Flood Tide (6 page)

“Then again, it might not,” she retorted. “Fortunately you are never likely to find out.”

Ewart stood up. “If you are still around, I’ll see you at supper,” he said. It was more of a command than a casual word of parting.

The Tourist Office was closed. It was the hottest part of the day and Reah’s shorn jeans were clinging to her legs. With a heavy heart she went back to the hotel, realising that she dare not check out without an alternative reservation. She changed into a simple cotton skirt and blouse, and sponged her face. For all her brave words, she was worried.

The streets of Florence were stifling, but Reah made herself go out again. She was going to be first in the queue outside the Tourist Office when it opened. She was dismayed to find a scattering of people already waiting.

“But we made a reservation for you last night, Miss Lawrence, and you did not turn up,” said the woman behind the counter when it was Reah’s turn.

“Yes,
I know. I’m sorry,” said Reah. “I met an acquaintance…someone from England. I was given a room at—er—this person’s hotel.”

It sounded so unconvincing and illicit that Reah found herself colouring.

“You were very lucky to get a room. Can’t you continue at your friend’s hotel?”

“But he’s not a friend and I’ve no wish to stay there,” Reah went on, determined to correct the implied situation but somehow making it sound worse. “I want to stay somewhere else.”

“I’m afraid that may not be possible,” said the woman, obviously feeling less helpful than yesterday. “A lot of people would have been grateful for that bed last night.”

“I’ve said I’m sorry.”

“I’ve nothing to offer you if you don’t like hostel accommodation.”

“I didn’t say that …”

“Come back tomorrow. We may have something suitable for you then.”

“
Grazie
.”

Reah made her voice sound humble, but her feelings were outraged. It was Ewart’s fault. If he had not been so high-handed, she would be on her way to some little pensione by now.

She realised she would have to stay at the Palazzo Excelsior now. But that did not mean she need see Ewart, though he seemed to think she would be having supper with him.

Reah had no intention of doing any such thing. She would stand him up. It would be a small gesture of defiance at the way he simply took it for granted that she would be there.

She would appear…looking absolutely ravishing, then calmly tell him that she had made other plans for the evening.

Reah realised that if she was going to appear looking marvellous then she would have to buy something to wear. She had no intention of wearing the silvery silk chiffon dress again. She would have to get another stunning dress.

The dress shops of Florence were superb and very expensive. She would be digging deep into her savings again.

Reah had a fascinating hour wandering round the fashion boutiques. She was looking for something special but low key. When she found it, she knew instantly she need look no further.

It was a simple dress in eau de nil silk, full skirted with a tiny tie belt, the scooped neck edged with plaited material. It was the long sleeves that drew Reah’s justification for the price. They were slashed dramatically so that her bare arms showed with every movement.

It fitted perfectly. The astute shop assistant hurried away and returned with a pair of ankle strap sandals in soft, pale green leather. Reah could not resist them. She paid without a qualm.

She spent what was left of the afternoon sketching the frescos in the great Duomo Cathedral, which she could appreciate now that she was more refreshed. She began to plan a course for her pupils on Florentine art. She returned to the Palazzo Excelsior looking forward to a leisurely bath and dressing for dinner.

She soaked in the warm, scented bath water wishing she had a glass of champagne to complete the decadent feeling. She washed her hair and brushed it till it shone like fire. Her make-up was applied with the subtle, steady hand of an artist.

The pale eau de nil silk dress draped softly over her slender figure, the colour a perfect foil for the highlights in her bright hair.

Her heart was racing as she went downstairs. He might make one of his sarcastic remarks but it would not matter. No man could fail to see that she could look like a woman if she wanted to…that was all she wanted to prove.

Reah hesitated at the entrance to the bar. She was not used to going into a bar alone. Ewart was already there, immaculate in a light-weight grey suit, very Italian, cream silk shirt open-necked, the collar casually turned up.

He came over with a glass of wine which he handed to her. She smiled cool thanks. Now she would tell him she had a date.

“I have to go out,” he said immediately. “You’ll have to eat on your own.”

“Oh.” Reah was stunned. The announcement was so unexpected. “Do you have to see another man about a hero?”

“No, this time it’s a lady. The Contessa Bianca Bernini. I thought it would be more polite if I took her to dinner.”

“Yes, of course,” said Reah, her face stiff with disappointment and annoyance that she had not made her announcement first.

“Will you be all right?”

“I’m used to looking after myself. Anyway, I had already made other arrangements for the evening. I’ve got a date.”

There was a bitter tone to her voice. Ewart noticed but did not comment.

He did not want to be late. He had been all day tracking down the elusive Contessa and it was a fifteen-minute drive to her villa outside Florence. His work came first.

He left Reah holding the compensatory glass of wine. She drank it in one minute as if it were water. She dare not order another in case she did not have enough lire to pay for it. It would be better if she ate out at a cheaper
trattoria
.

She found a small place nearby, clean and unpretentious and ordered cannelloni from the chalked menu board. But she kept imagining Ewart wining and dining the Contessa and her appetite fled. She sat in the gathering twilight watching the couples strolling, arms entwined, and she felt very alone.

There had never been a special young man in her life because there had always been her father. A few boyfriends had come and gone while she was at Art College, but she had never fallen in love.

The only man she had loved was her father. Even now she could not believe that her father had died. How could someone be sharing breakfast with her one moment, and then a few hours later he had gone forever.

Reah pushed away the plate. She would go back to the hotel and put colour washes on some of the ink drawings she had made that day.

