The Judas Trap. Anne Mather

disappoint me in some ways.’

      ‘I—disappoint you?’

      ‘That’s right.’ Darkness had fallen completely now, and his features were menacing in the lamplight. ‘The woman Adam described to me was—different somehow.’

      Sara held her breath. ‘How different?’

      He frowned. ‘You’re—softer. I expected a hardbitten businesswoman, but instead you appear—gentle, almost fragile. Is it an act? Was that what my brother saw in you? That gentleness, that fragility? The velvet glove that hides the iron fist?’

      Sara lifted her shoulders. ‘If I’m so different, why won’t you believe that I’m not Diane?’

      ‘Oh …’ he lay back in his chair, raising his glass to his lips, ‘I could be wrong. I’ve been wrong before. But I don’t think I am. I think you’re a very—astute woman, a very clever woman. But you won’t fool me. Not like you fooled Adam.’

      ‘So …’ Sara’s voice quivered a little, ‘we return to the point. What do you intend to do with me?’

      ‘Well …’ He put down his glass and leaned forward, resting his arms along the table at either side of his plate. ‘I’ll be honest. My initial intentions bordered on the homicidal. And when I got hold of you, I—well, let’s say, your timing was brilliant.’

      ‘My—timing?’

      ‘The faint. When you lost consciousness.’ His tongue brushed his lower lip. ‘Oh, yes, that was worthy of the true professional!’

      Sara knew there was no point in denying that she had enforced her state of oblivion. To do so would entail explanations she was curiously loath to give. It was crazy, but there was something forbidden and exciting about what she was doing, and while she knew her mother—God rest her soul—would have been horrified by her recklessness, for the first time in her sheltered existence, she felt really alive! Not even Tony had been able to achieve that.

      ‘You—you’re saying you wanted to kill me?’ she breathed, the words scarcely audible, and thick lashes veiled his eyes.

      ‘Is that so surprising?’ he demanded. ‘Because of you, my brother lived a life of hell!’

      ‘I’m sorry.’

      ‘You’re sorry!’ He threw the words back at her. ‘Do you think that does any good? Saying you’re sorry? My God, you sit there looking the picture of innocence, with one man’s death on your conscience, and the prospect of another’s pending.’

      Her arched brows drew together. ‘I—don’t understand.’

      ‘Don’t you?’ he sneered. ‘Why do you think I brought you down here? Not for a cosy get-together, believe me! I intended you should pay—one way or the other—for what you did to my brother.’

      ‘One way—or the other?’ she echoed.

      ‘Yes.’ He thrust himself back so that his chair tipped on to two legs. ‘Death—or convicted as the murderess you are. I can’t decide which affords the most satisfaction.’

      Sara gasped. ‘You’re mad!’ The sense of excitement was souring. ‘I tell you, I’m not Diane.’

      Michael Tregower shrugged, dropping back on to the four legs of the chair with an unnerving thud. ‘No—well, there’s no hurry. We’ve got plenty of time.’

      ‘Plenty of time?’ Sara stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘I mean exactly what I say. We’re not going anywhere. Not either of us.’