Night Heat. Anne MatherЧитать онлайн книгу.
with offices in Kilburn High Street? It’s hardly high-priority!’
She stared at him. ‘How do you know where I work?’
‘How do you think? I asked Vicki.’
Sara struggled with a feeling of indignation. ‘She had no right to tell you.’
‘Why not? She didn’t know why I was asking.’
‘You’ve spoken to her today?’
‘Yes,’ Tony grunted. ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t tell her why I wanted to know. I just slipped it into the conversation.’
She shook her head. ‘Well, you must know I’m going to refuse.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ She made a helpless gesture. ‘Well—because it’s crazy! Asking me to go out to Florida to meet someone I don’t even know! Someone who might take a dislike to me at first sight.’
‘He won’t.’
‘How do you know that?’
Tony sighed. ‘Haven’t you looked at yourself lately, Sara?’
She was running short of excuses, and she wondered rather impatiently why she felt she needed one. It was a ludicrous idea, asking her to go to Florida, to try and reason with some boy who, despite his injuries, was probably far more capable of handling his own life than she was. But she hadn’t tried to kill herself, a small voice reminded her insistently. She wasn’t alone in some palatial Southern mansion which, no matter how luxurious, apparently bore all the hallmarks of a prison.
‘But what about your brother?’ she persisted, fighting the insidious demands of compassion. ‘And your sister-in-law? Don’t they have any ideas of their own?’
Tony was silent for so long that Sara began to wonder whether the noisy juke-box had drowned out her words. But, eventually, he spoke again. ‘Michelle’s no good around sick people,’ he admitted at last. ‘It’s not her fault, she’s always been that way. And Link just doesn’t have the time.’
‘For his own son?’
‘For anyone,’ said Tony obliquely. ‘Well? What do you say? Is typing someone’s letters really more important than saving someone’s life?’
PUT like that, there had really been no answer to it, reflected Sara some ten days later, feeling the rush of adrenalin as the big jet made its approach to Miami International Airport. Melodramatic, maybe; unfair, perhaps; but Sara had acknowledged that she really could not refuse.
Oh, it was easy enough to argue that Tony had had no right to ask her, that he had put her in an impossible position by insisting that she was the only one who could help. And in all honesty, she should have refused because of the responsibility he was putting on her. But from the beginning she had been interested in the boy’s case, and shouldn’t she really blame herself for being tempted by the challenge?
Besides, once she accepted the inevitability of her decision, she had been unable to deny a sense of anticipation at the prospect of leaving England in November for the tropical warmth of this most southerly state. Even Vicki’s somewhat uncharacteristic lack of enthusiasm had been unable to douse her excitement, and only now, as she approached her destination, did more practical considerations gain the upper hand.
What did she know about psychological problems, after all? It was all very well for Tony to assure her that Jeff was looking forward to her arrival, but what faith could she put in that when in the next breath he had told her the boy was morose and well-nigh unapproachable! He had said that both his brother and his estranged wife were enthusiastic about her arrival, but he had also said that she shouldn’t take any notice if tempers sometimes got frayed. Emotions could apparently run high in the Korda household, and on those occasions she should make herself scarce.
It was all a little daunting to someone who had never even left England before, let alone to cross the vastness of the Atlantic, and only the knowledge of the return ticket in her handbag gave her the confidence to leave the plane.
If only Tony had been able to accompany her, she thought. If only he had been around to introduce her to his relatives, or at least ease her entry into the household. But Tony had only been able to spend a couple of days in America. He was a busy man, and he had to get back to England to fulfil his obligations; or so he said.
‘My guess is he’s as eager to pass the buck as his brother!’ Vicki had commented acidly. ‘Making time with a teenage schizophrenic can’t be fun for anyone. I think you’re crazy for letting him put you on the spot!’
Sara had argued that Jeff was not a schizophrenic, that there was no question of a split personality, but what did she really know? What kind of person—what kind of teenager—swallowed an overdose of some highly dangerous substance, that only the prompt action of the hospital medics had prevented from proving lethal? His situation seemed harrowing, it was true, but it was not desperate. There were obviously thousands—millions—of people worse off than he was. But as he had probably heard that particular argument many times before, it was going to require much ingenuity on her part to make it sound convincing.
Sara was not immediately aware of the humidity when she left the plane. The airport buildings were all air-conditioned, and only the scent of overheated humanity gave her an inkling of what she might have to face outside. The airport was crowded, too. A sea of dark, Hispanic faces, with only a smattering of Caucasian among them. Two flights—one from Puerto Rico, and the other from Colombia—had landed ahead of the British Airways jet, and in the confusion, Sara despaired of ever finding whoever had come to meet her.
Amazingly enough, she eventually found herself in the baggage collection area, and rescuing her suitcase and the rather scruffy carpet bag that contained her personal belongings from the carousel, she made her way to the exit. If no one had come to meet her, she was contemplating taking the next flight back to England, and she half hoped the worst would happen. Just for a moment, the unfamiliarity of her surroundings caused a wave of homesickness to sweep over her, and she would have given anything to be back in London, fog and all.
The man in the chauffeur’s uniform, carrying the card that read ‘Sara Fielding’, almost passed her by. She didn’t know what she was looking for exactly, but it was not a cardboard notice displaying her name.
‘I—er—I’m Sara Fielding,’ she admitted reluctantly, stopping in front of him. ‘Do you—I mean—have you any means of identification?’
The tall black man thrust his hand inside his jacket, and briefly Sara was reminded of all those television series, where such an action heralded the producing of a gun. But all the chauffeur produced was a driver’s licence, showing his photograph and giving his name as Henry Isaiah Wesley, and a letter introducing the man from someone who signed himself Grant Masters.
‘If you’ll follow me,’ the chauffeur suggested, after Sara’s faint smile had assured him that his credentials had been accepted, and taking her suitcase and carpet bag from her, he set off across the concourse.
The car—a huge black limousine, with smoked glass windows—was waiting, double-banked, in a no-waiting area. But apparently its size, or perhaps its owner, warranted some respect, for the police patrolman who directed them out into the stream of traffic paid no heed to any offence which might have been committed. And to Sara, bemused by the switch from air-conditioned terminal to equally air-conditioned limousine, with a blast of hot humidity in between, it was all part and parcel of the chaotic confusion of her arrival.
Nevertheless, she couldn’t help but relax in the cushioned comfort of the car. With her feet resting on a carpet, with a pile as thick as any she had ever seen, and her limbs responding to the yielding softness of fine leather, she was hardly aware of what was going on outside the windows; and not until they turned into the multi-laned elegance of a highway, lined with stately