Dark Fate. CHARLOTTE LAMB
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her in a hoarse whisper. She couldn’t think clearly. There was only that one simple thought in her head. Don’t! Behind it pressed all the pain and regret of the past, too complex to be put into words—language couldn’t contain it all, or her mind was too clouded and confused by misery to use any words that might express how she felt.
‘Don’t?’ he repeated in that deep, harsh tone which was so familiar although she hadn’t heard it for two years. ‘Don’t what, Saskia? Don’t ask you any questions? Don’t demand explanations? Don’t reproach you? Don’t be angry? Don’t come too close to you? What mustn’t I do, exactly?’
All of that, she thought, unable to look away from him and unable to answer, either.
‘Well, say something!’ he snarled, bending towards her, and she flinched away. Domenico observed that instinctive recoil, his frown deepening. ‘And stop jumping like that. What are you afraid I might do? Hit you? I don’t hit women, even if they deserve it, so you can stop pretending to be afraid of me.’
‘I’m not pretending!’
The reply was barely audible. He read the movement of her mouth, rather than heard the words, and his own mouth twisted in a cynical smile.
‘Good; it wouldn’t be wise. I think I’ll always know now when you are lying to me.’
Her blue eyes watched him wryly. ‘You always told me I was crazy, believing in any of that stuff!’
He grimaced. ‘Ah, but I’m a little crazy myself, these days, thanks to you.’
‘I’m sorry, Domenico—’ she began, and he interrupted in a savage voice that made her nerves crackle like fireworks.
‘Sorry! My God! Is that all you can say?’
Everyone in the room heard him; Saskia glanced anxiously around but the woman in widow’s black, the clergyman, the student in jeans, with long, untidy hair, and the two men in dark jackets with the watchful, hard faces of detectives, who were witnesses and who stared back at her, were all strangers, none of them belonged to her tour.
Where had the others gone? In the silence that followed Domenico’s outburst she heard the tour guide talking from the connecting room; he must have led the others in there while she was absorbed in watching Domenico. His voice floated clearly out to her.
‘Bellini was strongly influenced by Mantegna, who painted a little picture of St George, the patron saint of England, which we’ll find in the next room we visit. Come along, everyone—we must press on!’
Saskia looked pleadingly at Domenico. ‘I can’t talk here; my friends will come looking for me any minute. I’m not alone, I’m with a party.’
His face darkened with hostility, his voice hard. ‘I know, I saw them last night. You realised I’d seen you last night, didn’t you?’ He paused, staring down into her blue eyes, their dark centres enlarged and glazed with tension. Domenico nodded. ‘Yes, don’t bother to lie. You knew I was there; I felt your reaction. I knew you were going to run away again.’
She angrily glanced at the two bodyguards lurking near the door, still watching them. ‘And I suppose you sent those two to grab me! You still don’t go anywhere without them, I notice!’
His eyes hardened. ‘I’d be a fool if I did. You know that.’
Yes, she knew. Italy was a dangerous country; anyone with money had to protect themselves day and night.
Quietly, he said, ‘Anyway, it was easy to find out that you were part of a group booking and the name of your hotel. I went there this morning, but they claimed not to know where I could find your party. I simply had a gut feeling that I’d find you in the Accademia.’
She drew a sharp breath, turning paler.
So he hadn’t known she would be here! He had located her the way she had located him in the theatre last night. A strange, fierce excitement filled her. What did it mean, though? He had never been able to read her mind during the years when they lived together—why now, after two years apart, was he picking up her thoughts and feelings?
Domenico looked away from her, his hard eyes skimming around the room. ‘Where are they, anyway?’
‘Who?’ She was so absorbed in him that she had forgotten everything else and didn’t know what he was talking about.
He looked down into her eyes. ‘The others in your party.’
‘They must have walked into the next room.’ It didn’t seem to matter; she was too conscious of him for anything else to impinge on her at that moment. Then she frowned, disturbed by how quickly she was being sucked back into that old pattern of fear and helpless response. ‘I should catch up with them; they’ll wonder where I’ve got to.’
Domenico’s hand shot out, gripped her arm. ‘You don’t imagine I’m going to let you walk off again, now that I’ve found you?’ His voice was low, almost a whisper, but it had a harsh vibration that made her tremble.
She saw the two bodyguards tense, move closer, watching. Angrily she muttered, ‘Let go, Domenico! Do I have to scream the place down?’
A couple moved behind them to stare at a mediaeval fresco, standing far too close for Domenico to risk a public struggle. He had to let her go but his eyes were a threat; she couldn’t look away from the darkness in them.
‘Who is he?’ he muttered through almost closed lips and she tensed, jumping.
‘What?’ She was playing for time, knowing who he meant and wondering what she should tell him about Jamie.
‘I’ll find out so you might as well tell me! He’s here in the gallery, I suppose? If you won’t tell me, I can always ask him. Does he know about me?’ He watched her eyes, smiled coldly. ‘No, I had a shrewd idea he didn’t! What does he know about you? You must have told him something, and from that look on your face I suppose you invented a new past for yourself. He’s going to get a shock, then, isn’t he, when he is told?’
‘Stop it!’ she whispered, on the verge of tears. He was right, of course. Ever since she’d seen him in the theatre the night before she had known she was going to have to tell Jamie the truth about herself, and she knew it would be a shock to him to discover how much she had lied.
Domenico’s mouth curled like a whip; punitive, unrelenting. ‘Are you living with him? Have you been with him ever since you left me?’
Each question was like a blow across the face, his voice was so bitter and hostile. Saskia couldn’t bear it.
‘No, I’m not living with him, I just work for him!’ Her voice shook and the tears threatened to erupt at any minute. ‘We’re friends, that’s all!’
‘Friends?’ he repeated and laughed shortly. ‘You expect me to believe that? When you’re here on holiday with him?’
‘It’s...a sort of working holiday...’ she desperately insisted. ‘He’s my boss; he has a garden centre and I work there. He belongs to a professional association which arranges tours of famous gardens, sometimes in England, sometimes abroad. He knew I hadn’t had a proper holiday since I started working for him, so, as he was coming on this trip, he suggested I come along as well. He’s very friendly; he likes having company.’
Domenico’s eyes glittered like black ice. ‘And he hoped to get you into bed while you were in a holiday mood!’ he sneered.
Tensely she shook her head at him, willing him to believe her. She was afraid of what he might say or do to Jamie; she had to make him accept that Jamie was not her lover.
‘Please believe me, Domenico, Jamie isn’t interested in me that way.’
He did not look convinced. ‘That isn’t the impression I got, and it isn’t the impression the people at the hotel had. They seemed convinced that he was your lover.’
Appalled, she asked, ‘You questioned