The Judas Trap

‘Praia do Lobo. Don’t pretend you don’t know. He inherited the villa there.’

‘Inherited? From whom?’

His eyes narrowed, ‘All right, I’ll play the game, if you like. From Tio Jorge, of course—our father’s uncle. You knew Adam’s grandmother was Portuguese, didn’t you?’

‘No.’ But that explained the dark blood. ‘I tell you, I only know what Diane told me.’

‘Who better?’ He shrugged sardonically. ‘Well—our grandmother came from Coimbra. It’s quite a famous town in Portugal.’

‘I know of Coimbra,’ retorted Sara, somewhat tartly. ‘My education has not been neglected.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ His lips curled. ‘So Jorge de los Santos was our grandmother’s brother. His wife, Isabella, is matriarch now.’

‘I understand,’ Sara nodded.

‘As it happens, I’ve been more involved with that side of the family than Adam ever was.’ His eyes narrowed broodingly as he stared into the gathering dust. ‘You may know that Brazil is a Portuguese-speaking country. I work there, for the Los Santos mining corporation.’

‘Mining?’ Sara was interested in spite of herself. ‘What kind of mining?’

‘Diamonds—industrial diamonds,’ he added evenly. ‘The Tregowers have always been involved in mining of one kind or another. You’ll know about the tin mines, I’m sure.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Yes. Well, I was sent to Portugal when I was eighteen, to the university of Coimbra. For some reason my father decided that his mistakes were best kept out of the country. In any event, he did me a favour. Old Isabella likes me. She says I remind her of her late husband. It was she who sent me to Brazil.’

‘I see.’

‘Do you? I wonder?’ His lips twisted. ‘And Adam never mentioned me to you?’

‘I tell you—’

‘Yes, I know.’ He silenced her with a look. ‘So—tell me about—Sara Fortune. What does she do? Does she have a job? Or is she an actress, too?’

‘Acting is working,’ Sara countered, almost without thinking, and then looked down at her hands in annoyance. ‘I—I work for a publishing house—the Lincoln Press. I—er—I’m an editor.’

‘Really?’ He forked a slice of ham on to his plate. ‘An editor. How interesting!’

‘It is interesting,’ exclaimed Sara hotly. ‘I love my work.’

‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ he retorted thinly, and she subsided again. ‘I suggest you have some food,’ he added, as she continued to stare mutinously down at her hands. ‘There’s no point in starving yourself.’

Sara looked up. ‘Why did you invite Diane down here? How did you hope to get her to agree to come?’

Michael Tregower looked at her for a long moment, then he cut a slice of the savoury flan and set it on her plate. ‘Eat,’ he said. ‘Before I decide to starve you instead.’

Sara’s clenched fists rested on the table beside her plate. ‘Why won’t you answer me? Don’t I have a right to know?’

He continued eating for several more minutes, then he looked at her again. ‘You thought Adam had sent that message, remember? You didn’t even care that he had died!’

‘I didn’t know!’

Sara’s defensive words were instinctive, but damning as well. Michael Tregower’s lips curved contemptuously.

‘You see,’ he said. ‘Play the game long enough and the victim always betrays himself.’

‘Oh, you won’t listen to me, will you?’

‘No.’

‘I—I mean me! Sara Fortune. I didn’t know Adam was dead.’

‘As Sara Fortune, why should you?’

‘Why, because Diane is a friend. Because she would have told me if she knew.’

‘And of course, you didn’t know that Adam had been ill, seriously ill, so ill, in fact, that he wrote to you, begging you to come and see him!’

‘No!’ Sara could hardly believe it. Diane had said nothing about Adam’s writing to her. On the contrary, she had led Sara to believe that he was living quite happily in Portugal, enjoying the change of scene, the warmer weather. ‘When—when was this?’

‘At Christmas,’ replied Michael Tregower bleakly. ‘Exactly three months before he died—before he took his own life!’

‘No.’

‘Yes.’ He was implacable, and the increasing gravity of their discussion was bringing that frightening intensity back to his features. ‘He had cancer, you know. It killed his mother, and it would have killed him—eventually.’

‘Then—’

‘Stop there!’ he commanded harshly. ‘I know exactly what you’re going to say. But to the people who cared about him, his death was a tragedy, a terrible tragedy, that need never have happened. If you’d answered his appeal, gone to see him, shown him you were not completely heartless …’

Sara had no answer to that but the obvious one. She was not Diane, therefore she had not known. If she had known, if Diane had confided in her, she would have urged her to go and see the man without whom she might never have been given the opportunity to meet Lance Wilmer.

Picking up her fork, she toyed with the food on her plate, her appetite dwindling completely. Then, lifting her eyes, she said: ‘But—if—if Diane wouldn’t come to—to see Adam in Portugal, how—how could you persuade her to come here?’

‘You came,’ he retorted with cold mockery, and her lids hid her anxiety.

There was a bottle of wine in an ice bucket, and now Michael Tregower reached for this, filling both their glasses with a complete disregard for Sara’s protest.

‘Drink it,’ he said ominously. ‘You may need it.’

Sara shook her head. ‘What—what do you intend to do with me?’ She hesitated. ‘I assume you had some idea in mind.’

‘Oh, yes.’ His humour was sardonic. ‘Although I must admit you 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?’