Flood Tide (7 page)

“It is warm and noisy.” His anger evaporated as he saw the tears still in her wide frightened eyes. “It’s far too beautiful a night to sleep.”

“Is the Contessa beautiful?”

“Very.”

“And you took her out?”

“No. We ate at her villa. There was a meal prepared. It was very civilised.” He stressed the last word fractionally.

“Is it a modern villa? With a large estate?” Reah was talking for talking’s sake, hugging his jacket round her.

“No…they have a beautiful old villa, so mellow it almost merges into the hills. It’s been in the family for years. They are wealthy and very aristocratic.”

“How did you happen to come along, just then?”

“I was out walking,” he said enigmatically.

“Keeping an eye on me, you mean,” said Reah stiffly.

“If you care to put it that way. But it was just as well I came along. Those two thugs were an ugly pair. You didn’t stand a chance. Why on earth did you go out?”

“I was thirsty.”

“Heavens, child. I wasn’t aware that there was a drought at the hotel. Haven’t you heard of room service?”

“Don’t call me child,” said Reah, worn out. “Why are you so critical? Do you think you’re perfect?”

“No, I’m not. But I shall call you child until you stop behaving like one.”

Reah made a conscious effort to calm down.

A new sound came clip-clopping along the street. It was one of the horse-drawn carriages which took tourists on sight-seeing trips round the city. Ewart grabbed her hand and hurried towards the sound of the hooves.

Ewart hailed the driver, but the old man shook his head and tapped his watch. Ewart took out a wad of lire notes, making the driver an offer he could not refuse. The sturdy grey and white dappled horse pawed the ground.

Ewart helped Reah climb up the swaying step.

“I think a leisurely drive through the park will be refreshing and peaceful. Then he’ll take us back to the hotel. I will pay him enough to take tomorrow off, so he’s happy.”

“Perhaps the horse is tired too,” said Reah.

“I should have known you were a softie. I forgot to ask the horse.”

The horse seemed to know where it was going without any guidance from the driver who was nodding on his perch.

It turned into the Cascine, the beautiful public park that stretched along the right bank of the Arno. The site had once been the hunting ground and farms owned by the Medici family, and there was still a strong rural atmosphere.

It was a solitary place at night. The riders had gone home, and the shady paths were empty. Silvery leaves dipped and rustled as the carriage rolled by.

Ewart’s arm slipped easily round her shoulder, drawing her close to his side. Reah felt herself stiffen, her natural reaction to any advance.

“Stop worrying, Reah darling,” he said unexpectedly. “You are safe with me. I’m much too old for any undignified wrestling in the back of a carriage. I prefer a king-sized bed with taped music, or the bank of a mountain stream,” he added half to himself. His voice sounded far away.

“A mountain stream?”

“Imagine an Alpine meadow, high in the mountains. No one about for miles and the air clear and sweet. Sun glistening on snow tops, and farther down the mountain, a soft bank of meadow flowers for a bed. The only sound is the music from the little stream. What could be a more perfect setting for the act of love?” His expression was unfathomable, unapproachable.

She wanted to ask him if he had been to such a meadow with a woman he loved but she dared not. There must have been many women in his life.

“No,” he went on, answering her unspoken question. “I’ve not yet found the right woman to take there. She will have to be very special to share my dream.”

Reah felt an awareness growing; she did not want to feel like that about any man, especially not Ewart.

She noted that he had not asked her about her evening and she was glad. She did not want to have to invent a gallant escort. She did not lie convincingly. Even as a little girl, her father had always known. The tiniest white lie had never escaped being rumbled by a great burst of laughter from him.

Ewart felt her shiver and his arm tightened. He did not know that she was thinking of her other dream, her nightmare.

“Tell me, teacher. Do you know the kind of woman I am looking for? What will she be like? Will she be stubborn, headstrong, with red hair and a lost, lost look in her hazel eyes?”

Her pulses quickened…a strange sensation tingled through her veins.

“Of course not,” said Reah, trying to sound normal. “Quite the reverse. I should have thought a tall, elegant blonde would be more your style.”

“You’re absolutely right,” he agreed amiably. “I shall remember that…a tall, elegant blonde. Excellent advice.”

The swaying carriage was taking them deeper into the magical woods, the breeze playing with her hair till it shone with red lights and tawny shadows. The fine bones of her face were sharpened by the moonlight.

“The next best thing to an Alpine meadow,” he murmured unexpectedly.

She did not know when he began kissing her. They were tiny, tentative kisses at first, tasting the softness of her still lips, telling her not to be afraid…little kisses hovering over her pale eyelids, touching her brow, her cheeks.

She moved her head in wonder, not knowing before that a man could be so gentle and patient.

This could not be Ewart Morgan; it must be some other man who looked like him. She felt herself melting into a slow trance

His lips kissed a path down her cheek, round the curve of her ears and then buried themselves into the softness of her neck. His hands lifted her hair and as she obediently bent her head forward, soft whispering kisses found the roots of her hair at the back of her neck. The touch was exquisite, sending tingles of delight along her spine.

She responded with a growing warmth that surprised and astonished her. His mouth began to demand the sweetness inside her lips, and with a little moan she returned his passion, her arms creeping round his neck and entwining themselves into an embrace.

