Night Heat. Anne Mather
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laid for breakfast. Fresh orange juice, with ice still floating in the jug, croissants keeping warm over a small flame, butter, preserves, and a jug of thick cream. Hearing her tummy rumble in anticipation, Sara poured herself a tall glass of juice, and after savouring its texture, she buttered a crisp golden roll.
It was a heavenly spot, she thought, looking about her. The flagged patio was set with tubs of geraniums, fuchsias, and lilies, smilax spilling its trailing fronds over tub and paving alike. A scarlet hibiscus rioted over a trellis separating the patio from the lawned area beyond, and beside the pool, wooden cabanas were disguised beneath a patchwork of bougainvillaea. The bare bones of the pool furniture she had glimpsed the night before were now comfortably covered with cushions, which matched the awning over her head. There were chairs and loungers, and even a swinging sun-bed, its pillowed couch swaying in the breeze.
The light from the pool was dazzling, and she didn’t realise the maid had returned until the jug of coffee she had brought was set down on the table ‘Now then,’ she said, ‘how would you like scrambled eggs, or French toast, or waffles? Or maybe you’d prefer some pancakes, with a nice jug of maple syrup——’
‘Oh, no!’ Sara shook her head. ‘No, thank you. This is fine, honestly.’ She indicated the croissant she was eating. ‘These are delicious!’
‘Made this morning,’ agreed the maid, with a grin. ‘You sure now? It’s no trouble.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Sara, with an answering smile, and the woman shrugged expressively before sauntering away.
Sara poured herself some coffee, added cream, and then resting her elbows on the tabletop sipped the aromatic beverage slowly. The food she had consumed, the warmth of the day, the unspoiled beauty of her surroundings, soothed her, and she thought how delightful it would be to just soak up the sun. Even Jeff could do that, she reflected thoughtfully, feeling an unwelcome sense of apprehension at the daunting task ahead of her.
‘Good morning!’
Once again she had not heard anyone’s approach, and she looked up to find Grant Masters striding across the patio towards her. In an open-necked shirt and Bermuda shorts, he looked more like a tourist than she did, and she wondered if Lincoln Korda had spoken to him before his dawn departure.
‘Good morning,’ she answered, putting down her coffee cup as he pulled out the chair beside her and lounged into it. ‘It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?’
‘That’s why people like Florida,’ he agreed, helping himself to some juice. ‘Did you sleep well? You must have been exhausted.’
Sara didn’t know how to answer him. ‘I—er—I woke up around midnight,’ she offered, giving him the opportunity to tell her that he knew that, but he didn’t. ‘I’m sorry if I caused a problem. I—er—I didn’t realise Mr Korda was here.’
‘Link?’ Masters gave her a swift look. ‘How do you know Link was here? You didn’t meet him—did you?’
Oh, lord! Now what? Sara moistened her lips. The—er—the maid said something about—about him leaving early this morning,’ she mumbled, feeling the colour mount in her cheeks. For heaven’s sake, why hadn’t she just told him outright that she had mistaken Lincoln Korda for his son in the wheelchair? The wheelchair which, she saw with a hasty turn of her head, had disappeared this morning. ‘Um—was I supposed to meet him?’
Grant Masters frowned. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so, but he did arrive here last night with that intention.’
‘Last night?’ Sara couldn’t hide her astonishment, and Masters shrugged.
‘A trip down here is no big deal to a man like Mr Korda,’ he remarked, reaching for the coffee pot. ‘I guess you’re not used to someone flying over a thousand miles to see his son, and flying back the next morning, huh?’
‘Not very,’ admitted Sara wryly. Then, remembering the conversation she had had with him, she commented: ‘He mustn’t need a lot of sleep.’
‘I guess he sleeps on the plane. It does have a bed.’ And at her astounded expression: ‘The plane belongs to Mr Korda, Sara. He doesn’t have the time to use the scheduled service.’
‘Oh! Oh, I see.’ But it was a bit too much for her to take in. Private planes; private yachts; private islands; it made her wonder how she had had the nerve to stand up to him.
‘So …’ Masters buttered a croissant. ‘Have you settled in? Are your rooms comfortable?’
‘Very,’ Sara assured him, glad to get on to firmer ground. ‘I’ve never slept in a bed on a pedestal before!’
‘And it’s quite some view, isn’t it?’ Masters agreed. ‘If I owned this place, I don’t think I’d ever want to leave.’
‘No.’ Sara silently endorsed his words, content for the moment just to gaze at the ocean.
‘Of course, it depends who you share it with,’ Masters commented after a moment. Wiping his hands on a napkin, he gestured towards the house. ‘I guess this place doesn’t have too many happy associations for Link.’
Sara turned to look at him. ‘No?’ she ventured enquiringly, and consoled her conscience with the thought that the more she knew of the boy’s background, the easier it would be to understand his personality.
‘Mmm.’ Masters seemed to be thinking. ‘You see, the house and the island used to belong to Mrs Korda’s parents.’
‘I know.’ And in explanation: ‘Cora told me.’
‘Ah.’ He grimaced. ‘Well, that’s true. Link stepped in when Michelle’s father got into financial difficulties. If he hadn’t, the old man could have ended up in jail. He was an attorney. He used to handle wills, probate, that kind of thing. But he’d been defrauding his clients for years, setting up trusts in his own name, and using clients’ funds to finance his fancy life style. He was facing an indictment for grand larceny when Link bailed him out. Don’t ask me how he did it, because I don’t know. Maybe he bought up the jury, or the judge—or both.’ He grunted. ‘All I know is, old man de Vere was allowed to live out his days here, on Orchid Key.’
Sara moistened her lips. ‘He’s dead now?’
‘The old man? Yes. I guess he should never have married Michelle’s mother. She’s years younger than he was, and my guess is it was Mrs de Vere who spent all the money.’
She hesitated. ‘Does she still live here?’
‘Hell, no!’ Masters snorted. ‘Mrs de Vere’s like her daughter. Orchid Key’s too quiet for her.’ He paused. ‘She never comes here now.’
‘Not even to see her grandson?’ Sara frowned.
‘Not even for that,’ replied Master wryly. ‘She married again some years ago, and I somehow think a nineteen-year-old grandson would cramp her style.’
Sara was amazed, but she kept her own counsel. She still had questions, of course, dozens of them, not least how Jeff came to have his accident, where he was living at the time, and if it was his choice to live at Orchid Key, or his father’s. But they could wait. Right now, it was time to make the acquaintance of her charge.
Taking a deep breath, she said: ‘Tell me about Jeff: where are his rooms? On the ground floor, I suppose, if he’s confined to bed.’
‘Jeff?’ Grant Masters grimaced. ‘No, Jeff’s rooms aren’t on the first floor—they’re upstairs. There’s a lift at the other end of the hall. I’ll get Cora to show you around later, so you can find your way about without it being a problem.’
‘Thank you.’ But Sara had less interest in the house than its occupant. ‘When can I see Jeff?’
Masters finished his coffee before replying. But then, putting aside his napkin, he made a careless gesture. ‘Whenever you want, I guess. But there’s