not in sight, and she turned back to the casual stranger with faint resignation.
‘She told you, I suppose,’ she declared, noticing he was older than most of the other guests. His light brown hair, which she suspected owed its curl to a bottle rather than to nature, showed evidence of tinting at the roots, and his dissipated face spoke of years of experience.
‘No, I guessed,’ he said now, offering to refill her glass from the bottle he was carrying, but she covered the rim with her palm. ‘Vicki described you to me, and she’s generally accurate. You are beautiful, and you have a certain—touch-me-not air, which isn’t very common in this company.’
Sara sighed. ‘You’re very kind,’ she said cynically, wishing he would just go away. She was not in the mood for compliments, no matter how well meant, and his presence was preventing her from making an anonymous exist.
‘I’m not kind at all. I’m honest,’ he retorted, running his hand over the knee of his pants before offering it to her. ‘Tony Korda,’ he added, when she reluctantly responded. ‘Your friend Vicki works for me.’
‘The photographer!’ Sara was scarcely flattering in her description of him, and he winced. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, with a rueful smile. ‘But you do take marvellous photographs!’
‘Thank you.’ He inclined his head. ‘I’m glad you think so.’ He paused. ‘I’d like to photograph you some time.’
‘Oh no!’ She held up a regretful hand. ‘I appreciate the compliment, but I’m not interested in modelling. Besides——’ She broke off at that point, silencing the involuntary desire to confess her impediment. The disability she had suffered would not interest him, and so long as she was seated, he could not observe the way she still favoured her right foot.
‘Besides?’ he prompted, but she shook her head, and as if sensing her anguish, he said gently: ‘Vicki told me about the accident. If you don’t want to talk about it, I’ll quite understand. But I wondered if you’d made any plans—you know: what you’re going to do now that that particular avenue is barred to you.’
Sara drew in her breath. ‘You don’t pull your punches, do you, Mr Korda?’
‘Tony. And no; not if I don’t consider it necessary.’
‘And you don’t?’
He shook his head. ‘There are other things in life besides dancing.’
Her lips twisted. ‘You have been talking to Vicki,’ she conceded ironically.
Tony Korda shrugged. ‘As I said a few moments ago, Sara, you’re a beautiful girl. Perhaps you weren’t meant to waste your life in hot theatres and even hotter studios.’
‘That’s your assessment of it, is it?’ Sara was trying very hard to be as detached as he was, but his ruthless candour was tearing her to pieces.
‘I think you’re allowing emotion to colour your judgement, yes,’ he said frankly. ‘So—you had an audition coming up. So what? You could have fluffed it!’
Sara bent her head, angry with herself for allowing him to upset her. ‘Do you mind going away?’ she exclaimed huskily, groping for a tissue from her bag. ‘I’m sure you think you know what you’re doing, but I can do without your amateur psychology.’
‘I’m no amateur psychologist,’ he asserted flatly. ‘I’m just trying to make you see that——’
‘—there are more things in life than dancing. I know. You already said that.’
‘That wasn’t what I was going to say, actually,’ he retorted, without heat. ‘I was going to tell you that sitting here feeling sorry for yourself is a form of self-indulgence. There are people much worse off than you are, believe me!’
Sara felt the warm, revealing colour fill her cheeks. ‘I’m sure there are …’
‘And I don’t just mean the millions who die every year from disease and malnutrition,’ he continued, his tone hardening. ‘You hurt your ankle, and it’s going to limit your career. But how would you have felt if you’d been completely immobilised?’
She held up her head, forcing herself to listen to him. ‘You said that with some feeling,’ she ventured at last. ‘Is there a reason?’
Tony Korda studied the amber liquid in his glass. ‘Yes,’ he admitted eventually. ‘Yes, there is a reason. My nephew had a car accident six months ago. He was only eighteen at the time. Now he’s paralysed from the waist down. It looks like he’ll be stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of his life.’
Sara caught her breath. ‘I’m sorry …’
‘Yes. So’s Jeff.’ Tony sounded bitter. ‘Unfortunately, being sorry doesn’t help at all.’
She flushed. ‘I didn’t mean——’
‘I know, I know.’ Tony was instantly contrite. ‘I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to sound as if I was blaming you. I was only trying to show you how futile a situation like that can seem to a boy of Jeff’s age.’
Sara nodded. ‘I’m sure it must.’
Tony sighed, his face taking on a brooding expression as he refilled his glass. There was silence for a pause, and then, as if compelled to go on, he added: ‘It doesn’t help that Link and Michelle—that is, my brother and his wife—seem to ignore his existence.’ He grimaced. ‘I guess your parents want you to go back home, eh? Didn’t Vicki say you came from up north somewhere?
‘I lived in Warwickshire for a number of years,’ admitted Sara, after a moment. ‘But my parents are dead. They died in a car crash when I was eight.’
‘Aw, hell!’ Tony swallowed the contents of his glass at a gulp. ‘Trust me to put my foot in it yet again! You’re going to have to forgive me. I guess I’ve had more of this stuff than I can handle.
‘It’s all right.’ And Sara meant it. Curiously enough, Tony had achieved his objective. Right now, she was more intrigued with his story than with her own. She wanted to ask him to go on, to explain what he had meant about his brother and sister-in-law ignoring their son’s existence, but of course she couldn’t. Nevertheless, his words had stirred a sympathetic chord inside her, and she felt for the youth whose future had been laid waste.
‘I didn’t mean to depress you, you know,’ Tony muttered now, filling his glass again. ‘God, I’m such a clumsy bastard!’
‘You haven’t depressed me,’ Sara assured him swiftly. ‘As a matter of fact …’ She hesitated before continuing, but then silencing her conscience, she added, ‘I’m interested.’
‘In Jeff?’ He blinked.
‘Well, in the reasons why you think his parents don’t care about him.’
‘Oh,’ he shrugged, ‘I don’t say they don’t care about him. I guess they do. They must, mustn’t they? But Michelle has her—commitments, and Link—well, I guess he’s too busy making money to care that his son’s bleeding to death!’
‘Bleeding to death?’ Sara exclaimed,
