he was saying almost inaudible. ‘I’ve spoken to Link, as I’ve said, and he’s agreeable. How does the idea of spending the winter months in Florida appeal to you?’

‘In Florida?’ Sara was sure she had heard him wrong, but Tony was nodding.

‘As a companion—a friend, if you like—for Jeff. You’d get a salary, of course. A more than generous one, I can guarantee that. And all expenses paid, naturally——’

‘Wait a minute!’ She held up a dazed hand. ‘Why would you think I can help your nephew? Surely a psychiatrist——’

‘He’s had psychiatrists,’ Tony interrupted her harshly. ‘And psychologists, and psycho-therapists, and goodness knows what else! That’s not what he needs.’ He paused, before continuing urgently: ‘Sara, what Jeff is missing is someone young, someone of his own generation, someone who understands what he’s going through. Someone like you.’

Sara gulped. ‘You can’t compare my injury——’

‘I know that. But you’re the closet Jeff’s going to come to facing the truth about himself, to dealing with it.’

‘But I know nothing about nursing!’

‘I’ve told you—Jeff has had all the nurses and doctors he can cope with.’

She was finding it difficult to believe what she was hearing. ‘But, Tony,’ she said, trying to speak reasonably, ‘I have a job——’

‘What job? Secretary to some small-time businessman, with offices in Kilburn High Street? It’s hardly high-priority!’

She stared at him. ‘How do you know where I work?’

‘How do you think? I asked Vicki.’

Sara struggled with a feeling of indignation. ‘She had no right to tell you.’

‘Why not? She didn’t know why I was asking.’

‘You’ve spoken to her today?’

‘Yes,’ Tony grunted. ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t tell her why I wanted to know. I just slipped it into the conversation.’

She shook her head. ‘Well, you must know I’m going to refuse.’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ She made a helpless gesture. ‘Well—because it’s crazy! Asking me to go out to Florida to meet someone I don’t even know! Someone who might take a dislike to me at first sight.’

‘He won’t.’

‘How do you know that?’

Tony sighed. ‘Haven’t you looked at yourself lately, Sara?’

She was running short of excuses, and she wondered rather impatiently why she felt she needed one. It was a ludicrous idea, asking her to go to Florida, to try and reason with some boy who, despite his injuries, was probably far more capable of handling his own life than she was. But she hadn’t tried to kill herself, a small voice reminded her insistently. She wasn’t alone in some palatial Southern mansion which, no matter how luxurious, apparently bore all the hallmarks of a prison.

‘But what about your brother?’ she persisted, fighting the insidious demands of compassion. ‘And your sister-in-law? Don’t they have any ideas of their own?’

Tony was silent for so long that Sara began to wonder whether the noisy juke-box had drowned out her words. But, eventually, he spoke again. ‘Michelle’s no good around sick people,’ he admitted at last. ‘It’s not her fault, she’s always been that way. And Link just doesn’t have the time.’

‘For his own son?’

‘For anyone,’ said Tony obliquely. ‘Well? What do you say? Is typing someone’s letters really more important than saving someone’s life?’

CHAPTER TWO

PUT like that, there had really been no answer to it, reflected Sara some ten days later, feeling the rush of adrenalin as the big jet made its approach to Miami International Airport. Melodramatic, maybe; unfair, perhaps; but Sara had acknowledged that she really could not refuse.

Oh, it was easy enough to argue that Tony had had no right to ask her, that he had put her in an impossible position by insisting that she was the only one who could help. And in all honesty, she should have refused because of the responsibility he was putting on her. But from the beginning she had been interested in the boy’s case, and shouldn’t she really blame herself for being tempted by the challenge?

Besides, once she accepted the inevitability of her decision, she had been unable to deny a sense of anticipation at the prospect of leaving England in November for the tropical warmth of this most southerly state. Even Vicki’s somewhat uncharacteristic lack of enthusiasm had been unable to douse her excitement, and only now, as she approached her destination, did more practical considerations gain the upper hand.

