Night Heat. Anne Mather
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