She hurried upstairs to her room and took off the pale silk dress. Ewart had not even noticed it. She wrapped her cotton robe round her, took out her paints and was soon absorbed.

When her eyes began to tire with the close work, she knew it was time to stop before she made mistakes.

She rolled onto the bed, rubbing her eyes and yawning. She longed to sleep but the traffic was so noisy…perhaps it was a feast day or a holiday.

Had Ewart come back yet from his date with the Contessa? She sighed. It was none of her business.

The night was humid and close. The Tuscan hills seemed to be suffocating the city. Reah longed for a drink but did not dare drink the water from the tap. There was room service but did it function at this hour?

It was one a.m. Surely some little bar would still be open. She would buy a drink then walk until she was tired and ready for sleep. Not thinking, she put on the eau de nil dress and took a purse in her hand. The night porter nodded to her as she went out through the entrance.

The streets were cooler now with movement in the air. Many of the bars and little
trattorias
were already shuttered and closed, but Reah did persuade a woman to serve some
limonata
before locking the doors. She strolled into an unfamiliar area of Florence near the river. There were still people about.

Her new sandals were no longer quite so comfortable. If she walked much farther she would develop a blister. Insects buzzed round the street lamps in swarms. Reah suddenly did not like being out by herself anymore.

She turned to re-track, fairly confident that she could find her way back to the hotel. The great dome of the Duomo was a landmark, and she knew she had only to keep this dark mass to her left and she would not get lost.

Two youths turned the corner and were facing her. They wore grubby jeans and Tee-shirts with slogans and badges; they were an untidy pair with unkempt black hair.

As Reah went to pass them, they blocked her way. Their eyes glittered in the darkness. She thought she caught a whiff of beer.

A tremor of fear swept through her. The youths jostled against her, their voices loud and jeering. She could not understand what they were saying.

“Excuse me,” she said boldly. “I wish to pass.”

They caught at her arms, one on either side, and began to turn her round, not gently but roughly.

Reah tried to struggle out of their grip, which seemed to delight them. They were like boys tormenting a captured animal.

“Let me go,” she cried. “Let me go!”

Instinctively she aimed her high heels at their shins but it only brought a dangerous gleam into their narrowed eyes.

“Here, take my money,” she said angrily, offering her purse.

They looked at each other and laughed. It was not her money they wanted though they might take that as well.

She froze, her breath locked in her throat, too scared to move. She was aware of footsteps hurrying, then running. A lean shadowy figure appeared in an archway. Suddenly the youths were torn away from their grasp on her arms, and a man was pushing them against the wall. Reah almost fell as she was released.

“Young hooligans! Clear off before I thrash you,” the man rasped. “The lady does not care for your attentions.”

Reah stumbled backwards, gasping for breath. It was a Welsh knight. It was Ewart.

Chapter Four

He had the two youths pinned against the wall. They began blustering, but they were uncertain. They eyed his muscular frame, and he had the advantage of being in a towering rage. He did not look like a man to be trifled with too far.

“Cowards! Frightening a young woman on her own. You ought to be thrashed,” he threatened. He looked violent enough to carry out his threat, and the two youths exchanged glances. They began to back off, defiantly jeering but with less conviction. Their faces slackened, eyes darting for escape.

Suddenly twisting out of Ewart’s grip, they took to their heels and ran down the street, shouting over their shoulders.

Reah put out a hand to steady herself, fighting off a feeling of weakness.

“Are you all right?” His voice was harsh and deep.

She nodded numbly.

“Did they hurt you?”

“No…”

She found herself being held close to his hard chest. His hand was in her hair, stroking her with amazing tenderness; then abruptly he pushed her away, shaking her like a naughty child.

“You little fool,” he exploded. “What are you doing out here at this time of night, in this area, on your own? Haven’t you any sense?”

Reah could not stop shivering despite the warmth of the night.

“I despair of you,” he said, tipping her head back so that she had to look at him. She was willing herself not to cry in front of him. “Don’t you know that a young woman walking alone at night in Italy is asking for trouble?”

She shook her head despairingly, strands of hair masking the tears on her cheeks. “I never thought…please, Ewart, don’t be so angry. I can’t stand any more. “

“Italian men, especially young students, think that such conduct is an open invitation. And look at your dress. For heaven’s sake, you were just asking to be accosted.”

“My dress?” A spark of indignation rose through her fright. Now he was being unfair. “What’s wrong with my dress? It’s perfectly respectable. You couldn’t have anything more modest…”

His face was forbidding in the darkness. Had he held her gently, or had she dreamed it? It could not be the same man.

“Those slashed sleeves. Don’t you know how sexy that tantilising glimpse of female flesh is to men? Especially Italian men. It’s a wonder you weren’t accosted half a dozen times.”

Reah crossed her arms to cover the offending slits. Her fingers went inside the sleeves, to the smooth skin.

“I could walk around Southdean perfectly safely in this dress,” she said obstinately. “I can’t believe Italian men are so easily turned on.”

“My dear Reah…” Ewart steered her out of the dimly lit street.
“You
don’t seem to know how much your colouring attracts Italian men—that red hair and pale peachy skin.”

He draped his jacket over her shoulders. It radiated warmth from his body. She held it against her, the faint tang of his after-shave still clinging to it.

“What were you doing here in the Pinzochere…the grey area? This is not the most salubrious district.”

“I didn’t know. I only came out for a walk. I couldn’t sleep and I wanted a drink…it was so hot and noisy,” she tried to explain.