Wounds of Passion

Her ears beat with the rhythm of her own blood; she was deafened by her heart thudding, blind to the glitter of the sun, the blue sea, the blue sky. All her senses were wrapped up in Patrick, her responses to him, a growing pleasure which was more intense than anything she had ever known.

When Patrick suddenly caught her shoulders and pushed her upwards, holding her away from him, she was dazed and confused, her eyes opening, staring down at him in bewilderment.

‘We’d better get back to the beach; this sun is far too hot,’ Patrick huskily said, his face darkly flushed and his blue eyes moving restlessly.

Antonia barely heard what he said. She was watching his mouth move and was hardly able to breathe. Everything in her was concentrated on that one point in the universe—Patrick’s mouth. She could have looked at it for hours without growing tired, but most of all she wanted to kiss it again; she could spend eternity kissing his mouth.

Patrick said roughly, ‘I didn’t expect to get this far this fast. If we stay here any longer I can’t guarantee things won’t go even further.’

Her face burned.

He gave her a dark, smouldering look. ‘I don’t want to be accused later of using force, or making you do anything you don’t want to do, so from now on you’re going to have to ask for it if you want it, Antonia.’

Her breath caught as if he’d hit her. ‘You do think a hell of a lot of yourself, don’t you?’ she threw back at him, and then scrambled to her feet, dived in without a second look at him, and began swimming, heard him splash into the sea a moment later.

Her cramp had gone, but she was still very tired, and was relieved to get back to the beach. She collapsed on to her mattress, put on her headphones, and, ignoring Patrick as he joined her, listened to a new tape of one of her favourite groups while she drowsed and sunbathed. By that time of the afternoon the sun was low in the sky, shadows were lengthening, people were leaving the beach, yet the air was still languorously warm and the sky was still blue.

Antonia slid into a light sleep, began to dream of Patrick kissing her; she woke up, turning on to her side in restless agitation, to find him lying next to her, watching her with those half-closed, tormenting eyes.

Her skin began to burn. No wonder he knew what she was thinking, when he kept eavesdropping on her dreams. When he did that, he was invading her most secret space, her own mind, her unconscious, the place to which even she did not have all the keys.

‘Stop watching me!’ she angrily burst out.

‘You were asleep; why should it bother you?’

‘I’m awake now!’

‘Sure about that?’ His eyes were full of laughter, but she was not amused.

‘Very funny. You may enjoy playing games; but I don’t.’

‘You don’t know how, that’s all,’ he softly said. ‘You need a few lessons on how to enjoy life.’

‘Not from you!’ she snapped, turned her back on him again, switching on her cassette player and turning up the volume to drown out anything else he said.

They got back to the little pink house just as the sun was sinking, and found a note from Alex telling them to eat without him.

Bumped into an old chum and having dinner with him and his latest wife! May be late!

Antonia nervously flicked a glance at Patrick. ‘Well, maybe we should eat out tonight, too?’

‘Ten minutes ago you said you were too tired to move,’ he reminded her drily. ‘Look, you have a shower; I’ll cook supper.’

‘Not spaghetti again?’ she ruefully asked, and he made a face at her.

‘My spaghetti is world-famous. But no, I shall cook something new and exciting. Go on, woman, have your shower, and leave me to my mysteries.’

She reluctantly went up to her bedroom, locked the door, stripped, took a lukewarm shower, and put on a thin blue and white striped cotton shirt and white jeans.

When she got downstairs again there was a delicious scent coming from the kitchen, but Patrick shouted out, ‘Lay the table, will you?’ so she got the cutlery out of a drawer and began to lay the table for two. There was an opened bottle of red wine on the table already, and a woven basket of sliced bread, so she put out two wine glasses and lit the candles in the green bronze candlesticks standing in the centre of the table.

‘Ready,’ Patrick shouted, and came in from the kitchen carrying in one hand a large flat terracotta dish which he placed in the centre of the table.

‘What is this?’ She could see that the main ingredient was some sort of scrambled eggs but mixed up with sliced green and red peppers, onions, ham and tomatoes. ‘Is it an omelette that went wrong?’

‘Certainly not; my cooking doesn’t go wrong. No, this is piperade, it’s a Basque dish. Haven’t you eaten it before?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m not sure I’d like it.’