Night Heat

But now, listening to Grant Masters enumerating the boy’s disabilities, she was horrified by her own inadequacy. In heaven’s name, why had Tony sent her here? What did she know of a mentality that defied all normal precepts? How could she expect to reason with someone who had already spurned all attempts to rehabilitate him? How could she help the boy when he evidently had no desire to be helped?

‘You look a little pale, Sara,’ Masters remarked now, and for a moment she wondered if he had deliberately tried to disconcert her. He might be exaggerating, she told herself without conviction, and in any case it was too late to turn back.

‘I expect I’m tired,’ she responded, refusing to let him think he had upset her. ‘After all, although it’s only early evening here, my body tells me it’s almost bedtime.’

A trace of faint admiration crossed Masters’ face. ‘Of course,’ he said, taking his cue from her. ‘It’s after eleven in England. It’s just as well we’re almost there. I expect you’ll be glad of a rest before dinner.’

Won’t I just? thought Sara fervently, swallowing the rest of her drink, and when Masters suggested they go out on deck so that she could see the island, she was eager to accept his invitation.

Her first view of Orchid Key was disappointing. After the car and the yacht, she had expected something more inspiring than the rocky shoreline that confronted them, and the line of barbed wire fencing running right around the headland seemed to confirm Vicki’s assertion that the island was inaccessible without an invitation. There was a guard, too, waiting for them on the stone jetty, with a snub-nosed automatic pistol tucked into his belt.

The yacht was berthed and the gangway slung across, and instructing one of the crew to bring her luggage, Masters strode off the boat with Sara close behind him. Shades of Alcatraz, she thought gloomily, thinking she understood why Lincoln Korda spent all his time in New York.

A shallow flight of stairs, dug out of the cliff, lay ahead of them, and Sara followed her guide up the steps. They emerged on to a grassy plateau, with an all-round view of the island, and her impression of a barren outcrop swiftly changed. Ahead of them now at this, the narrowest, end of the island, were acres of sand-dunes, sloping away to a shell-strewn beach. An uneven line of palms framed the blue-green waters of the Atlantic, and not even the thought that some security guard was probably patrolling the shoreline could rob the scene of its natural beauty.

Closer at hand, a single-storied building with several jeeps parked outside served as a kind of guard station. Although the island was not big—no more than two or three square miles, Sara estimated—the jeeps would prove invaluable in an emergency. But as well as the utility vehicles, there was also a sleek silver convertible, and it was to this that Masters led her after acknowledging her approving gaze.

With her bags securely stowed in the back of the convertible, Sara joined Masters in the front. No chauffeurs here, she thought, not without some relief. She wasn’t used to the presence of so many helping hands, no matter how deferential they might be. She breathed a sigh of relief as they drove off along a gravel track, and Masters gave her a thoughtful look as he swung the wheel through his hands.

The island was roughly triangular in shape, with access by boat only available at the narrowest point. ‘We’re situated above a sandbar,’ Masters explained. ‘The ocean to the east of the island is too shallow to allow a craft of any size to approach that way, although windsurfers have been known to come ashore in rough weather.’

Sara lifted a nervous shoulder. ‘Are they allowed to?’

‘We’re not running a top secret establishment here, Sara,’ he responded drily. ‘Visitors have been known to arrive and depart without any hassle. We don’t encourage intruders, it’s true, but Mr Korda has to protect his property.’

Sara made no comment. It was not up to her to question her employer’s security arrangements. If they made her feel a little like a prison visitor, that was her hang-up. She was not here to make her opinions felt—not about security anyway.

The centre of the island, which was flat, apparently served as a landing pad. Across a stretch of rough turf, she could see two hangars, one of which had its doors open to reveal the tail of a helicopter. Of course, she thought cynically. There would have to be a helicopter. It was all part and parcel with what she had seen so far.

The Korda house was situated above a stretch of golden sand. Three stories high, it rose majestically from a pillared terrace, its white-painted grandeur far more redolent of the 1920s than more than half a century later. Surrounding the house were gardens that reminded Sara of the gardens of an Italian villa she had once read about. There was a profusion of waterfalls and statuary, and a stone-flagged fountain splashing sibilantly in the foreground. She guessed a small army of gardeners would be required to keep the place in order, and her nerves prickled anxiously at this further evidence of her employer’s wealth.

Grant Masters brought the car to a halt and thrusting open his door, got out. At the same time, a woman of perhaps forty emerged on to the terrace, and Sara’s escort went to speak to her. Left briefly to herself, Sara too vacated the vehicle, leaning into the back to rescue her bags, just as Masters turned back and saw her.