What did she know about psychological problems, after all? It was all very well for Tony to assure her that Jeff was looking forward to her arrival, but what faith could she put in that when in the next breath he had told her the boy was morose and well-nigh unapproachable! He had said that both his brother and his estranged wife were enthusiastic about her arrival, but he had also said that she shouldn’t take any notice if tempers sometimes got frayed. Emotions could apparently run high in the Korda household, and on those occasions she should make herself scarce.

It was all a little daunting to someone who had never even left England before, let alone to cross the vastness of the Atlantic, and only the knowledge of the return ticket in her handbag gave her the confidence to leave the plane.

If only Tony had been able to accompany her, she thought. If only he had been around to introduce her to his relatives, or at least ease her entry into the household. But Tony had only been able to spend a couple of days in America. He was a busy man, and he had to get back to England to fulfil his obligations; or so he said.

‘My guess is he’s as eager to pass the buck as his brother!’ Vicki had commented acidly. ‘Making time with a teenage schizophrenic can’t be fun for anyone. I think you’re crazy for letting him put you on the spot!’

Sara had argued that Jeff was not a schizophrenic, that there was no question of a split personality, but what did she really know? What kind of person—what kind of teenager—swallowed an overdose of some highly dangerous substance, that only the prompt action of the hospital medics had prevented from proving lethal? His situation seemed harrowing, it was true, but it was not desperate. There were obviously thousands—millions—of people worse off than he was. But as he had probably heard that particular argument many times before, it was going to require much ingenuity on her part to make it sound convincing.

Sara was not immediately aware of the humidity when she left the plane. The airport buildings were all air-conditioned, and only the scent of overheated humanity gave her an inkling of what she might have to face outside. The airport was crowded, too. A sea of dark, Hispanic faces, with only a smattering of Caucasian among them. Two flights—one from Puerto Rico, and the other from Colombia—had landed ahead of the British Airways jet, and in the confusion, Sara despaired of ever finding whoever had come to meet her.

Amazingly enough, she eventually found herself in the baggage collection area, and rescuing her suitcase and the rather scruffy carpet bag that contained her personal belongings from the carousel, she made her way to the exit. If no one had come to meet her, she was contemplating taking the next flight back to England, and she half hoped the worst would happen. Just for a moment, the unfamiliarity of her surroundings caused a wave of homesickness to sweep over her, and she would have given anything to be back in London, fog and all.

The man in the chauffeur’s uniform, carrying the card that read ‘Sara Fielding’, almost passed her by. She didn’t know what she was looking for exactly, but it was not a cardboard notice displaying her name.

‘I—er—I’m Sara Fielding,’ she admitted reluctantly, stopping in front of him. ‘Do you—I mean—have you any means of identification?’

The tall black man thrust his hand inside his jacket, and briefly Sara was reminded of all those television series, where such an action heralded the producing of a gun. But all the chauffeur produced was a driver’s licence, showing his photograph and giving his name as Henry Isaiah Wesley, and a letter introducing the man from someone who signed himself Grant Masters.

‘If you’ll follow me,’ the chauffeur suggested, after Sara’s faint smile had assured him that his credentials had been accepted, and taking her suitcase and carpet bag from her, he set off across the concourse.

The car—a huge black limousine, with smoked glass windows—was waiting, double-banked, in a no-waiting area. But apparently its size, or perhaps its owner, warranted some respect, for the police patrolman who directed them out into the stream of traffic paid no heed to any offence which might have been committed. And to Sara, bemused by the switch from air-conditioned terminal to equally air-conditioned limousine, with a blast of hot humidity in between, it was all part and parcel of the chaotic confusion of her arrival.

Nevertheless, she couldn’t help but relax in the cushioned comfort of the car. With her feet resting on a carpet, with a pile as thick as any she had ever seen, and her limbs responding to the yielding softness of fine leather, she was hardly aware of what was going on outside the windows; and not until they turned into the multi-laned elegance of a highway, lined with stately palms and bordering the ocean, did she give her surroundings her attention.

Although the flight had taken the better part of ten hours, the change in time zones meant that it was still only late afternoon in Miami. And with the sun casting long shadows across the avenue, and the blue-green waters of what she later learned was Biscayne Bay—and not the Atlantic, as she had innocently imagined—shimmering invitingly between the masts of yachts and other sailing craft„ she felt a rekindling of the excitement she had felt when the Embassy official in London had stamped her visa.

