Anne Mather - Night Heat

‘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.

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.