of the savoury flan and set it on her plate. ‘Eat,’ he said. ‘Before I decide to starve you instead.’
Sara’s clenched fists rested on the table beside her plate. ‘Why won’t you answer me? Don’t I have a right to know?’
He continued eating for several more minutes, then he looked at her again. ‘You thought Adam had sent that message, remember? You didn’t even care that he had died!’
‘I didn’t know!’
Sara’s defensive words were instinctive, but damning as well. Michael Tregower’s lips curved contemptuously.
‘You see,’ he said. ‘Play the game long enough and the victim always betrays himself.’
‘Oh, you won’t listen to me, will you?’
‘No.’
‘I—I mean me! Sara Fortune. I didn’t know Adam was dead.’
‘As Sara Fortune, why should you?’
‘Why, because Diane is a friend. Because she would have told me if she knew.’
‘And of course, you didn’t know that Adam had been ill, seriously ill, so ill, in fact, that he wrote to you, begging you to come and see him!’
‘No!’ Sara could hardly believe it. Diane had said nothing about Adam’s writing to her. On the contrary, she had led Sara to believe that he was living quite happily in Portugal, enjoying the change of scene, the warmer weather. ‘When—when was this?’
‘At Christmas,’ replied Michael Tregower bleakly. ‘Exactly three months before he died—before he took his own life!’
‘No.’
‘Yes.’ He was implacable, and the increasing gravity of their discussion was bringing that frightening intensity back to his features. ‘He had cancer, you know. It killed his mother, and it would have killed him—eventually.’
‘Then—’
‘Stop there!’ he commanded harshly. ‘I know exactly what you’re going to say. But to the people who cared about him, his death was a tragedy, a terrible tragedy, that need never have happened. If you’d answered his appeal, gone to see him, shown him you were not completely heartless …’
Sara had no answer to that but the obvious one. She was not Diane, therefore she had not known. If she had known, if Diane had confided in her, she would have urged her to go and see the man without whom she might never have been given the opportunity to meet Lance Wilmer.
Picking up her fork, she toyed with the food on her plate, her appetite dwindling completely. Then, lifting her eyes, she said: ‘But—if—if Diane wouldn’t come to—to see Adam in Portugal, how—how could you persuade her to come here?’
‘You came,’ he retorted with cold mockery, and her lids hid her anxiety.
There was a bottle of wine in an ice bucket, and now Michael Tregower reached for this, filling both their glasses with a complete disregard for Sara’s protest.
‘Drink it,’ he said ominously. ‘You may need it.’
Sara shook her head. ‘What—what do you intend to do with me?’ She hesitated. ‘I assume you had some idea in mind.’
‘Oh, yes.’ His humour was sardonic. ‘Although I must admit you disappoint me in some ways.’
‘I—disappoint you?’
‘That’s right.’ Darkness had fallen completely now, and his features were menacing in the lamplight. ‘The woman Adam described to me was—different somehow.’
Sara held her breath. ‘How different?’
He frowned. ‘You’re—softer. I expected a hardbitten businesswoman, but instead you appear—gentle, almost fragile. Is it an act? Was that what my brother saw in you? That gentleness, that fragility? The velvet glove that hides the iron fist?’
Sara lifted her shoulders. ‘If I’m so different, why won’t you believe that I’m not Diane?’
‘Oh …’ he lay back in his chair, raising his glass to his lips, ‘I could be wrong. I’ve been wrong before. But I don’t think I am. I think you’re a very—astute woman, a very clever woman. But you won’t fool me. Not like you fooled Adam.’
‘So …’ Sara’s voice quivered a little, ‘we return to the point. What do you intend to do with me?’
‘Well …’ He put down his glass and leaned forward, resting his arms along the table at either side of his plate. ‘I’ll be honest. My initial intentions bordered on the homicidal. And when I got hold of you, I—well, let’s say, your timing was brilliant.’
‘My—timing?’
‘The faint. When you lost consciousness.’ His tongue brushed his lower lip. ‘Oh, yes, that was worthy of the true professional!’
Sara knew there was no point in denying that she had enforced her state of oblivion. To do so would entail explanations she was curiously loath to give. It was crazy, but there was something forbidden and exciting about what she was doing, and while she knew her mother—God rest her soul—would have been horrified by her recklessness, for the first time in her sheltered existence, she felt really alive! Not even Tony had been able to achieve that.
‘You—you’re saying you wanted to kill me?’ she breathed, the words scarcely audible, and thick lashes veiled his eyes.
‘Is that so surprising?’ he demanded. ‘Because of you, my brother lived a life of hell!’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’re sorry!’ He threw the words back at her. ‘Do you think that does any good? Saying you’re sorry? My God, you sit there looking the picture of innocence, with one man’s death on your conscience, and the prospect of another’s pending.’
Her arched brows drew together. ‘I—don’t understand.’
‘Don’t you?’ he sneered. ‘Why do you think I brought you down here? Not for a cosy get-together, believe me! I intended you should pay—one way or the other—for what you did to my brother.’
‘One way—or the other?’ she echoed.
‘Yes.’ He thrust himself back so that his chair tipped on to two legs. ‘Death—or convicted as the murderess you are. I can’t decide which affords the most satisfaction.’
Sara gasped. ‘You’re mad!’ The sense of excitement was souring. ‘I tell you, I’m not Diane.’
Michael Tregower shrugged, dropping back on to the four legs of the chair with an unnerving thud. ‘No—well, there’s no hurry. We’ve got plenty of time.’
‘Plenty of time?’ Sara stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean exactly what I say. We’re not going