It was an effort, but summoning her courage, she leant across the seemingly vase expanse of space that separated the rear of the car from the driver’s seat. ‘It’s very hot, isn’t it?’ she ventured, in what she hoped was an encouraging tone. ‘It was raining back in London.’

‘I’ll turn up the conditioner,’ responded the chauffeur at once, and immediately, the pleasant waft of cool air emanating from the grilles beside her became a chilling draught. Within seconds, the car was reduced to a temperature bordering on freezing, and Sara sighed unhappily, before attempting to explain that that was not what she had meant.

‘I was talking about the temperature here—in Florida,’ she mumbled, after the air-conditioning had been restored to its usual level, but receiving no reply, she concluded that the chauffeur did not consider it part of his duties to make polite conversation with a paid companion.

Finding the monotonous row of high-rise hotels and office buildings on her left of little interest, Sara concentrated her attention on the recreation areas beside the beach. Acres of grassy parks and walkways, some less attractive than others, she had to admit, were nevertheless more interesting than the commercial aspects of the city, particularly as from time to time she glimpsed causeways heading out to places called Treasure Island or Indian Creek or Bal Harbor.

North of Miami, they left the impressive interstate highway for the less hectic route along the coast. Sara had read somewhere that this area was called the Gold Coast, and she could understand why. An almost unending vista of sandy beaches contoured the road, and their progress was observed by graceful seabirds, sweeping down to the breakers that lapped the shore.

Beyond the busier centres of Fort Lauderdale and Boca Raton, with their golf courses and high-rise condominiums, they entered the quiet streets of Cyprus Beach. Hiding behind high clipped hedges, a handful of luxury dwellings made Sara aware of the exclusivity of this resort, and long before they reached the harbour, with its neatly-staked pier and expensive shops, she guessed they were nearing their destination. If the chauffeur had been more approachable, she could have shared a little of her sudden apprehension with him. But after her abortive attempt to be friendly, they had spent the whole journey in silence, and she was hardly surprised when he made no attempt to reassure her now.

The long, luxurious limousine was drawn to a halt as close to the pier as possible. Once again, their arrival was marked by an armed policeman, leaning against the bonnet of his squad car. But, once again, he made no move to stop them parking in what would appear to be a no-parking area, and when Wesley opened the car door for Sara to alight, she scrambled out with alacrity.

Her appearance did generate a mild response from the policeman. He was probably unused to seeing rather travel-worn young women emerging from the Korda family limousine, Sara reflected wryly, brushing down the creases in her wine-coloured corded pants suit. If she had only thought about it in the car, she could have retouched her make-up and re-coiled her hair before meeting her employer—if that was the correct way to regard the young man who was to be in her charge. As it was, she was obliged to hope that the strands of hair escaping from her chignon would not look too untidy, and that her nose was not as shiny as she imagined it to be.

Wesley slammed the car door, but didn’t lock it. Why bother, reflected Sara wryly, with a policeman to stand guard over it? But then she saw the boat that was apparently to transport her and her belongings to Orchid Key, and the luxury of the car distinctly faded by comparison.

The yacht moored at the pier was the kind of vessel Sara had hitherto only seen in advertisements. The Ariadne, as she was called, was at least fifty feet in length, with cabins fore and aft, and the sun reflecting from its gleaming hull accentuated its look of controlled power. A ribbed gangway gave access to its polished deck, and as Wesley indicated that Sara should precede him aboard, another man came forward to greet her. This man was less formally dressed, in white pants and a short-sleeved white shirt, his blond good looks in no way diminished by the deepness of his tan.

‘Miss Fielding,’ he said, his smile warm and friendly. ‘Or can I call you Sara? I’m Grant Masters, Mr Korda’s personal assistant.’

