Wounds of Passion by Charlotte Lamb (sci fi books to read TXT) 📗

this was her fault. ‘What is he going to do instead, then?’ she had asked miserably. ‘How will he earn a living?’

‘Oh, I gather he has quite a bit in the bank—he had been saving for a long time, to buy a house after he and Laura were married. He can live on that for some time, and I’m sure he’ll get lots of work elsewhere. He’s always been very successful. That’s what’s so maddening. I don’t want to lose him; he’s the best illustrator I’ve ever worked with.’ Rae had sighed heavily, impatiently. ‘But I got nowhere when I tried to talk him round, he was adamant, and—do you know?—I was actually afraid to go on arguing with him. I got the feeling I would be sorry if I did.’ Rae had made a wry face at her. ‘And I’m not normally the nervous type with men. I wouldn’t have believed Patrick could change that way.’

Antonia had been wondering if she should write to him to tell him she was sorry, or maybe even try to see him, but after listening to Rae she had been scared of facing him again, and during the last two years she had always felt a leap of alarm and agitation whenever she thought of him.

Now she had met him, talked to him, and at one and the same time it had been both worse, and easier, than she had anticipated. He had been very angry at first; there had been explosive rage in his face, in the way he moved. After she had fainted, though, he seemed to have calmed down. He talked quietly, conversationally, as if they were mere acquaintances—until he saw her engagement ring, and then he changed again. Why had he been so angry when he’d found out she was engaged?

She had thought herself round in a circle, was back where she had started, facing the fact that Patrick Ogilvie still haunted her and she still didn’t understand him.

She warily approached the house on the Dorsoduro that evening, making sure Patrick wasn’t around before she unlocked the gate in the wall and walked through the garden to the back of the house.

She ate some salad for her evening meal, with freshly bought Italian bread, followed by a peach which she peeled and ate listening to local radio, the current top twenty hits, humming along with those she knew quite well.

She opened a can of cat food after that and went out to call the half-wild cats which lived in the garden shed, but were not allowed indoors. They warily approached, tails up, hissed at each other as they began to wolf down their food.

While she was watching them, she heard a thud in the garden, then a rustling, followed by another, unmistakable sound.

Footsteps grating on the gravel.

The hair rose on the back of Antonia’s neck. She turned hurriedly, her heart racing so fast that she felt sick.

She knew before she saw him that it was Patrick. He loped towards her, a darker shadow in the gathering dusk, like a wolf coming down on the fold, a tall man wearing black jeans and a thin black summer shirt, open at the throat.

She was so taken by surprise that she didn’t even think of running back indoors before he reached her.

‘How did you get in?’ she attacked as he confronted her.

‘Climbed over the wall,’ he coolly admitted, staring down at her, his blue eyes wandering over the lilac cotton tunic dress she wore.

‘That’s burglary!’ she accused, wishing he would not look at her that way. His blue eyes dismissed her dress as dull, which it was; but she didn’t want men staring. She wanted to walk the streets of Venice without being noticed, and in this very simple dress she did.

‘You can’t burgle someone’s garden!’ he drawled.

‘Illegal entry, then,’ she furiously said and, as he opened his mouth as if to argue, raised her voice and shouted him down. ‘Well, whatever you call it, I’m going to ring the police if you don’t leave at once. I don’t want you on my property!’

‘This isn’t your property, though, is it? Your uncle has a short-term lease, that’s all.’

‘Why don’t you go away and leave me alone?’ raged Antonia, wishing he didn’t make her feel so helpless. He had this strange effect on her: disabling her mentally and physically, leaving her weak and shivery, as if she had some strange illness.

‘Are you here alone?’ he asked, and she gave him a nervous, frowning look.

‘What?’ Her lids fell over her aquamarine eyes. ‘No, of course not.’

He smiled crookedly, mocking her. ‘Who else is here?’

‘I told you, my uncle and aunt!’

‘Good, I think it’s time I talked to them. You said Alex wanted to apologise to me; now is as good a time as any.’ He walked towards the open door into the house and she ran after him, in great agitation.

‘No, you can’t... He’s not here... I mean, he’s out at the moment; he won’t be back until later.’

She was too late to stop him. He was already in the kitchen, looking around him curiously at the copper utensils hanging in neat rows on the dark brown walls, the red and green curtains at the windows, the modern electric stove, the bright green cushions in a basket chair beside the kitchen table.

‘Very cosy,’ Patrick said, then sniffed. ‘Coffee? That smells good; is there any left?’

‘No, and you can’t stay here!’ said Antonia.

He threw himself into the basket chair, and stretched with a sigh of content, like one of the cats she had been feeding, and she felt a strange quiver of reaction deep inside her. His lean, supple body was a pleasure to watch, just as the graceful movements of the cats were good to watch.

She had believed that all her sensuality had been killed that night on the beach, but it hadn’t; it was alive now, stirring under her skin as she watched him.

His vivid blue eyes watched her expression, assessing it. There