you sit down?’ he suggested, and with a sureness born of long practice, his hand sought the tray of drinks upon the desk.
Sara sat, partly because her legs felt a little unsure, and partly because it put more distance between them. It was all very well, posing as Caesar’s wife, but she did not know what he might expect of her, what indeed he might do to induce her to stay.
The temptation to confess her identity rose within her again only to be squashed as she watched him fumbling with the bottles. Evidently their shape and size identified them to him, and presently he turned and said: ‘What can I offer you? Whisky, gin? Or your usual?’ His lips twisted suddenly, the first sign of bitterness? ‘Or perhaps it’s not your usual any more.’
Sara hesitated. Diane’s usual drink these days was bitter lemon, with an occasional dash of vermouth, when calories permitted.
‘My—usual, I think,’ she conceded doubtfully, and swallowed rather convulsively when he presented her with a tall glass that looked as if it contained Coke, and smelled strongly of rum. She guessed Bacardi had been added, and when she tasted it her suspicions were justified.
‘Ah …’ Adam had poured himself a measure of whisky, holding the neck of the bottle against the rim of the glass, listening to the sound it made and measuring its contents accordingly. ‘It’s been a long time, Diane.’
Sara nodded, realised he couldn’t see her, and said: ‘Yes,’ in a low tone.
‘I must say you’re less—aggressive than I would have expected,’ he continued, surprisingly, supporting himself against the lip of the desk. ‘I guessed you’d come—but not without protest.’
Sara took a sip of her drink to give herself courage. So it was confirmed. Adam had sent for Diane. But why? Had he told her?
‘Do you think the place has changed much?’ he was asking now, and as this was safer ground she felt able to answer him.
‘I think—there’s dampness,’ she ventured. ‘I expect, because the house has stood empty for so long …’
‘So long,’ he agreed, his mouth drawing down at the corners. ‘Too long. What do you think, Diane?’
She didn’t understand what he was getting at. Why had he asked Diane to come down here? What possible motive could he have? He must know she was a working actress—he had intimated as much in the hall. And yet he thought he had persuaded her to come down here …
Sara pressed her lips together and stared anxiously up at those hooded eyes, dark behind their concealing lenses. What thoughts were going through his mind? What manner of man was he to imagine he could summon back a wife who had left him without scruple seven years before? If, sick and blinded, after the accident when it was suspected he had tried to kill himself, he had been unable to sustain Diane’s sympathy, why should he suppose she might come back now?
It was all getting rather deep and disturbing, and with the sky darkening outside, Sara was feeling a distinct sense of unease. It wasn’t just that she was here under false pretences. If she had been Diane herself, she felt sure she would have experienced the same kind of feeling, a sense of enclosure, of being trapped, of being imprisoned with this man in the darkness he had occupied for the past seven years …
‘Another drink?’ he suggested, but looking down at the almost untouched glass in her hands Sara demurred.
‘I—I shall have to be going soon,’ she murmured, and sensed rather than saw his stiffening features. ‘I—can’t stay here.’
‘Why not?’ His voice was harsh. ‘There are plenty of rooms; plenty, as you know only too well.’
Sara set down her glass on the hearth, welcoming the fire’s warmth against her chilled fingers. ‘I—I don’t think you understand’—she was beginning, deciding this had gone far enough, when once again he interrupted her.
‘It’s you who don’t understand, Diane!’ he declared coldly. ‘I didn’t bring you here for a friendly chat, as you’re aware. Nor do I intend that you should leave again, the minute you decide I’m no real threat to that comfortable life you’ve made for yourself!’ He tossed back the remainder of the whisky in his glass with a careless gesture. Then he faced her across the width of the faded patterned carpet, and if she had not known better she would have sworn he could see her there, sitting nervously on the edge of her chair. ‘You came because my letter frightened you, because you didn’t really believe it, but you couldn’t be absolutely certain. Since your arrival you’ve been watching me, studying my reactions, trying to decide whether I meant what I said, and if I did, what I could do about it.’
Sara got to her feet jerkily. ‘You don’t understand, Mr Tregower,’ she said then, fear combining with a natural nervousness to bring a tremor to her voice. ‘I—I am not—not your wife, not Diane Tregower. My—my name is—is Sara Fortune, and—and I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
There was silence for several pregnant minutes, minutes when she could see he was grappling with what she had just said, digesting it, dissecting it, testing it for flaws, and finding it wanting. Then a bitter smile twisted his lips and a short harsh laugh broke from them.
‘Oh, bravo, Diane, bravo!’ he complimented her mockingly. ‘Yes. Yes, indeed, that was worthy of the actress you undoubtedly are. To deny your own identity—how clever, and how apt! How could a blind man be sure you are who you say you are, particularly a blind man who has not seen you for so many years? The voice, the body, even the make-up of the face could have changed in that time. And he would have no way of knowing, no way of really being sure …’
Sara gasped. ‘It’s true. I’m not lying. I really am who I say I am.’
‘Then why did you not say so before?’
‘Why, I—because I—’
‘Because you didn’t think of it!’
‘No!’
‘Oh, come on …’ There was nothing to pity about him now. Standing squarely between her and the door, he epitomised the dominant male, hard and masculine, and totally without sympathy. ‘I know you, Diane. I know everything about you. I’ve listened, until I’m sick to my teeth, to stories about your charm, your looks, your likes, your dislikes, your absorption with self, self, self …’
‘No!’
‘I’ve watched a man disintegrate before my eyes, lose all his confidence, his self-respect, even his will to live, while he spoke of your needs, your demands, your success. Your selfishness, more like, your flawed image, your destructive self-indulgence that must be satisfied, whatever the cost!’
Sara didn’t understand all of this. ‘You—you watched a man …’ she whispered unsteadily, and with a savage oath he tore off the glasses which had concealed his eyes, revealing them to be a brilliant shade of amber, burning now with the hard light of malevolence.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said, as she stood there staring uneasily at him, realising weakly that he could see. And why not? This was not Adam Tregower—she realised that now. The resemblance was there, the features followed a similar pattern and given the half light she could be forgiven for mistaking his identity. But this man’s face was harder, stronger—younger. A relative, no doubt, but not Diane’s husband.
‘You—you’re not—’ she stammered, wondering why the knowledge gave her no relief, and he nodded.
‘No, I’m not,’ he agreed harshly. ‘I’m Michael Tregower. Adam is—was—my brother!’
‘YOU LOOK SHOCKED!’ he declared a few moments later, as Sara continued to stare disbelievingly at him. ‘Didn’t you know Adam had a brother? Perhaps not. It doesn’t surprise me. I was