‘Leave them,’ he called, and although the words were spoken carelessly enough, it was an order. ‘Come and meet Mr Korda’s housekeeper. She’ll show you to your rooms and explain about dinner and where we eat.’

Sara was tempted to bring her carpet bag anyway, just to show she preferred to be independent, but the older woman was watching their exchange, and she decided not to argue. Instead, she looped the jacket of her suit over one shoulder and, making a determined effort not to drag her right foot, she climbed the steps to the terrace.

‘This is Sara Fielding, Cora,’ said Masters, performing the introduction. ‘Cora will take care of you, Sara,’ he added. ‘Anything you need, just ask her.’

Thank you.’

Cora was polite, but Sara was aware that the housekeeper was regarding her rather guardedly. She probably thinks I’m as incapable of helping Jeff as Grant Masters evidently does, Sara reflected unhappily. And why not? If the best brains in medicine couldn’t help him, how could she?

At Cora’s summons, a young black boy appeared, and after directing him to fetch Miss Fielding’s luggage, she invited Sara to follow her. ‘Go ahead,’ said Grant Masters, pushing his hands into his trouser pockets and giving her a vaguely sympathetic grin. ‘I’ll see you later.’

They entered the house through double doors that stood wide, but which had fine-meshed screen doors in their place. ‘The insects are attracted by the light,’ said Cora, who spoke with a decidedly Southern accent and seldom actually finished off her words. ‘The house is air-conditioned, but Mr Link, he likes for the breeze to blow right through on days like this. He says it’s more healthy, and what Mr Link says goes.’

She smiled as she made this statement, proving she had a sense of humour, and Sara felt a little more reassured. If the housekeeper could joke about her employer, the atmosphere at Orchid Key couldn’t be all bad. Nevertheless, it did prompt her to wonder exactly what Tony Korda’s brother was like. Up until then, she had been more concerned in anticipating his son’s reaction to her, but now she found herself speculating what manner of man cared more about his business than his family. Physically, she assumed, he would resembled his brother. Tony Korda was not a handsome man, but she supposed he might be attractive to some women, who didn’t mind his affectations. Still, without the curl in his rather mousy hair, and the stylish clothes he seemed to favour, he would have been rather nondescript, and that was how she had pictured Lincoln Korda. A man of medium height and medium build, possibly running to fat, with that certain look of avidity that went with material success.

The entrance hall was marble-tiled and impressive, with an enormous chandelier suspended above their heads. There was a semicircular table, flanked by two crystal blue armchairs, set against the far wall, and two alabaster plinths, on which were set two enormous bowls of flowers, in the foreground. The hall was filled with the fragrance of the flowers and, admiring their waxed petals, Sara was compelled to ask if they were orchids.

‘Miss Michelle’s father used to cultivate them in the glasshouse out back,’ said Cora, after acknowledging that they were. ‘It was Mr de Vere who built this house and named the island Orchid Key.’ She shrugged. ‘I guessed he spent too much time cultivating his orchids. Things went bad, and after Mr Link married Miss Michelle, he bought it from her father. But Mr Link doesn’t have time to grow orchids. These days, the gardeners do that.’

‘I see.’

Sara felt a pang of pity for the man who had evidently spent so much time and effort in making this such a beautiful home. Was that why Michelle and Lincoln Korda had split up? Because they wanted different things from life?

She was being fanciful, and pushing her unwarranted thoughts aside, she hurried up the stairs after the housekeeper. But, in spite of her haste, she found her progress hindered by her need to take in her surroundings, to absorb them, to tell herself somewhat incredulously that for the next few weeks—possibly months—this was to be her home.

The hand-wrought iron balustrade curved above arched recesses giving access to the ground floor apartments of the house. A corridor disappeared to the right, with windows overlooking the gardens at the front, and beneath the stairs another passageway led towards the back. A gallery of pastel-tinted watercolours mounted the silk-covered wall beside her, and she didn’t need to examine their legendary signatures to see for herself that they were originals. She doubted there was anything in the house that wasn’t totally authentic, except perhaps its occupants, she reflected somewhat cynically.

The rooms which had been alotted to her overlooked the beach. A large sitting room, with its own dining area, was adjoined by an equally large bedroom, the colonial-style fourposter set on a shallow dais, allowing its occupant to view the ocean without even sitting up. Sara was still absorbing the view from the balcony outside when Cora left her, announcing that she would send up a tray of tea.

