come on …’ There was nothing to pity about him now. Standing squarely between her and the door, he epitomised the dominant male, hard and masculine, and totally without sympathy. ‘I know you, Diane. I know everything about you. I’ve listened, until I’m sick to my teeth, to stories about your charm, your looks, your likes, your dislikes, your absorption with self, self, self …’
‘No!’
‘I’ve watched a man disintegrate before my eyes, lose all his confidence, his self-respect, even his will to live, while he spoke of your needs, your demands, your success. Your selfishness, more like, your flawed image, your destructive self-indulgence that must be satisfied, whatever the cost!’
Sara didn’t understand all of this. ‘You—you watched a man …’ she whispered unsteadily, and with a savage oath he tore off the glasses which had concealed his eyes, revealing them to be a brilliant shade of amber, burning now with the hard light of malevolence.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said, as she stood there staring uneasily at him, realising weakly that he could see. And why not? This was not Adam Tregower—she realised that now. The resemblance was there, the features followed a similar pattern and given the half light she could be forgiven for mistaking his identity. But this man’s face was harder, stronger—younger. A relative, no doubt, but not Diane’s husband.
‘You—you’re not—’ she stammered, wondering why the knowledge gave her no relief, and he nodded.
‘No, I’m not,’ he agreed harshly. ‘I’m Michael Tregower. Adam is—was—my brother!’
‘YOU LOOK SHOCKED!’ he declared a few moments later, as Sara continued to stare disbelievingly at him. ‘Didn’t you know Adam had a brother? Perhaps not. It doesn’t surprise me. I was always considered the skeleton in the Tregower family cupboard.’
Sara licked her dry lips. ‘Adam—Adam did not have a brother,’ she declared, faintly but succinctly. ‘I know. Di—Diane told me.’
‘Really.’ Plainly he did not believe the latter half of her statement. ‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but he did. A half-brother, at least. His—our—father was not averse to sowing a few wild oats of his own.’
‘You mean—you mean—’
‘I’m a bastard? Yes, that’s right. Bastard by name, and bastard by nature, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Look …’ Sara sought desperately for words to explain all this, ‘I don’t care who you are or why you’re here. I don’t even care what you think of Diane or—or the way she behaved towards your brother. What I must repeat is that—that I am not her. My—my name is Sara Fortune, as I’ve told you—’
‘Oh, spare me the dramatics, will you?’ Michael Tregower reached into his pocket and drew out a case of narrow cigars, placing one between his teeth while he sought for his lighter. ‘We both know who you are and why you’re here—’
‘No. No, you don’t—’
‘I beg to differ.’
‘Mr Tregower! Please! Listen to me!’ Sara took an involuntary step forward, and as she did so his hand came out and caught her wrist, his thumb pressing cruelly against the veins on the inner side of her arm.
‘No,’ he denied. ‘You listen to me. Adam is dead, didn’t you understand what I said earlier?’
‘ No !’
‘Yes.’ Michael thrust his dark face closer to hers, the odour of whisky on his breath invading her nostrils. ‘Dead, do you understand? By his own hand. And there was nothing I, or any of us, could do about it.’
‘No!’
Sara moved her head futilely from side to side, her long pale hair contrasting with the darkness of her jacket, as the blood draining out of her hand had a curiously numbing effect. Staring into Michael Tregower’s vengeful features she had the uncanny notion that he intended to kill her, too. That that was why he had sent for Diane, why he had threatened her in some way that forced her hand, and brought her down here. Only she hadn’t come. She had sent Sara instead, hoping perhaps that the blind husband she had not seen for seven years would be unable to distinguish between them. And it might have worked, bearing in mind Sara’s own instinctive compassion for the man she had thought to be Diane’s husband. Whatever reason he had had for sending for his wife, she had banked on her counter-action to thwart it, though what excuse she could give Sara the girl had yet to wonder.
‘I tell you, I’m not Diane Tregower!’ she cried, fear forcing the note of panic into her voice. ‘You’ve made a terrible mistake!’
‘No, Diane. You made the mistake in coming here,’ he declared, a mocking smile curling his lips. ‘Really, Diane, I expected better of you. Were you really disturbed by my little note? So disturbed that you made a special journey down here—alone?’
‘You—you sent for Diane?’ Sara choked, trying impotently to free herself, but he was merciless.
‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘Haven’t I just told you? Adam’s dead. He died three weeks ago. Three weeks in which I’ve thought of little else but the pleasure of getting my hands around your selfish little neck!’
Sara’s breathing had quickened alarmingly, and she could hear her heart thundering in her ears. Her blood pressure must be sky-high, she thought, though her own health had never meant less to her. Even so, a slightly hazy feeling was invading the corners of her eyes, and although she struggled to fight the wave of faintness that was overtaking her, the encompassing blackness engulfed her like a welcoming shroud.
She came round to find herself lying on a dust-sheeted sofa in a room she had not seen before. She guessed it had been a sitting room or a drawing room, and judging by the shapes beneath their ghostly covers, there were other sofas and armchairs, and was that a grand piano in the window embrasure?
The dizziness had subsided, and she was edging up on to one elbow when Michael Tregower came into the room carrying a glass of what looked like water. His face was paler, too, than she remembered it, but his eyes were just as hard when they alighted on her. He came to stand over her as she flopped back weakly against the cushions, and her heart began its familiar tattoo at the flintlike coldness of his expression.
‘Are you all right?’ he demanded, but it was more of an accusation than an enquiry.
‘What—what happened?’ she asked, playing for time, and grim lines bracketed his mouth.
‘I apparently frightened you so much, you fainted,’ he declared, contemptuously, offering her the glass and when she declined, disposing of it on to the mantelshelf, which was not shrouded. ‘Or was that affected, too? If so, you’re a better actress than even I gave you credit for being.’
Sara swung her legs rather shakily to the floor and sat up. His callousness almost equalled Diane’s, she thought, half deciding they deserved one another. But then, remembering the murderous glint in his eyes when he had spoken of his brother’s wife, she resolved not to give in to petty
