Wounds Of Passion. CHARLOTTE LAMB
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through.
‘The border is always busy on a Saturday. Weekends are the worst times to cross,’ Rae said, then asked casually, ‘What are you going to do when we’ve finished the work on the books? Will you go back to York to live?’
He shook his head without looking at her. He wanted to be a thousand miles away from anything that could remind him of Laura. If he returned to the city where he had lived for years he would be bound to run into her all the time.
‘What will you do, then?’ Rae persevered.
‘I thought I might settle in Italy.’
He felt Rae’s leap of surprise, caught the quick sideways look she gave him. She hadn’t expected that. Well, good. He meant to be unpredictable and unexpected in future; he might as well start now.
They were waved through the border a few minutes later and drove along the autostrada to Bordighera, then turned down the hill from the old town towards the sea. Slowing, Rae leaned out of the car and tapped a security number into a panel beside a high metal gate, operated electronically. The gates swung open and they drove through, down a winding path between cypress trees, olive trees and bougainvillaea.
Patrick stared up at the villa they were approaching; it was enormous, built on a number of levels, a confusion of white walls, red-tiled roofs, dark window-frames and black-painted shutters. A fir tree grew close to the house, dropping pine cones on the paving-stones; geraniums tumbled out of pots, a tortoiseshell cat slept on a stone seat by the front door, and roses and lavender filled the air with fragrance; it was a lovely place.
‘Isn’t it magic?’ asked Rae, observing his reaction with pleasure.
Alex and Susan-Jane Holtner came out to meet them as they parked outside the villa.
‘Hi, there, welcome,’ Alex said, shaking hands warmly, smiling. He was a very tall, thin man of over forty, with reddish hair, a thin moustache, dark glasses and freckles.
‘Hallo. I’m Patrick Ogilvie—it’s very good of you to invite me,’ said Patrick, trying not to stare at the man’s wife too much. It wasn’t easy; she was stunning, in one of the tiniest bikinis he had ever seen.
Tall, sexy, with a ravishing model figure, she was years younger than her husband. Her rich chestnut hair framed her face in a wild tangle of curls, and she had wide blue eyes, a classical nose and a full, generous mouth.
‘Susan-Jane, my wife,’ said Alex Holtner, a gleam of humour in his eye, and Patrick shook hands with her, struggling not to look down at the warm ripeness of the body spilling out of the bikini.
‘Rae never stops talking about what a genius you are; we have been aching to meet you,’ she said, then, mischievously, ‘Alex is quite jealous of you!’
‘I wish I could paint half as well, but all I can do is draw cartoons,’ her husband said complacently, sliding an arm around her and patting her on the bottom.
‘Brilliant cartoons,’ Patrick said, smiling. ‘I’ve followed them ever since they started appearing.’
Alex grinned at him. ‘Why, thank you. Now the compliments are over, Rae will show you your room. If there’s anything you need, just ask. Oh, and we were going to eat lunch on the terrace—just salad and bread. Is that OK with you, Patrick?’
‘Sounds wonderful to me; it’s much too hot to eat much down here, I find,’ Patrick said.
‘And the wine makes you sleepy,’ said Susan-Jane.
‘But it’s such a good excuse for going to bed in the afternoon,’ her husband said wickedly, grinning down at her, and she gave him a little punch.
‘Don’t be naughty!’
Patrick felt a stab of pain at the intimacy between them; that was something else he was going to miss.
The party began before it grew dark that evening; people began arriving in cars or on foot from nearby villas, flocking into the villa gardens which tumbled down to the beach. The barbecue site was just above the beach, and close to the enormous blue-tiled swimming-pool set into a wide terrace, where they could set out chairs and tables around a bar counter from which drinks could be served. Earlier, Patrick had helped carry chairs, knives and forks, trays of glasses and plates down to the terrace, and watched Alex testing the lighting, setting up the music system.
Now there were brightly coloured lights strung through the trees and pop music floated out into the darkening sky. Some guests were swimming in the pool, a few were dancing, some wandered under the trees, and others sat by the bar and talked.
Patrick wandered between the various groups, took a glass of red wine, sipped it as he walked, paused to watch a girl swimming in the pool, strolled on to stare at the dancers, and felt his heart turn over violently as he caught sight of long, pale gold hair, a slender body in a silky white dress which ended at the thighs, and below that, long, elegant legs.
For a moment he thought it really was Laura. He took three hurried steps towards her, barely breathing.
Then the music stopped and the girl and her partner broke apart; she turned and Patrick hungrily stared, but her face was nothing like Laura’s. The thick beating of his heart slowed; he felt a burst of rage, as if the girl had deliberately deceived him.
She was staring straight at him now, as if she had picked up his intense concentration on her, half smiling. Her eyes were blue, not green, he noted dully. She was young, not more than twenty, her face heart-shaped, with a softness in the curve of the cheek and jawline, a fullness in the mouth, that was completely different from the delicacy of Laura’s features.
He turned away, heart-sick, finished his red wine, and put the glass down.
‘Come and dance!’ said a voice beside him, and he swung round, stiffening.
He knew it was her before he saw her; she had a light, young voice with a distinct accent. American, he thought. Some relative of Alex Holtner? He remembered over lunch some talk of a niece, a young art student, coming down that day for the party from Florence, where she was spending the summer studying Renaissance art. He had barely listened, indifferent to everything they said.
‘You do speak English?’ she asked, watching him secretly, her eyes half veiled by long, curling lashes loaded with mascara; shyness mingled with silent invitation in the way the full mouth curved in a smile.
The neckline of the silk dress was low; you could see a lot of golden tanned flesh, the cleft between her small, high breasts.
She moved closer, put out a hand to him; and he was tempted for a moment. He could pretend, just for a little while, hold that slender body in his arms, touch her and pretend she was Laura. It would be so easy.
Her fingers brushed slowly along his bare arm, sending a wave of self-disgust through him.
‘I don’t dance, thanks,’ he said brusquely, and turned and walked away. It would have been madness, like an alcoholic taking just one more drink, kidding himself it wouldn’t be a risk. He would never forget Laura that way, and it would have been unforgivable to use that girl as a puppet in his private fantasies. She was so young, skin like a peach, tiny fair hairs giving her that shimmer, that radiance; and she had had an unconscious sensuality in the swing of her hips, in the rich curve of her mouth.
She had aroused him with her faint resemblance to the woman he loved. He was too restless now to stay around at the party. He walked out of the glare of lights, away from the blare of the music, the laughter and voices, into the shadows of the trees, down through the gardens to the beach, took off his sandals and walked barefoot through the creaming surf. He headed off along the beach with no real idea of where he was going, sat down on the sand to stare out over the sea for half an hour or so, then got up, brushed the sand off his jeans, and walked back up through the gardens to the villa.
Everyone seemed to be down around the pool, eating and drinking; he skirted the lights and managed to slip into the house without running into anyone, went to his room, took off his clothes, dropped