‘You might like to have dinner in your room this evening,’ she added, and Sara wondered if the suggestion was as innocent as it seemed. But it probably would be wiser to have this time to take her bearings, she conceded shrewdly. Not to rush into anything until she knew exactly what was expected of her.

Her suitcase and carpet bag were delivered as she was rinsing her face in the bathroom. She had spent some time admiring the circular bath, with its jacuzzi attachment, and delighting in the gold-plated luxury of the taps, but the sound of the outer door closing was a sobering signal. Casting a regretful glance at tinted mirrors and intriguing crystal flagons, set on a fluted crystal shelf, Sara went to unpack her belongings, promising herself a more thorough exploration when she had the time.

As well as her luggage, a tray of tea and some tiny shortbread biscuits resided on the table beside the bed. Evidently, whoever had brought the tea had assumed she could drink it while she unpacked her cases, and Sara blessed their thoughtfulness as she poured herself a cup.

Fifteen minutes later, with the more crushable items of her wardrobe hung in the capacious walk-in closet, Sara decided the rest could wait. Stepping out of her trousers, she tossed them on to the pale green velvet chaise-longue that was set between the long windows, and doffing her shirt, stretched on the bed in only her bra and bikini briefs. She felt so weary, suddenly, and the fading light was very restful. If she could just close her eyes for a few minutes, she thought, and knew no more …

She awakened, chilled, to the dazed lack of awareness strange surroundings invariably invoked. She lay for several minutes in the darkness, struggling with a sense of panic, and then relaxed again at the soothing, sucking sound of the ocean, just beyond the bedroom windows. Of course! She was in Florida. At Lincoln Korda’s house on Orchid Key, to be precise. But what time was it? And how long had she slept? She had taken off her watch to have her wash, and she evidently hadn’t replaced it.

Shivering, she groped for the lamp beside the bed, which she was sure she had noticed earlier. Its light was attractively muted by a Thai silk shade, a shade she noticed—quite inconsequently at this moment—which matched the coverlet on her bed and the long drapes at the windows.

There was a clock beside the bed, too, and blinking, Sara discovered it was almost twelve o’clock. Midnight! she breathed, inaudibly. She had slept for almost six hours! What must the rest of the household be thinking of her? Not least, Jeff himself!

She was hungry, too, ravenously so, the kind of hunger that comes from not having eaten a proper meal for more than twelve hours. It had been approximately two p.m. London time when lunch had been served on the plane and, apart from the fact that she had been too excited to do justice to what was offered, that was almost fifteen hours ago now. Oh, there had been a few sandwiches offered as afternoon tea before they landed at Miami, but nothing to satisfy an appetite sharpened by anxiety. Even the tray of tea, which she had enjoyed earlier, had been taken away as she slept, preventing her from salving the ache inside her with the few shortbreads that were left.

The arrival of a rather large moth curtailed her remorseful musings. Realising that the door to the balcony was still open and that the light was attracting unwelcome visitors, she scrambled off the bed to go and close it. But before she did so, she stepped out on to the balcony, delighting in the unaccustomed warmth of the night air. Cooler than in the day, obviously, but far more appealing, the sky overhead absolutely bedizened with stars. She couldn’t see the ocean, but she could hear it more clearly here, the shushing sound she had identified earlier accompanied by the deeper vibration of the waves. What a heavenly place, she though romantically. How could anyone choose to live in New York when this place was waiting?

Resting her hands on the iron railing, she looked down, and as she did so, she saw the sudden flaring of a cigarette in the darkness. She was momentarily shocked, was instinctively drawing back, when her common sense told her that whoever it was could not see her. She didn’t have the glow of a cigarette end to give her away, and sheltered by the balcony, the illumination from her room was visible only to the insects. The man—woman? whoever it was, was seated directly below her, and forcing her eyes to adjust themselves to the gloom, she was astounded to make out the unmistakable lines of a wheelchair. A wheelchair!

Her heart flipped over. Was it Jeff down there? Did he find it difficult to sleep, and use this time to exercise the abilities he spurned during daylight hours? It was a tantalising thought. And it could be true. Was it possible his refusal to accept rehabilitation was only an act? Had she inadvertently stumbled on his secret?

She stepped back from the rail, breathing unevenly. She had to find out. There was no way she could mention her suspicions to Grant Masters without at least trying to prove that she was right. Pulling the balcony doors closed behind her, she drew the curtains and then put on the corded pants she had shed earlier. A pink sweat shirt was easier than the shirt she had worn to travel in, and fretting at the time she was wasting, she spent more precious minutes brushing the now mussed length of her hair. Deciding she couldn’t afford to wait while she plaited her hair, she tied it back with a silk scarf and after slipping her feet into low-heeled sandals, she opened her door.

