was roughly triangular in shape, with access by boat only available at the narrowest point. ‘We’re situated above a sandbar,’ Masters explained. ‘The ocean to the east of the island is too shallow to allow a craft of any size to approach that way, although windsurfers have been known to come ashore in rough weather.’
Sara lifted a nervous shoulder. ‘Are they allowed to?’
‘We’re not running a top secret establishment here, Sara,’ he responded drily. ‘Visitors have been known to arrive and depart without any hassle. We don’t encourage intruders, it’s true, but Mr Korda has to protect his property.’
Sara made no comment. It was not up to her to question her employer’s security arrangements. If they made her feel a little like a prison visitor, that was her hang-up. She was not here to make her opinions felt—not about security anyway.
The centre of the island, which was flat, apparently served as a landing pad. Across a stretch of rough turf, she could see two hangars, one of which had its doors open to reveal the tail of a helicopter. Of course, she thought cynically. There would have to be a helicopter. It was all part and parcel with what she had seen so far.
The Korda house was situated above a stretch of golden sand. Three stories high, it rose majestically from a pillared terrace, its white-painted grandeur far more redolent of the 1920s than more than half a century later. Surrounding the house were gardens that reminded Sara of the gardens of an Italian villa she had once read about. There was a profusion of waterfalls and statuary, and a stone-flagged fountain splashing sibilantly in the foreground. She guessed a small army of gardeners would be required to keep the place in order, and her nerves prickled anxiously at this further evidence of her employer’s wealth.
Grant Masters brought the car to a halt and thrusting open his door, got out. At the same time, a woman of perhaps forty emerged on to the terrace, and Sara’s escort went to speak to her. Left briefly to herself, Sara too vacated the vehicle, leaning into the back to rescue her bags, just as Masters turned back and saw her.
‘Leave them,’ he called, and although the words were spoken carelessly enough, it was an order. ‘Come and meet Mr Korda’s housekeeper. She’ll show you to your rooms and explain about dinner and where we eat.’
Sara was tempted to bring her carpet bag anyway, just to show she preferred to be independent, but the older woman was watching their exchange, and she decided not to argue. Instead, she looped the jacket of her suit over one shoulder and, making a determined effort not to drag her right foot, she climbed the steps to the terrace.
‘This is Sara Fielding, Cora,’ said Masters, performing the introduction. ‘Cora will take care of you, Sara,’ he added. ‘Anything you need, just ask her.’
Thank you.’
Cora was polite, but Sara was aware that the housekeeper was regarding her rather guardedly. She probably thinks I’m as incapable of helping Jeff as Grant Masters evidently does, Sara reflected unhappily. And why not? If the best brains in medicine couldn’t help him, how could she?
At Cora’s summons, a young black boy appeared, and after directing him to fetch Miss Fielding’s luggage, she invited Sara to follow her. ‘Go ahead,’ said Grant Masters, pushing his hands into his trouser pockets and giving her a vaguely sympathetic grin. ‘I’ll see you later.’
They entered the house through double doors that stood wide, but which had fine-meshed screen doors in their place. ‘The insects are attracted by the light,’ said Cora, who spoke with a decidedly Southern accent and seldom actually finished off her words. ‘The house is air-conditioned, but Mr Link, he likes for the breeze to blow right through on days like this. He says it’s more healthy, and what Mr Link says goes.’
She smiled as she made this statement, proving she had a sense of humour, and Sara felt a little more reassured. If the housekeeper could joke about her employer, the atmosphere at Orchid Key couldn’t be all bad. Nevertheless, it did prompt her to wonder exactly what Tony Korda’s brother was like. Up until then, she had been more concerned in anticipating his son’s reaction to her, but now she found herself speculating what manner of man cared more about his business than his family. Physically, she assumed, he would resembled his brother. Tony Korda was not a handsome man, but she supposed he might be attractive to some women, who didn’t mind his affectations. Still, without the curl in his rather mousy hair, and the stylish clothes he seemed to favour, he would have been rather nondescript, and that was how she had pictured Lincoln Korda. A man of medium height and medium build, possibly running to fat, with that certain look of avidity that went with material success.
The entrance hall was marble-tiled and impressive, with an enormous chandelier suspended above their heads. There was a semicircular table, flanked by two crystal blue armchairs, set against the far wall, and two alabaster plinths, on which were set two enormous bowls of flowers, in the foreground. The hall was filled with the fragrance of the flowers and, admiring their waxed petals, Sara was compelled to ask if they were orchids.
‘Miss Michelle’s father used to cultivate them in the glasshouse out back,’ said Cora, after acknowledging that they were. ‘It was Mr de Vere who built this house and named the island Orchid Key.’ She shrugged. ‘I guessed he spent too much time cultivating his orchids. Things went bad, and after Mr Link married Miss Michelle, he bought it from her father. But Mr Link doesn’t have time to grow orchids. These days, the gardeners do that.’
‘I see.’
Sara felt a pang of pity for the man who had evidently spent so much time and effort in making this such a beautiful home. Was that why Michelle and Lincoln Korda had split up? Because they wanted different things from life?
She was being fanciful, and pushing her unwarranted thoughts aside, she hurried up the stairs after the housekeeper. But, in spite of her haste, she found her progress hindered by her need to take in her surroundings, to absorb them, to tell herself somewhat incredulously that for the next few weeks—possibly months—this was to be her home.
The hand-wrought iron balustrade curved above arched recesses giving access to the ground floor apartments of the house. A corridor disappeared to the right, with windows overlooking the gardens at the front, and beneath the stairs another passageway led towards the back. A gallery of pastel-tinted watercolours mounted the silk-covered wall beside her, and she didn’t need to examine their legendary signatures to see for herself that they were originals. She doubted there was anything in the house that wasn’t totally authentic, except perhaps its occupants, she reflected somewhat cynically.
The rooms which had been alotted to her overlooked the beach. A large sitting room, with its own dining area, was adjoined by an equally large bedroom, the colonial-style fourposter set on a shallow dais, allowing its occupant to view the ocean without even sitting up. Sara was still absorbing the view from the balcony outside when Cora left her, announcing that she would send up a tray of tea.
‘You might like to have dinner in your room this evening,’ she added, and Sara wondered if the suggestion was as innocent as it seemed. But it probably would be wiser to have this time to take her bearings, she conceded shrewdly. Not to rush into anything until she knew exactly what was expected of her.
Her suitcase and carpet bag were delivered as she was rinsing her face in the bathroom. She had spent some time admiring the circular bath, with its jacuzzi attachment, and delighting in the gold-plated luxury of the taps, but the sound of the outer door closing was a sobering signal. Casting a regretful glance at tinted mirrors and intriguing crystal flagons, set on a fluted crystal shelf, Sara went to unpack her belongings, promising herself a more thorough exploration when she had the time.
As
