Night Heat. Anne Mather

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      Sara was not immediately aware of the humidity when she left the plane. The airport buildings were all air-conditioned, and only the scent of overheated humanity gave her an inkling of what she might have to face outside. The airport was crowded, too. A sea of dark, Hispanic faces, with only a smattering of Caucasian among them. Two flights—one from Puerto Rico, and the other from Colombia—had landed ahead of the British Airways jet, and in the confusion, Sara despaired of ever finding whoever had come to meet her.

      Amazingly enough, she eventually found herself in the baggage collection area, and rescuing her suitcase and the rather scruffy carpet bag that contained her personal belongings from the carousel, she made her way to the exit. If no one had come to meet her, she was contemplating taking the next flight back to England, and she half hoped the worst would happen. Just for a moment, the unfamiliarity of her surroundings caused a wave of homesickness to sweep over her, and she would have given anything to be back in London, fog and all.

      The man in the chauffeur’s uniform, carrying the card that read ‘Sara Fielding’, almost passed her by. She didn’t know what she was looking for exactly, but it was not a cardboard notice displaying her name.

      ‘I—er—I’m Sara Fielding,’ she admitted reluctantly, stopping in front of him. ‘Do you—I mean—have you any means of identification?’

      The tall black man thrust his hand inside his jacket, and briefly Sara was reminded of all those television series, where such an action heralded the producing of a gun. But all the chauffeur produced was a driver’s licence, showing his photograph and giving his name as Henry Isaiah Wesley, and a letter introducing the man from someone who signed himself Grant Masters.

      ‘If you’ll follow me,’ the chauffeur suggested, after Sara’s faint smile had assured him that his credentials had been accepted, and taking her suitcase and carpet bag from her, he set off across the concourse.

      The car—a huge black limousine, with smoked glass windows—was waiting, double-banked, in a no-waiting area. But apparently its size, or perhaps its owner, warranted some respect, for the police patrolman who directed them out into the stream of traffic paid no heed to any offence which might have been committed. And to Sara, bemused by the switch from air-conditioned terminal to equally air-conditioned limousine, with a blast of hot humidity in between, it was all part and parcel of the chaotic confusion of her arrival.

      Nevertheless, she couldn’t help but relax in the cushioned comfort of the car. With her feet resting on a carpet, with a pile as thick as any she had ever seen, and her limbs responding to the yielding softness of fine leather, she was hardly aware of what was going on outside the windows; and not until they turned into the multi-laned elegance of a highway, lined with stately palms and bordering the ocean, did she give her surroundings her attention.

      Although the flight had taken the better part of ten hours, the change in time zones meant that it was still only late afternoon in Miami. And with the sun casting long shadows across the avenue, and the blue-green waters of what she later learned was Biscayne Bay—and not the Atlantic, as she had innocently imagined—shimmering invitingly between the masts of yachts and other sailing craft„ she felt a rekindling of the excitement she had felt when the Embassy official in London had stamped her visa.

      It was an effort, but summoning her courage, she leant across the seemingly vase expanse of space that separated the rear of the car from the driver’s seat. ‘It’s very hot, isn’t it?’ she ventured, in what she hoped was an encouraging tone. ‘It was raining back in London.’

      ‘I’ll turn up the conditioner,’ responded the chauffeur at once, and immediately, the pleasant waft of cool air emanating from the grilles beside her became a chilling draught. Within seconds, the car was reduced to a temperature bordering on freezing, and Sara sighed unhappily, before attempting to explain that that was not what she had meant.

      ‘I was talking about the temperature here—in Florida,’ she mumbled, after the air-conditioning had been restored to its usual level, but receiving no reply, she concluded that the chauffeur did not consider it part of his duties to make polite conversation with a paid companion.

      Finding the monotonous row of high-rise hotels and office buildings on her left of little interest, Sara concentrated her attention on the recreation areas beside the beach. Acres of grassy parks and walkways, some less attractive than others, she had to admit, were nevertheless more interesting than the commercial aspects of the city, particularly as from time to time she glimpsed causeways heading out to places called Treasure Island or Indian Creek or Bal Harbor.

      North of Miami, they left the impressive interstate highway for the less hectic route along the coast. Sara had read somewhere that this area was called the Gold Coast, and she could understand why. An almost unending vista of sandy beaches contoured the road, and their progress was observed by graceful seabirds, sweeping down to the breakers that lapped the shore.

      Beyond the busier centres of Fort Lauderdale and Boca Raton, with their golf courses and high-rise condominiums, they entered the quiet streets of Cyprus Beach. Hiding behind high clipped hedges, a handful of luxury dwellings made Sara aware of the exclusivity of this resort, and long before they reached the harbour, with its neatly-staked pier and expensive shops, she guessed they were nearing their destination. If the chauffeur had been more approachable, she could have shared a little of her sudden apprehension with him. But after her abortive attempt to be friendly, they had spent the whole journey in silence, and she was hardly surprised when he made no attempt to reassure her now.

      The long, luxurious limousine was drawn to a halt as close to the pier as possible. Once again, their arrival was marked by an armed policeman, leaning against the bonnet of his squad car. But, once again, he made no move to stop them parking in what would appear to be a no-parking area, and when Wesley opened the car door for Sara to alight, she scrambled out with alacrity.

      Her appearance did generate a mild response from the policeman. He was probably unused to seeing rather travel-worn young women emerging from the Korda family limousine, Sara reflected wryly, brushing down the creases in her wine-coloured corded pants suit. If she had only thought about it in the car, she could have retouched her make-up and re-coiled her hair before meeting her employer—if that was the correct way to regard the young man who was to be in her charge. As it was, she was obliged to hope that the strands of hair escaping from her chignon would not look too untidy, and that her nose was not as shiny as she imagined it to be.

      Wesley slammed the car door, but didn’t lock it. Why bother, reflected Sara wryly, with a policeman to stand guard over it? But then she saw the boat that was apparently to transport her and her belongings to Orchid Key, and the luxury of the car distinctly faded by comparison.

      The yacht moored at the pier was the kind of vessel Sara had hitherto only seen in advertisements. The Ariadne, as she was called, was at least fifty feet in length, with cabins fore and aft, and the sun reflecting from its gleaming hull accentuated its look of controlled power. A ribbed gangway gave access to its polished deck, and as Wesley indicated that Sara should precede him aboard, another man came forward to greet her. This man was less formally dressed, in white pants and a short-sleeved white shirt, his blond good looks in no way diminished by the deepness of his tan.

      ‘Miss Fielding,’ he said, his smile warm and friendly. ‘Or can I call you Sara? I’m Grant Masters, Mr Korda’s personal assistant.’

      ‘How do you do?’ murmured Sara, relieved, responding to his smile. ‘You’re the person who wrote the letter that—that the chauffeur——’

      ‘Wesley, yes.’ Masters’ gaze moved past her to the black man who was presently depositing her luggage on the deck. СКАЧАТЬ