Wounds of Passion

She leapt up and made for the house, running; but Patrick caught her by the fountain and held her by the waist, pushing her backwards up against the stone basin, holding her there, standing in front of her, his body not quite touching hers.

Her agitated eyes flickered up to his face and away. ‘Don’t...’ she whispered, her voice shaking. ‘Please don’t...’

He stopped smiling and looked at her impatiently. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? I won’t hurt you!’

‘Then let go of me!’

Calmly and coaxingly, Patrick said, ‘Come on, do you really think I might attack you? Do I look the type?’

She broke out in a wail, like a scared child. ‘No, I know, but...oh, I don’t know how to explain...I...I get...I get the two of you mixed up, in my head...’

He froze, staring down at her, face rigid. ‘You still confuse me with that bastard? Thanks.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said wearily.

He went on staring, his brows together, then suddenly broke out roughly, ‘Have you any idea what you look like? I remember you that night, at the party, when you were dancing... You were lit up like a Christmas tree; you sparkled and glittered. Look at you now; you’re like a ghost! What are you trying to do to yourself?’

She was leaning backwards, to get as far away from him as possible, deeply aware of his lean, supple body, the tanned skin of face and throat, the hard male mouth talking to her with such incisive scorn.

‘I’m trying to get my life together again!’ she threw back at him, and his blue eyes flashed.

‘Is that why you’re wearing that boring dress, that shapeless jacket? And the body under them could be a boy’s; you don’t even look like a woman any more! Your lovely hair has all been cut off; you aren’t wearing makeup. You look terrible!’

‘Leave me alone!’ she broke out, resenting that description of herself. ‘It’s my life, not yours. You don’t have to live inside my head, so stay out of it. Please just go away and don’t come back!’

Her voice rose fiercely on the final words, and all the birds in the garden took fright at the sound, and clattered up into the burning blue sky, their wings sunlit.

At the same instant, she gave him a shove and he stumbled and fell across the e

dge of the fountain into the water.

He pulled himself upwards again, dripping wet; but she had gone; he saw her running between green leaves and white roses, then she was at the house and vanished into it with a slam of a door.

Patrick pushed his wet hair back from his face, dried himself as much as possible with his damp handkerchief, and a moment later left by the gate in the garden wall. He was going, but he would be back.

CHAPTER FOUR

ANTONIA watched Patrick leave, from an upstairs window in the house. She was still trembling, but as soon as he had gone she ran back downstairs, out into the garden, and made sure this time that the gate was locked. Patrick Ogilvie wasn’t getting in again.

She went back into the house and rang the palazzo. Mrs Devvon’s maid, Lucia, answered.

‘You are late. What has happened? She thinks you had an accident. You know what she’s like; she is getting upset.’

‘Tell her I’m very sorry, but I can’t come today; I’m sick,’ Antonia said huskily. It wasn’t entirely a lie; she felt as if she might throw up at any minute. She was feverish, shaky, cold sweat dewing her forehead.

‘Why didn’t you phone earlier?’ Lucia was a small, dark woman in her fifties with sharp black eyes, weathered olive skin, and black hair slowly turning grey, who had worked for Mrs Devvon for nearly twenty years.

‘I set out, then felt so sick, I had to go back,’ Antonia said uneasily. She found it hard to lie. ‘Tell Mrs Devvon that I’m sure I’ll be better tomorrow.’

Lucia grunted. ‘Huh.’

Antonia flushed guiltily, knowing Lucia guessed she wasn’t telling the truth. But she couldn’t have gone to the palazzo today, pretended to be normal, talked to Mrs Devvon as if nothing had happened. She knew the turmoil inside her would have shown in her face.

She rang off and lay down on her bed, aware of the house empty and silent around her, and beyond that the dusty little square, the quiet streets. It was like being on a desert island.

A local woman came in three times a week to clean, but she wouldn’t be coming today. Antonia wouldn’t have to pretend everything was just wonderful, when, in fact, the sky had just fallen in on her.

She had hoped she would never see him again. She was still dazed with the shock of recognising his face on the waters of the Grand Canal. It had been a surreal moment—incredible, terrifying.