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‘I didn’t think you had!’ he said, as if she had answered him. ‘Try to get some more sleep, Antonia, and be careful what you dream about, won’t you? What would you do if your dreams came true?’
She didn’t have to react to that. He was already going out of the door; she heard him running down the stairs and climbed hurriedly out of bed, and followed him, meaning to watch from the top of the stairs, making sure he actually left the house.
He paused at the front door and looked back, as if quite aware of her standing there. His blue eyes gleamed like sapphires in the dark and he lifted a hand in mocking salute.
‘Did you know that material is totally transparent?’
She leapt back out of sight and he laughed. There was a mirror hanging in the hallway; she watched it and saw his reflected figure leave, the front door slam shut behind him.
Antonia ran down and bolted both front and back doors this time, then methodically searched each room to make sure there was no one in the house except her. It was almost dawn by then; the sky was a milky white, gauzy mist hanging over the Grand Canal, cloaking the outlines of the buildings on the opposite bank, the moorish fretworked stone, rose-pink and dusty cream, the cracked and crumbling plasterwork, the uneven roofs, the cupolas, domes and spires which made up Venice’s skyline. They all blurred into a soft composition of line and shade above the rippling, mist-hung water.
Antonia made herself some hot chocolate and went back to bed with it, sat there, brooding in the growing light, remembering his touch, the sensual note in his voice as his finger caressed her throat, her mouth, her breast. She was trembling, shuddering; she was so hot, and her skin prickled with erotic sensation.
She must never, never let herself be caught with him alone again. Not now he knew he could get to her like that.
She got up and showered half an hour later, dressed, and made herself a very early breakfast of fruit and hot rolls from the bakery near by. She might as well go to work. At least she’d be out if Patrick came back.
When she went home the following evening she was on edge as she walked across the sleepy little square towards the pink house in case Patrick Ogilvie had climbed over the garden wall again, and was waiting for her.
Putting the key in the lock, she stiffened, hearing voices inside. Who on earth could that be? There was laughter, the clink of glasses, a slow American drawl. A smile lit her face. Uncle Alex’s voice! He was home.
She turned the key, pushed open the gate, looked across the garden and stopped dead, her face blank and shaken. Alex Holtner was there, certainly, lounging on the bench under the fig tree, a glass in his hand. But with him was Patrick Ogilvie.
Casually perching on the edge of the fountain, splashing one hand idly in the water as he talked. His bronzed hair gleamed in the sunlight, and at the sight of him she felt the usual confusion—the stab of attraction, the underswell of fear.
She forced herself to walk into the garden, fighting to look as normal as possible, and both men looked round.
Uncle Alex got up, smiling warmly, and came over to greet her with a kiss and a hug.
‘There you are, darling! I wondered when you’d get back. Have you been OK on your own? No problems?’
‘None I couldn’t handle,’ she said, meeting Patrick’s mocking blue eyes over his shoulder and coldly looking away again.
‘Good girl.’
‘Is Susan-Jane in the house? I’ll go and find her,’ Antonia quickly said, but Uncle Alex shook his head.
‘No, she didn’t come back with me; she has gone to stay with her cousin Jan in Kent, the one who just had a baby.’
‘Why didn’t you go too?’
Alex grimaced. ‘Oh, Susan-Jane asked me to, but...well, Jan is OK but I find her husband Rod a bit heavy going; he seems to think that because I’m a cartoonist he has to be funny. The trouble is his idea of humour is a lead balloon. Ten minutes of his company and I want to hit the guy. So I flew home instead.’
‘I’m glad you did,’ she said, aware all the time of Patrick’s ironic eyes.
Alex grinned at her. ‘Were you lonely without us? Nice to be missed. I’ve missed you, too, honey. Sit down and talk to us. Patrick and I are having a very civilised chat in the shade—after London it seems so hot here, especially indoors; the garden is the only place I can breathe. Have a glass of home-made lemonade.’
She had been hoping to escape, think of some excuse for going into the house, but, with Patrick’s derisive gaze fixed on her, she had to stay. He would only think she was running away from him.
‘Thanks, I’m dying of thirst,’ she said, and Alex Holtner picked up a large deep blue glass jug and poured some of the contents into a glass, ice chinking as he held it out to her. There were thin slices of lemon floating on the surface of the drink, a sparkle of frosted sugar on the rim of the jug. Antonia’s mouth was parched; there was perspiration running down her back after her walk back here from the Accademia vaporetto stop, not to mention from the nervous tension of being in Patrick Ogilvie’s company. She took the glass and drank, thirstily.
‘Good?’ Uncle Alex said, smiling as she lowered the glass, more than half empty already.
‘Delicious!’ she admitted, sitting down on the bench and fanning herself with the white sun-hat she had been wearing on her short blonde feathers of hair.
‘I gather you and Patrick met at the vaporetto stop at the Accademia the other day,’ her uncle said. ‘Amazing how that sort of coincidence always seems to happen. It’s a small world. I was just telling him how glad I am to have the chance to say sorry about our mistake in Bordighera—I did write to his publisher, but the letter was returned unopened; I think they had lost your address, Patrick.’
‘I moved and didn’t tell them,’ Patrick coolly said.
