Wounds of Passion

As abruptly as it had begun it ended. The compulsion of his mouth lifted from her; Patrick’s head came up, his breathing thick and impeded, his face darkly flushed as he looked down at her, groaning as he saw the look on her face.

‘God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Antonia, that was unforgivable. I lost my temper—not that that’s any excuse, but when you hit me something blew in my head and the next thing I knew I was grabbing you, but, please believe me, I never intended to hurt you. That was the last thing on my mind!’

White with shock and fear, Antonia put a hand to her mouth, swallowing convulsively.

‘I...I’m going to be sick...’

She broke off and began to run to the stairs, afraid she would throw up before she got to the bathroom.

She only just made it in time, too distraught to think of anything but the agony of what was happening to her heaving body.

A few minutes later she sat on the bathroom floor with her back against the bath, shuddering and sobbing, having got rid of her entire supper, her short blonde hair a tangled web around her white face.

A sound made her head flick round, her eyes wide, hazed with tears. Patrick stood in the doorway, grim-faced.

‘Are you OK? Can I get you anything?’ His voice sounded different, unfamiliar, a low, harsh noise that made her tense again.

‘Just go away,’ she whispered. ‘And don’t come back.’

His features tightened, his mouth a hard white line, his eyes dark. For a moment she thought he was going to come towards her, and shrank; he gave her one long, last, level stare, then he turned and walked away. Nerves leaping like candles in a wind, she heard him go downstairs, heard the front door open and click shut. He had gone; she was alone. Only then could she slacken, let go, let the full flood of tears break through the dam behind which she had penned them until now.

CHAPTER FIVE

WHEN Antonia had cried out all her tears she shakily got to her feet and went downstairs to check that the doors, back and front, were locked, then she went back to the bathroom and took a long shower before climbing into bed and putting out the light. She fell asleep sooner than she had expected; the emotional shock of the evening had used up all her energy. Almost as soon as her head hit the pillow she began to drift downwards into a heavy sleep.

The dream began some time later. It always unrolled like an old film one had seen a hundred times before—familiar, inconsequential, nightmarish. She was on the beach under the warm Riviera night sky; there were people there laughing and talking one minute, the next they had gone, just as the moon kept coming and going behind clouds. Even the sound of the sea had a sinister note, a whispering, menacing sound, as she walked in Patrick’s footsteps, already half expecting the lunge of terror which came a moment later. He sprang out at her from darkness and she screamed, before the rough hand clamped down over her mouth and she was pulled down on to the sand, struggling uselessly.

It always happened the same way, a deadly routine dulled by time yet still terrifying. She saw a face, tanned skin, bright blue eyes, sun-bleached hair, heard his English voice, thought, It’s him; it’s Patrick...and for a second wavered in uncertainty. Is it a game? Is he playing a joke on me? Her heart beat faster, feeling Patrick’s hands touching her, until she realised the hands were hurting, the body on top of her wasn’t playing games. Terror beat back up and she thought as always, Does he think I followed him because I wanted this? A scream formed in her throat, couldn’t escape because he had gagged her; and then the worst nightmare of all as he taped her eyes, made her blind, helpless.

This isn’t happening, she kept telling herse

lf; it can’t be. It’s just a nightmare; it isn’t real, she thought in her dream, as she had thought that night on the beach. I’ll wake up soon, and it won’t be true, any of it.

The dream abruptly changed, as they always did, like the spinning of a kaleidoscope, everything suddenly taking on a new pattern. She was still on the beach, but she could see again; the tape across her eyes had gone, her mouth wasn’t gagged, nobody was hurting her. She looked up through the windswept tangles of her long blonde hair at Patrick in the moonlight.

‘You don’t have to be afraid of me, Antonia,’ he told her.

‘I’m not,’ she whispered, but it wasn’t true. She was afraid and confused. Had it been a dream, after all? Was she awake now?

‘What do you want, Antonia?’ Patrick softly asked, then put out a hand and touched her breast, and she saw suddenly that she was naked, and gasped. His fingers trailed across her bare pale skin and she cried out with pleasure and shame.

‘Patrick...’

He bent his head and kissed where his hand had lain, and the pierce of desire was like a hot knife.

‘No,’ she cried out, shuddering. ‘Don’t...oh, Patrick, don’t; I don’t want you to do that...’

But she knew she was lying, that she ached to have him touch her like that. It was a tormented confusion between fear and desire that made her deny him and her own feelings, pushing him away. She came up through the cloudy layers of sleep to find herself in her bed, her sheet wound round her like a shroud.

Still dream-dazed, kicking and struggling to break free, she heard movements, the sound of running footsteps, and her nerves leapt with panic. She fought free of the sheet to look at the door, but sat up only to be hit by the solid wall of a man’s chest as someone threw himself at the bed.

For a second she was so confused that she didn’t know whether she was awake or dreaming, but her senses told her, This isn’t a dream; this is real.

Antonia began to scream.

‘It’s OK, it’s only me. You’re safe; nobody’s going to hurt you,’ Patrick hurriedly whispered, pushing her face down into his shirt with one hand clamped behind her head.

For an instant she ached to stay there, buried against him, safe. His body was warm; she heard the deep rhythm of his heart under her cheek; her nostrils inhaled the scent of his skin, a maleness which made her quiver.