Night Heat. Anne Mather
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.
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