out of London, then.’
‘Out of London?’ Tony blinked. ‘Hell, yes. He lives in New York.’
‘I see.’
‘I doubt you do.’ He took another mouthful from his glass. ‘My brother married an American, Sara. He’s lived in the States for almost twenty years. Jeff was born there.’
Sara frowned. ‘But your nephew lives in England, now——’
‘No! Jeff lives in Florida,’ amended Tony impatiently. ‘My brother owns a property there. A place called Orchid Key, about twenty-five miles north of Miami.’
‘Oh …’
Sara was beginning to understand, but before she could say anything more, Vicki’s faintly-intoxicated tones broke into their conversation. ‘You two seem to be hitting it off,’ she declared, leaning over the back of Sara’s chair and regarding the pair of them with evident satisfaction. ‘I thought you would. When are you going to come and work with us, Sara? Don’t tell me Tony hasn’t asked you, because I won’t believe it.’
Sara sighed, turning to survey her friend with some regret. Vicki’s intervention had terminated Tony’s narration, and she guessed from the way he greeted the other girl that he was not averse to the interruption. He was probably already regretting the fact that he had confided personal details to someone he barely knew, and she suspected that without his liberal intake of alcohol, he would never have spoken so frankly. As if to confirm that fact, Tony excused himself a few moments later, and Sara was left with the unpleasant feeling that she was to blame.
Even so, she could not resist the temptation later that night to quiz Vicki about her boss’s nephew. Having persuaded the other girl that she was tired. Sara offered to make a cup of hot chocolate when they got back to the flat, carrying it into Vicki’s room as she was creaming off her make-up.
‘Did—er—did you know Tony Korda’s nephew had been injured in a car accident?’ she asked casually, perching on the end of Vicki’s bed, her cup cradled in her hands. ‘He was talking about it tonight.’
‘Was he?’ Vicki had sobered considerably since encountering the cool October air, and her brows arched inquisitively at Sara’s well-schooled expression. ‘Yes, I knew.’
Sara’s lids fell defensively. ‘You didn’t mention it.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
Vicki hesitated. ‘I thought it might upset you. Your parents, and so on.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Sara’s head lifted. ‘That was sweet of you, but honestly, it is more than ten years since the accident. And I’m not a child any more.’
‘No.’ Vicki grimaced. ‘Oh, well …’ She picked up another pad of cotton wool. ‘So what was Tony saying? Did he tell you the boy is only a teenager?’
‘Mmm,’ Sara nodded. ‘It’s a tragedy, isn’t it?’
‘It’s very sad,’ conceded Vicki slowly. ‘But I can think of worse fates.’
‘Vicki!’
‘Well! I should live in such idyllic surroundings, waited on hand and foot!’
Sara gasped. ‘You don’t mean that!’
‘I do.’ Vicki reached for her cup of hot chocolate. ‘I’ve been there. I know.’ She paused. ‘Do you remember me telling you, we once did a shoot in Florida? That was where we did it. Lincoln Korda’s place: Orchid Key!’
Sara’s eyes widened. ‘Go on.’
‘Go on—what?’
‘Tell me about it—Orchid Key, I mean. Is it very exotic?’
‘Very.’ Vicki’s tone was dry. ‘It’s an island, actually, just off the coast. You could swim there from the mainland, if they’d let you. But of course they don’t. It’s virtually a fortress. Guards—armed guards—everywhere. I guess Lincoln Korda owns a lot of expensive stuff.’
Sara couldn’t resist. ‘Did you meet him?’
‘Who? Lincoln Korda? No chance. He seldom uses the place. According to Tony, he’s a workaholic.’
‘Yes.’ Sara was thoughtful. ‘He told me his brother lives in New York. But what about Mrs Korda? Doesn’t she prefer Florida?’
‘Maybe. As long as Lincoln Korda’s not there, of course. They’re separated, you know. Have been for years.’ Vicki finished her chocolate and got up from the dressing table stool. ‘You know,’ she said, viewing Sara’s concerned face with wry sympathy, ‘people like that shouldn’t have children. They can’t afford them—emotionally speaking.’
Three weeks later, Sara had practically forgotten all about Jeff Korda, when she unexpectedly got a telephone call from his uncle.
‘Sara!’ Tony Korda sounded distraught. ‘Thank God I’ve managed to get hold of you. Where’ve you been all day? I’ve been ringing since one o’clock!’
Sara blinked, glancing at the plain gold watch on her wrist. It was barely six. ‘I do have a job, Mr Korda,’ she reminded him drily. And then as she remembered her friend was away, in Scotland, her stomach contracted. ‘It’s not Vic——’
‘This has nothing to do with Vicki,’ he forestalled her swiftly. ‘Look, could you meet me? In—say—half an hour?’
‘Half an hour?’ Sara was taken aback. ‘Mr Korda, I don’t think——’
‘This isn’t an assignation,’ he declared flatly. ‘I just want to talk to you, that’ all.’ And when she demurred: ‘It’s about Jeff. My nephew, remember?’
Half an hour later, entering the pub in Charing Cross which Tony had suggested, Sara wondered why the mention of the boy’s name should have provoked such an immediate response. And the right response, too, judging by Tony Korda’s reaction. He had known she would respond to an appeal of that kind. But was Jeff Korda the real reason why he wanted to see her?
She had not bothered to stop and change, but her black and white tweed suit, with its calf-length skirt and thigh-length jacket, was not out of place in the smoky atmosphere of the White Lion. Worn with a high-necked blouse and a man’s narrow tie, it successfully disguised her unusual beauty, the tight coil of hair at her nape merely adding to her severe image.
Tony Korda was standing at the bar, but when he saw her, he picked up the two drinks he had ordered and urged her into the quieter surroundings of the lounge. ‘I’m afraid it’s only lager,’ he remarked, setting the two glasses down on a low table, and squatting on the stool opposite. ‘But I didn’t know what to order, and at least it’s long and cold.’
‘Lager’s fine,’ said Sara, who secretly hated the stuff. And then: ‘So—why have you brought me here? What’s wrong? You said it was something to do with your nephew.’
‘It is.’ Tony hunched his shoulders, looking even more world-weary than he had at the party.
