moved her head in a helpless, negative gesture. ‘Diane—Diane must have planned this,’ she said incredulously. ‘She must have known I might try to get in touch with her …’
‘Oh, come on.’ He sounded really impatient now. ‘Don’t you think this has gone on long enough? When you passed out just now I should have realised that no stranger was likely to react so positively. You were scared, Diane, admit it! Scared out of your tiny mind! But not half as scared as you ought to be now, knowing I know that you’ve burned your bridges behind you.’
Sara felt unutterably weary suddenly. It had all been too much for her. Much too much. The retort that had she known Diane would not be there, she would hardly have suggested ringing the theatre, trembled on her lips, but was never spoken. Michael Tregower would doubtless decide she had only been playing for time, for whatever defence she raised, he tore it down ruthlessly.
‘I think we should eat, don’t you?’ he declared coldly, and with a helpless movement of her shoulders, she implied consent.
The dining room was at the back of the house, and here the blinds had been drawn to allow the last light of the evening to penetrate its shadowy corners. A lamp on a long sideboard gave illumination, and the table was laid with a white damask cloth and silver cutlery. There was a savoury quiche, a dish of cold meats, a bowl of tossed salad, and some crusty rolls. To follow there was a strawberry gateau, and Sara wished she felt more able to do justice to it. But her mind buzzed with the possibilities of what Michael Tregower intended to do with her—with Diane—and it was difficult to concentrate on anything with that nagging anxiety bringing a hectic flush to her cheeks.
‘Relax,’ he remarked unsympathetically, leaving her to seat herself on one of the tapestry-covered chairs. ‘For a woman of your age and apparent experience, you’re ridiculously sensitive. Or is that an act, too? How does one tell?’
Sara subsided on to the chair at the opposite end of the table from the one he had taken, and made no attempt to answer him. But her silence was evidently no more acceptable than her diffidence, for he stifled a curse as he rose again and came to take the seat at right angles to her.
‘Surely this is cosier,’ he remarked with cold mockery, and her hands tightened automatically in her lap.
She supposed she ought to tell him that as well as being someone else, she was also suffering from a rare heart disease that, while allowing her to lead a normal life in ordinary circumstances could, given sufficient stimulation, cause valvular failure and, ultimately, death. It was a condition she had lived with all her life, or at least as long as she could remember. Rheumatic fever when she was scarcely out of infancy had affected her heart, narrowing the valves and preventing them from closing properly. Regular care and the use of drugs had minimised the effects of the disease, but it was always there, and in cases of extreme stress her heart could cease to function entirely. Sara seldom talked about it. Indeed, if anything, she was ashamed of the weakness that her mother had guarded so vigilantly. After her mother’s death, she had felt a sense of freedom from the knowledge, but Tony’s defection and her subsequent withdrawal had reminded her of her vulnerability.
Now this man, Michael Tregower, was tormenting her, goading her, threatening her with she knew not what. And he had no idea of the risks he was running …
‘Eat, can’t you?’ he said now, helping himself to a generous slice of the savoury flan, and ladling salad on to his plate. ‘The food’s good—I can vouch for it. I’ve been living here for almost a week now, and Mrs Penworthy has done me proud.’
‘Mrs Penworthy!’
Sara looked up with expectant eyes, and his lips thinned. ‘Oh, no,’ he said irritably. ‘You’re not going to tell me that the housekeeper will recognise you! Sorry. She’s only been looking after the place since Adam went to live in Praia do Lobo. I doubt if you ever met her.’
Sara hunched her shoulders. ‘Haven’t you ever seen Diane?’ she protested. ‘Why, she—she’s famous!’
‘I’m afraid I’ve been living in South America for the past fifteen years.’ Did that account for his swarthy complexion? ‘Like I told you, I was always the black sheep of the family. Old Adam, our father that is, never wanted to see me around. I reminded him too strongly of his ill-spent youth.’
Sara sighed. ‘I see.’ She paused. ‘Why did—why did Adam go to live in—where was it you said.’
‘Praia do Lobo. Don’t pretend you don’t know. He inherited the villa there.’
‘Inherited? From whom?’
His eyes narrowed, ‘All right, I’ll play the game, if you like. From Tio Jorge, of course—our father’s uncle. You knew Adam’s grandmother was Portuguese, didn’t you?’
‘No.’ But that explained the dark blood. ‘I tell you, I only know what Diane told me.’
‘Who better?’ He shrugged sardonically. ‘Well—our grandmother came from Coimbra. It’s quite a famous town in Portugal.’
‘I know of Coimbra,’ retorted Sara, somewhat tartly. ‘My education has not been neglected.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ His lips curled. ‘So Jorge de los Santos was our grandmother’s brother. His wife, Isabella, is matriarch now.’
‘I understand,’ Sara nodded.
‘As it happens, I’ve been more involved with that side of the family than Adam ever was.’ His eyes narrowed broodingly as he stared into the gathering dust. ‘You may know that Brazil is a Portuguese-speaking country. I work there, for the Los Santos mining corporation.’
‘Mining?’ Sara was interested in spite of herself. ‘What kind of mining?’
‘Diamonds—industrial diamonds,’ he added evenly. ‘The Tregowers have always been involved in mining of one kind or another. You’ll know about the tin mines, I’m sure.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Yes. Well, I was sent to Portugal when I was eighteen, to the university of Coimbra. For some reason my father decided that his mistakes were best kept out of the country. In any event, he did me a favour. Old Isabella likes me. She says I remind her of her late husband. It was she who sent me to Brazil.’
‘I see.’
‘Do you? I wonder?’ His lips twisted. ‘And Adam never mentioned me to you?’
‘I tell you—’
‘Yes, I know.’ He silenced her with a look. ‘So—tell me about—Sara Fortune. What does she do? Does she have a job? Or is she an actress, too?’
‘Acting is working,’ Sara countered, almost without thinking, and then looked down at her hands in annoyance. ‘I—I work for a publishing house—the Lincoln Press. I—er—I’m an editor.’
‘Really?’ He forked a slice of ham on to his plate. ‘An editor. How interesting!’
‘It is interesting,’ exclaimed Sara hotly. ‘I love my work.’
‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ he retorted thinly, and she subsided again. ‘I suggest you have some food,’ he added, as she continued
