Night Heat. Anne Mather

the rent of a two-bedroomed flat, and that was how she met Vicki Hammond.

      It was later that Vicki had explained she had chosen Sara because she was a Libran. ‘Librans are compatible with Geminis,’ she said, revealing her reasons for asking Sara’s date of birth, and whatever the truth of it, they had become good friends.

      Vicki was a photographic model, though she was quick to point out that she did not take all her clothes off. ‘Mostly layouts for catalogues, that sort of thing,’ she explained, when Sara asked what she did. ‘I get an occasional trip to Europe, and once we went to Florida, which was exciting. But mostly we work in a studio in Shepherd’s Bush. It’s not very glamorous, but the money’s good.’

      She had tried to get Sara interested in modelling. ‘With those eyes and that hair, you’d be a natural!’ she exclaimed, viewing Sara’s slender figure with some envy. ‘And you’re tall, too, and that’s always an advantage. I’m sure if I spoke to Tony, he’d be willing to give you a try.’

      But Sara had refused, flattered, but not attracted by the world of fashion. She had still not given up hope of becoming a professional dancer, and she had exercised continually, keeping her limbs loose and supple.

      Curiously enough, when her break did come, it was quite by accident. It had happened at a party she had attended with Vicki—much like tonight’s, she reflected ruefully. A young man had invited her to dance, and discovering her ability to follow his every move, he had put on a display for the other guests. The music was all guitars and drums, a primitive rhythm that demanded a primitive response. And Sara, who had always considered herself a classical dancer, found her vocation in the disco beat.

      It turned out that the young man was himself a dancer, one of a group famous for their television appearances. To Sara’s delight and amazement, he told her that their choreographer was always on the lookout for new young talent, and in spite of her initial scepticism, an audition had been arranged.

      That had been exactly ten days before Sara slipped on the stairs in the apartment building and hurt her ankle. It had been bruised and stiff, it was true, but she had never dreamt it might anything more serious than a sprain. It had been such a little slip, but, a week later, the pain had driven her to seek medical treatment. That was when the tiny splintered bone had been discovered, not too serious in itself, but compounded by the fact that she had used the foot without support.

      Of course, the television audition had had to be cancelled, and as if that wasn’t enough, six weeks later she had been told that the bone was not mending correctly. Further treatment had been arranged, more weeks of rest and frustration, before the cast had finally been removed and therapy could begin.

      And now, today, when she had been sure her ankle was almost cured, when she had convinced herself it would soon be as strong as it had ever been. Doctor Walters had broken the news that she should never dance again—not professionally, anyway. ‘The ankle simply wouldn’t stand it,’ he told her regretfully. ‘Haven’t you found already that even standing for long periods makes it ache?’

      Of course Sara had, but she had believed that sooner or later the strength would return. To learn that that was not going to happen had been a bitter blow, and she had left the hospital in a daze. She remembered dragging herself to Regent’s Park, and sitting in the gardens there for over an hour, trying to come to terms with what this would mean. The future she had planned for herself was never going to materialise. All her hopes and dreams were shattered. She was condemned to working in an office for the rest of her life. Anything less sedentary was not recommended.

      As usual, Vicki had been philosophical. ‘It’s not the end of the world,’ she had said, when she had come in from an assignment to find her friend slumped on the sofa. ‘It could be worse. You could have been scarred for life. As it is, you’ll simply go on as before. There’s more to living than working, you know.’

      ‘I know.’

      Sara had tried to equal the other girl’s stoicism. So far as Vicki was concerned, working was merely a means to earn money, and her affairs with the opposite sex were legion. Sara, on the other hand, had never had a steady boyfriend, and her experience of men was therefore limited. Besides, she had always been too single-minded in her ambitions to regard men as anything more than a passing diversion. She had never been in love, and if she had ever thought of getting married, it had been at some far distant time, when she was too old to continue her career.

      ‘Well, at least you’re not out of work,’ Vicki had commented, referring to the part-time secretarial post Sara had been obliged to take, while waiting for the results of the therapy. The long weeks of wearing a cast had curtailed her mobility, and she had had to leave the permanent job she had had as personal assistant to a solicitor in Gray’s Inn. But her finances were not so healthy that she could afford not to work at all, and her present place of employment was only a few yards from the apartment.

      Her response to Vicki’s attempts at encouragement had not been enthusiastic, and that was when the party had been mentioned. It was being held to celebrate the twenty-first birthday of one of Vicki’s fellow models, and was exactly what she needed to take her mind off her problems—or so Vicki said.

      ‘Come,’ she said wheedlingly, ‘You’ll have fun! You can’t stay here on your own—not tonight!’

      Even so, Sara was still undecided as she followed her friend into the apartment where the party was being held. The tears she had shed before Vicki got back had left her with a dull headache, and although she had taken some aspirin before leaving home, she could still feel it.

      The noise in the apartment was terrific, and the room was full of people talking and laughing and having fun. Judging by the amount of empty glasses strewn around, alcohol was flowing freely, and as if to emphasise this assumption, a glass was thrust into her hand as she came through the door.

      An hour later, Sara was wishing she had stuck to her original intention of having an early night. The noise had not abated, indeed it had been supplemented by music from a sophisticated hi-fi system, and in the lulls between the records, someone could be heard strumming an electric guitar. Two glasses of fairly cheap champagne had not assisted her headache, and although food of a kind was on offer, it mainly consisted of nuts and crackers and tiny stuffed olives.

      At least no one would notice her white face here, she reflected. White faces were quite fashionable among this crowd, and compared to some of the outrageous costumes she had seen, they were reasonably conservative. Her own beige silk flying suit looked almost unbearably plain, she felt, and with the lustre of her hair confined in a single braid, she was unlikely to attract anyone’s attention.

      She was wondering if she could make good her escape without Vicki’s noticing when one of the men she had not discouraged with a freezing glance came to sit beside her. She had noticed him watching her earlier with a faintly speculative stare, and now he came to sit on the arm of her chair, apparently immune to her cool indifference.

      ‘You’re Sara, aren’t you?’ he remarked, and she glanced round instinctively, expecting to see Vicki close at hand. But her friend was not in sight, and she turned back to the casual stranger with faint resignation.

      ‘She told you, I suppose,’ she declared, noticing he was older than most of the other guests. His light brown hair, which she suspected owed its curl to a bottle rather than to nature, showed evidence of tinting at the roots, and his dissipated face spoke of years of experience.

      ‘No, I guessed,’ he said now, offering to refill her glass from the bottle he was carrying, but she covered the rim with her palm. ‘Vicki described you to me, and she’s generally accurate. You are beautiful, and you have a certain—touch-me-not air, which isn’t very common in this company.’

      Sara sighed. ‘You’re very kind,’ she said cynically, wishing he would just go away. She was not in the mood for compliments, no matter how well meant, and his presence was preventing her from making an anonymous exist.

      ‘I’m not kind at all. I’m honest,’ he retorted, running his hand over the knee of his pants before offering it to her. ‘Tony Korda,’