‘How do you do?’ murmured Sara, relieved, responding to his smile. ‘You’re the person who wrote the letter that—that the chauffeur——’

‘Wesley, yes.’ Masters’ gaze moved past her to the black man who was presently depositing her luggage on the deck. ‘That’s okay,’ he dismissed him. ‘I’ll take care of Miss Fielding from here on in.’ And then, returning his attention to Sara, ‘Come into the saloon. I’m sure you wouldn’t say no to something long and cool and thirst-quenching.’

‘Oh, no.’ In all honesty, Sara was beginning to feel the heat, and wishing she had thought to bring another set of clothes to change into on the plane. The corded suit was decidedly too heavy for this climate, and with a murmured word of thanks after the departing chauffeur’s back, she followed her host into the forward cabin.

Above her—or was it below her, she couldn’t be exactly sure—engines fired to life, and glancing round, she saw another man casting off the lines that had moored the Ariadne to the pier. But her own attention was immediately absorbed by the luxurious appointments of the cabin, and as Masters poured drinks at a refrigerated bar, Sara shed her jacket and looked about her.

The cabin was panelled in oak, with a curved elevation forward, and smoked glass all round. There were long cushioned banquettes, and onyx lamps with pleated shades, and the soft carpet underfoot gave the feeling of walking on velvet. As in the car, the air supply was controlled, and the presence of both a television and a hi-fi system assured her that the yacht had its own generator too.

‘There you are. I think you’ll like it,’ Masters was saying now, and turning somewhat bemusedly, Sara took the tall tumbler from his hand.

‘Er—what is it?’ she asked, looking down into a glass frothing with a creamy fluid, and frosted with sugar.

‘It’s just fruit juice with a little coconut milk added,’ Masters declared smoothly, and as the movement of the craft caused her to take an involuntary step, he gestured to the banquette behind her. ‘Won’t you sit down? The trip only takes a few minutes, but I think you’d feel safer.’

Sara subsided on to the cushions gratefully. It was all a little too much to take in and, sipping her drink, she wondered if anyone ever got used to such luxury.

‘Did you have a good flight?’

Masters was speaking again, and she turned to him almost guiltily. ‘Very good, thank you,’ she answered, wiping a film of foam from her lip. ‘Um—this is lovely.’

Masters himself was not drinking, she noticed. He had draped his elegant frame on the banquette opposite, and was evidently enjoying the novelty of watching her. From time to time, he cast a thoughtful glance in the direction in which they were heading, but mostly he studied her, which was a little disconcerting.

‘Have you ever been to Florida before, Sara?’ he asked, his confident use of her name seeming to indicate that in his employer’s absence, he had the authority. It made her wonder if perhaps he was the person with whom she would be dealing. After all, if Tony Korda’s brother spent most of his time in New York, it was possible that he employed someone like Grant Masters to act as his deputy.

‘This is my first trip to the United States,’ she answered honestly, and as if anticipating her reply, he inclined his blond head.

‘You worked as a secretary in London, didn’t you?’ he probed, after a moment. ‘But that wasn’t what you really wanted to do.’

‘No.’ Almost unconsciously, Sara moved to tuck her right foot behind her left, and although he said nothing, she sensed Masters had noticed.

‘What do you know about Jeff?’ he asked now, and she was glad of the glass in her hands, which acted as a convincing diversion.

‘Not a lot,’ she admitted, lifting her shoulders. ‘I—I was told he had had a car accident. And—and that there’s some paralysis.

‘There’s total paralysis from the waist down,’ Masters told her, with some emphasis. ‘Jeff is wholly incapacitated. He can neither walk, nor dress himself; he has negative control over his bodily functions, and because he refuses to co-operate, he has to be washed and groomed and fed, just like a baby!’

Sara stared at him aghast. Tony had told her none of this. From the little he had said, she had assumed the boy was depressed and unhappy, suicidal even, but not outwardly aggressive. After all, taking an overdose was not such an exceptional thing these days. Lots of people took drugs, some of them using attempted suicide as a cry for help, without any real intention of taking their own life. Not that she’d actually believed that Jeff Korda’s overdose had been a cry for help—heavens, with his background, he could want for nothing—but she had thought it might have been a spur-of-the-moment decision, a desperate fit of depression culminating in a desperate act.