Sara gazed up at him in amazement.
‘Eat?’
‘Why not? Mrs Penworthy’s left us a cold meal in the dining room. We might as well reinforce ourselves for the night ahead.’
Sara shook her head helplessly, her eyes drawn to him in spite of her revulsion to his cruelty. How old was he? she wondered. Thirty-two, thirty-three? Was he married? Or had he avoided that state after his brother’s misfortunes? Whatever, there had to have been women in his life and his remarks about the night ahead filled her with alarm. Somehow she had to resolve this unpleasant situation before anything further happened, and getting rather unsteadily to her feet she said:
‘Where’s my handbag?’
‘Your handbag?’ Michael Tregower thrust his hands into the waistline pockets of the moleskin pants he was wearing. Close-fitting as they were, they outlined every muscle of his powerful thighs, and she guessed with a feeling of disgust that in her place, Diane might not have found the prospect of his attention so unwelcome. ‘Why do you need your handbag? You’re not going anywhere.’
Sara held up her head. ‘Where is my handbag?’ she repeated, and after a moment’s grim scrutiny of her determined features he strode impatiently out of the room.
It crossed her mind to make for the front door while he was employed in finding her bag, but as her keys were in its pocket, it seemed a futile exercise. Instead she walked rather stiffly across to the hall door and looked out.
Already he was emerging from the library again, carrying her handbag, through which he was rummaging with scant regard for her possessions.
‘How—how dare you?’ she gulped, as he finished his search and thrust the bag into her hands, but he merely grimaced at her.
‘I wouldn’t put it past you to carry a gun, sister dear,’ he retorted mockingly, and she gazed openmouthed at his effrontery. A suddenly strange expression crossed his face as he looked down at her, and almost unwillingly he reached out a hand to brush his knuckles down her cheek. She flinched away from his touch, but he was not offended, and his lips twisted with sardonic amusement. ‘I must admit,’ he drawled, ‘Adam had better taste than I gave him credit for. No wonder he found your defection so hard to take. In his position, I might even have done the same.’
‘I doubt it.’ Sara found she was trembling with indignation, but she couldn’t help it. She had never met a man who had treated her in this way, who held her femininity in such low regard. Owing to her health, and her mother’s obsessive care of her, her encounters with the opposite sex had been kept to a minimum until Tony appeared on the scene. Her mother’s death a year ago had left her in a state of limbo, and unaware of her weakness, Tony had come closer to her than any man had ever been allowed to do. That was until Diane chose to intervene, and now Sara’s withdrawal was as much an instinctive thing as an emotional one.
Michael Tregower was regarding her with guarded eyes. ‘Perhaps not,’ he agreed dryly. ‘No woman is worth that kind of sacrifice. Not even you, Diane.’
Clenching her teeth, Sara scrabbled round in her handbag and brought out her driving licence. ‘There,’ she said, thrusting it at him. ‘My name is Sara Fortune. That’s my licence.’
He took the plastic folder without protest, and flicked it open. ‘Sara Fortune,’ he read, with dark eyebrows slightly upraised. ‘Flat 3, Dolphin Court, West Kensington. Hmm, very interesting. Who is Sara Fortune, by the way? Your secretary? Wilmer’s?’
‘Lance Wilmer is my father’s cousin,’ declared Sara angrily. ‘I tell you, I’m Sara Fortune. Why won’t you believe me?’
Michael Tregower’s brows descended. ‘Did you honestly think producing a driving licence would convince me? My dear Diane, it occurs to me that if you’d had an accident around here, it might have been hard to explain exactly what you were doing in the area. People in your position often travel incognito, don’t they? So—you’ve adopted Miss Fortune’s identity, whoever she may be.’
Sara sighed. ‘Haven’t you ever seen Diane? Haven’t you ever met her? I’m nothing like her.’
‘Slim, blonde, green eyes; looks younger than her years …’ he shrugged. ‘You would seem to fit the description very well. Besides,’ his mouth tightened ominously, ‘Adam had a picture of you in his wallet. You’re Diane Tregower all right. I’d know that innocent face anywhere!’
Sara shook her head, thinking desperately. ‘But don’t you see?’ she said at last. ‘The picture Ad—your brother kept in his wallet was probably taken ten years ago. Diane’s changed. She’s older now. Where is the picture? Let me see it.’
‘I don’t have it,’ he declared coldly. ‘Adam would never let it out of his hands. After he was dead, it was buried with him.’
‘Oh.’ Sara felt as if the bottom was dropping out of her world. Then another idea came to her. ‘Ring,’ she said. ‘Telephone London. I have Diane’s number. Speak to her. See for yourself that she’s really there, not here. She—she’s appearing in a play at the moment.’ She glanced nervously at her wrist watch. ‘Ring the theatre. Surely that will convince you.’
He stared at her beneath lowering lids. ‘How do I know you don’t have someone waiting at the theatre, depending on this call?’
‘How could I?’ Sara was desperate. ‘How could I know what might happen?’
He scowled. ‘My note—the note you thought came from Adam was explicit enough. Come alone, it said. Tell no one where you’re going.’
Sara gulped. ‘Well—well, surely then, I wouldn’t—have told anyone …’
He was obviously hesitating, and she pressed a finger on her palpitating pulse. No excitement! she thought wryly. Dear God, she had had more excitement in the last half hour than she had had in her whole life before. She ought to be dismayed. But she wasn’t. She had never felt the adrenalin flooding along her veins as it was doing at the moment, and the exhilaration that accompanied it was intoxicating.
‘All right,’ he said at last, when she was beginning to give up hope of him ever agreeing to make the call. ‘What’s the number of the theatre? I’ll speak to the manager.’
Sara scribbled the number on a slip of paper and handed it him. She supposed, belatedly, that she ought to have pretended ignorance, or at least hesitated before writing down the figures. But it was too late now. He was already crossing the hall to pick up the green telephone that rested on the oak chest.
There was a moment’s delay while he contacted the operator at Torleven, and then Sara heard the reassuring burr of the bell ringing in the manager’s office. It seemed to ring for ages before it was answered, but when the receiver was lifted, she found herself holding her breath as Michael Tregower made his enquiry.
‘Not there?’ he said, a moment later, swinging round to stare grimly at Sara. ‘What? Taken ill? I’m sorry. Do you know when she’ll be back? Oh—I—er—I’m just a friend. A friend of a friend, as you might say. No. Sorry. Yes, of course. Goodbye.’
As the receiver was replaced, Sara felt her tongue clinging to the roof of her mouth. She didn’t have to be told that Diane wasn’t in the building. Even without Michael Tregower’s words, his expression said it all.
‘There’s
