Wounds of Passion

Safe. Her smile vanished; her face stiffened and paled. Patrick Ogilvie had tarnished the word ‘safe’ now; she would be afraid to use it because he had given it a new implication, insinuated that the warm feeling of being secure and cherished she had when Cy was with her was somehow false, unreal.

Why should it be wrong to want to feel safe? She had never felt that way before with anyone. Her parents had always excluded her from their lives; from childhood she had felt like an outsider, her nose pressed against the window of life, watching enviously as other people enjoyed happiness and security. Hers had been such a strange childhood. She had only been happy when Uncle Alex and Susan-Jane were around; they gave her the illusion of happy family life.

She had been very happy on the night of that barbecue party at the villa in Bordighera. Everyone was so friendly, and there were plenty of people of her own age. She had been having a great time, dancing, talking, listening to the music, and then she had seen Patrick Ogilvie standing not far away, watching her intently.

Her heart had missed a beat. She had been deaf, dumb, blind to everything else around her for a moment, staring back.

He was the most exciting man she had ever seen—tall, with a lean, supple body and golden tanned skin, those startling blue eyes, and sunbleached brown hair which tumbled down over his temples. She couldn’t stop staring at him, breathless at his looks, full of curiosity about him.

Was he an actor? With looks like that he could be. A pity he was so much older. He must be thirty or so, she decided, way out of her league, especially with that faintly grim look about him. But she rather liked the grimness; it gave him a dangerous air. He wouldn’t be as easy to get on with as any of the boys she had been dancing with. She had the distinct impression he was angry about something; there was a darkness deep in those blue eyes.

She waited for him to turn away, look at other girls, but he hadn’t. He had gone on staring at her, so fixedly that she had felt excitement running through her like fire through her veins.

He couldn’t really be interested in her, could he? she had thought incredulously. Could he?

She had begun to smile shyly, and then his face had changed. His mouth had twisted impatiently; he had frowned, turned away, drained the glass of red wine he was holding and put the glass down on the nearest table, his whole body tense and restless.

Antonia remembered now how her heart had sunk. He was turning away. He was going to walk off and ask somebody else to dance. But why had he stared at her with such attention, then lost interest? Maybe he had decided she was too young? There was a big gap in their ages, after all. Maybe he was shy, reluctant to ask her to dance in case she rejected him as too old?

She couldn’t just let him go like that. Urgency had given her an unusual courage; she had gone over to him, nerving herself to make the first approach.

Very unsure of herself and yet very excited, her heart beating thickly in her throat, she had asked him to dance.

He had turned, his face blank, stared down at her without answering, as if he had never seen her before.

At close hand he was even better looking than she had thought at first. Antonia had moved closer, wondering if he didn’t understand English, had put a hand on his sleeve, given him a shy smile, not quite able to meet his eyes, hoping he could not see the tell-tale pulses she felt beating in her throat. Just touching his arm had sent her temperature way up.

And then he had rejected her, his voice a slap in the face. ‘I don’t dance,’ he had said, eyes dismissive, and walked away.

She had gone scarlet, then white, wanting to cry but unable to in front of all those people. She had blundered away, like a moth flapping into a window, blinded by a flame which had singed its wings.

She remembered people moving apart as she almost cannoned into them, was horrified to realise that the little incident had been noticed, that her humiliation had had an audience.

Uncle Alex caught up with her, put an arm round her, and steered her into a shady corner where they wouldn’t be overheard.

‘Are you OK, honey? What did Patrick say to make you look like that?’

She had been too close to tears to answer and he had sighed, watching her face.

‘You mustn’t take it too seriously, whatever it was—he’s feeling very low tonight; his engagement has just been broken off.’ He had given her a glass of wine, told her all about Patrick Ogilvie and his fiancée, Laura, who had left him for another man, and Antonia had listened intently, understanding then why Patrick had behaved that way with her.

He had been hurt, he was angry, in no mood to get involved with another woman, and who could blame him? Her heart had filled with sympathy and pity; she had ached to do something for him, make him smile again, if only for a moment.

She had looked around to find him and seen him leaving the party, wandering off through the garden in the direction of the beach, his face moody, body wearily graceful under his elegant casual clothes.

‘Come and dance with me,’ Uncle Alex had invited her, but she had refused, saying she would rather just wander round and talk to people.

In fact, she had already made up her mind to follow Patrick. Maybe if he talked about his feelings it might help? she had thought hopefully. Perhaps he’d be glad of a sympathetic ear? Oh, she had found it easy to think of reasons for going after him; you could always find excuses for doing what you badly want to do.

She had slipped away down to the beach, and seen the track of his footsteps in the sand. Childishly, she had walked in his footprints, which were so much larger than her own, placing her feet carefully where his had trod, looking along the darkened beach, listening to the sound the waves made grating on pebbles, the slow whisper of the tide withdrawing again.

She had been so engrossed with thinking of Patrick that she hadn’t heard a sound before someone leapt out at her, from behind a beached boat. She had had just that one brief glimpse, seen tanned skin, moonlight on light brown hair. She had tried to cry out, been silenced, heard an English voice angrily threaten her, and been sure it was him.

As he forced her down on to the sand she had fought desperately, shocked and terrified, while in her head she had thought, Does he think that this is why I followed him? Does he think I want this?

Even more disturbing was the fact that she couldn’t stop herself thinking, too, Did I want him to make love to me? Was that why I followed him down here? Have I asked for this? Invited it? Is it my fault this is happening to me?

When the sound of voices had made him stop and she was left alone, weeping, in pain and misery, she had crawled into the clean salt sea and been half tempted to let herself be washed away on the outgoing tide. But something stronger than she knew, deep inside her, an anger against the man who had done this to her, a life force which would not give in, had dragged her up out of the sea, just as Uncle Alex had come looking for her.