She had no definite idea about how to reach the back terrace, but trusting her instincts, she made her way to the galleried landing. Low lights illuminated the hall below, and trying to control her breathing, Sara sped silently down the stairs.

Rejecting the corridor at the front of the house, she headed for the archway beneath the curve of the stairs, feeling a thrill of excitement at the unmistakable draught of air that greeted her. She was on the right track, she was sure of it, and as if to confirm her belief, she turned a corner and saw the darkness of the terrace only a few yards ahead of her.

Immediately, her feet slowed, and in spite of the silence all around her, she felt unbelievably exposed. She glanced back over her shoulder, half expecting someone must be following her, but she was alone in the lamplight shadows. All the same, there was something uncomfortably alien about what she was doing, and a sudden twinge in her foot reminded her she was unused to abusing her ankle in this way. Running down the stairs, she had given little thought to its weakness, but now she leaned against the wall, wishing she had not been so precipitate.

Still, she was here now, and unless she wanted Jeff to come upon her as he returned to his room, she had to make an effort. Having come so far, it would be foolish to return to her room without at least trying to see him, and moving slowly, she edged towards the terrace.

A mesh door, similar to the ones that protected the front of the house, stood ajar, and guessing the progress of the wheelchair made opening doors difficult, she was encouraged. Besides, the open door enabled her to emerge unnoticed, though her heart was beating so loudly, she was sure it must be audible.

Ahead of her, something glinted in the darkness, and she realised it was a swimming pool. It was just as well she hadn’t tumbled into that, she thought wryly. What a way to announce her presence! She could just imagine Grant Masters’ anger if she crowned her arrival by destroying Jeff’s efforts to cure himself.

Inching forward, she found herself on a flagged patio, which was doubtless a suntrap in daylight. The ribbed outlines of low chairs around the pool seemed to point to this conclusion, though the obvious absence of any cushions gave them a skeletal appearance. But where was the wheelchair? she wondered uneasily. Surely, after all her efforts, Jeff had not abandoned his vigil.

And then she saw it. Set some yards along the terrace, the chair still rested below the level of the balcony, and even as she gazed towards it, she saw the revealing circle of fire as his cigarette was drawn to his mouth.

If only she could see more clearly, she thought frustratedly, cursing the moonless night. She wondered what he would do if she spoke to him. Would he be shocked, or angry, or both? Dared she intrude on his isolation? Or might she, as she had thought earlier, destroy any desire to recover his strength by exposing the frailty of his efforts?

‘Why don’t you come and join me?’ he asked suddenly, evidently aware of her quivering observation, and Sara gulped. His voice, coming to her in the darkness, was low and harsh and attractive, and undeniably mature for a boy of his age. ‘What were you hoping to see, I wonder?’ he added, turning his head towards her. ‘Will you be making a habit of sneaking about the place, when you’re supposed to be in bed? If so, I’ll have to watch I don’t do anything to shock you!’

‘I wasn’t sneaking …’ Sara took an unsteady breath, and then continued: ‘How—how did you know I was here? How did you know it was me?’

‘Call it—intuition.’ He shifted slightly towards her, and moving closer, she saw the long, useless legs stretched in front of him. ‘Miss—Fielding, isn’t it? Tony’s final solution! Forgive me if I beg to doubt his confidence. He always was hopelessly romantic!’

The harsh disturbing voice scraped on Sara’s senses, but in spite of the cynicism of his words, she knew a kindling surge of encouragement. Surely if Jeff could speak to her like this, he was not the grim, despairing youth she had been led to expect. If, by exposing his nightly ritual, she had pierced the surface shell he evidently presented to the other members of the household, surely she must stand some chance of reasoning with him.

Her excitement was blunted somewhat, however, by the sudden reminder of why she was here. If Jeff was making such obvious progress, why had he attempted to take his own life less than two weeks ago? Why, if he could speak so philosophically about his uncle, had Tony told her no psychiatrist could reach him?

She was still pondering this enigma, when the wheelchair squeaked and its occupant rose easily to his feet. ‘Forgive me.’ The tall, lean man who had vacated the seat sent the remains of what he had been smoking shooting away in an arc across the terrace. And as Sara backed away in sudden panic, he came towards her holding out his hand. ‘I should have introduced myself,’ he finished easily. ‘I’m Lincoln Korda. And you, I believe, are a friend of my brother.’

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