Jack Higgins Read Free Page B

climate of India , whatever that was supposed to mean.
    She was working her way through A Foggy Day in London Town and she knew what she was doing. The phrasing was perfect and the chords echoed inside you.
    â€œHello, Savage,” she said. “Any special favourites?”
    â€œYou’re playing it right now. Rain through the trees, mist on the river, a hooter droning down there in the Pool of London. All we need is Big Ben and perhaps a siren or two. I’m burning up with nostalgia.”
    â€œThat’s going back some, even for you, isn’t it?”
    â€œA couple of hundred thousand Irishmen came across to fight for England during the last unpleasantness,” I reminded her. “My turn came in July 1943 on my sixteenth birthday. I added a couple of years and joined the Marines.”
    â€œFor love of dear old England?”
    â€œFor love of eating, ma’am,” I told her and gave her my best Abbey Theatre accent. “God save us, seven to feed on one cow and three goats. And then we have a tradition down south. We always fight England’s wars for her.”
    The laughter bubbled out of her. “Give me a cigarette.”
    She leaned across for a light and I caught that perfume again and for some reason my hands trembled slightly. She held my wrist, her fingers cool to the touch, but made no comment.
    â€œCare for a drink?” I asked.
    â€œWhy not? Long and cool and non-alcoholic. Iced tonic water for preference.”
    â€œYou’re sure?”
    â€œYou put away enough for both of us, don’t you?”
    I let that one ride and crossed to the bar. I had intended my usual large whiskey to start the evening right, but for some reason hesitated. She had me rattled, that was for certain. I finally settled for a cold beer.
    She had left the piano and was standing by one of the open french windows looking out over the harbour. The sky was orange and flame, the land dark and very still and there was a new moon. She turned as I approached and stood, legs slightly apart, the right hip jutting out to one side, one arm across her stomach supporting the elbow of the other.
    She was wearing the kind of deceptively simple little summer dress that had probably been created by Balmain. It was short even for that year and buttoned down the front, the bottom two being left undone, though whether by accident or design was uncertain. You could never be sure of anything where she was concerned, as I was to discover.
    One thing I did know. She looked bloody marvellous and she excited me physically in a way no woman had in years. Certainly not since the departure of my dear wife.
    I handed her the tall, frosted glass. The ice tinkled as she took a sip. “Sixteen in 1943? That makes you forty-two.”
    â€œAnd too old for you,” I said. “Way, way over the hill. Isn’t life hell?”
    â€œEvery day of the week if that’s the way you see it. I wasn’t even around in forty-three so I wouldn’t know.”
    Which was direct enough and for some reason about as brutal as a boot in the side of the head. And she knew it and instantly regretted the fact.
    â€œOne thing you might as well get straight about meright from the start. I don’t like having my mind made up for me. All right?”
    She sat down on the window seat, crossing those magnificent legs of hers, and Morgan arrived. Poor devil, I’d forgotten all about him. He actually removed his cap and bobbed his head.
    â€œEvening, Miss, I mean Lady, Hamilton.”
    She smiled, really smiled, gold all the way through, reached up and brushed his chin with her knuckles. “It’s Sara to you, Morgan. From now on it’s Sara. We’ve been through a lot together.”
    He cackled and scratched his chin nervously. “Hell, you sure seemed to know what you was doing, I’ll say that.”
    â€œI had three younger brothers,” she told him. “It has its