His hands sought the softness of her arms through the slashed sleeves and his light stroking was a foretaste of the pleasure he could give to a woman. Reah felt her senses reeling away into the dizzy night, letting herself drift on waves of pleasure.

“Palazzo Excelsior,” said the driver gruffly. He noticed the young woman’s tousled hair and glowing cheeks and thought sadly of his lost youth. There was only the television left for him now. Nights of kissing were over.

“
Buona notte a grazie
,” said Ewart, helping Reah down the step.

The driver nodded, pocketing the generous tip. “
Grazie. Buona notte, signore.
”

The lights of the hotel seemed over bright, as Reah followed Ewart, walking in some hazy dream.

“I expect I look as if I’ve been thoroughly kissed,” she said a little nervously.

He caught her hand. “Don’t be ashamed of being beautiful and desirable.”

Ewart escorted her to her room and opened it with the key. He leaned on the wall, slim and taut, his dark eyes lazy and half smiling.

“I think I’ve chased away that frightened look,” he said, taking her in his arms again, cradling her against his chest, kissing the top of her head.

“Frightened look?”

“Sometimes I see you looking at me as if you are afraid. There’s a deep fear somewhere in your eyes. Tell me why.”

Reah shivered despite the warmth of the night.

“What are you thinking?” He was so sensitive to her emotions. “When I spoke of my dream, you shivered.”

“I, too, have a dream,” she said in a voice so low he had to bend to hear it. “But it’s not like your dream of meadows and streams. Mine is awful. Mine is a nightmare. Mine is about deep water and waves and a drowning.”

Her voice fell away.

“And am I in your dream?” he asked.

“Yes.
You are there.”

“Tell me about it,” he said. It was a command. He was making her put the horror into words. There was a sudden constriction in her throat.

The night air was still warm; outside a rare nightingale sang in competition with the noisy scooters.

Through the window Reah could see a thousand leaping fireflies in the garden.

“I must get some sleep,” she said. “I’m not used to staying up half the night. I shall be a wreck tomorrow.”

“It is tomorrow,” said Ewart. “It’s almost today. Soon you’ll hear the church bells. In the middle of the day, when it’s very hot, you should take a siesta instead of chasing round Florence. It’s a civilised way of living.”

“Not in Southdean,” said Reah.

“How very neatly you have completely changed the subject. It’s a disconcerting habit, Reah, but it doesn’t work on me. I’m not one of your nubile pupils who can be easily diverted. We were talking about your dream, your nightmare. Or would you rather that I kissed you again?”

Ewart’s calm, almost arrogant assumption that she would like him to continue kissing her cut through the tentative closeness that she had begun to feel. She reminded herself fiercely of his earlier relentless hounding with contempt; she had been seduced by the romantic ride and a few expert kisses under the moonlight.

“No thank you,” she said bluntly. “I trust you are not going to put the fare on my bill. I have amply repaid you for my carriage ride through the park.”

With a few devastating words she broke the spell that the summer’s night had wrapped round them. The gossamer threads were snapped. She had put a million miles between them; the distance was unbridgeable.

His eyes hardened like ice and his arms dropped to his side.

There was a dangerous calm about him that was frightening. She saw a tiny pulse throbbing in his tanned neck.

“You certainly make your feelings clear,” he said. “Quite the shrew. And a very competent actress. I was quite taken in. For a few minutes I actually thought the school marm had a heart. My mistake. I even thought you might be harbouring more pleasant thoughts about me after being saved from a fate worse than death. Or did you fancy those two thugs? Perhaps that’s what turns you on?”

Reah stifled a cry of protest. He was cruel. She let out her breath in a long quivering sigh. She had had enough of this day, this evening, this night. She was shattered.

“If you want to know about my dream,” she said, her gaze fixed on him with a nervous intensity, “I think it’s a premonition. I think it will come true.”

There was a finality in her voice as if she had accepted the awful fate in her dream. Now she had said it out loud, and it was no longer a hidden fear. It had become a tangible horror, real and waiting for the future.

“I don’t believe in that kind of dream,” he said firmly. He took her chin between his hands and looked down at her with an fierceness that shook her body. “Nor must you.”

Then he was gone, leaving her alone to face what was left of the night.

Chapter Five

Reah awoke with the memory of Ewart’s kisses still warm on her mouth. She curled over in the big bed, her cheek against the cool linen, wishing that a different Ewart, a loving Ewart was in her arms.

She regretted her cutting remarks but she could not apologise to him. Her pride was too fierce.

This morning she would be friendly but cool. She got out a bright pink shirt and cut off the hem; she snipped up a deep fringe to below her bust. Another screwy outfit, her father would have said.

Yesterday she had spoken her father’s name. Now a pleasant memory had come unbidden to her mind. Was it because of Florence or Ewart? Were the two entwined, casting some magic over her?

Suddenly it was important that she put things right between herself and Ewart. She quickly dialled the number of Ewart’s suite. There was no answer. Finally she put the phone down, remembering that he was out early yesterday morning.

Hurriedly, she showered and dressed. She guessed where he might be…the flower market in the Piazzale degli Uffizi.

She remembered the carriage ride through the wide avenues of the Cascine gardens; she would have ridden to the stars with such a man. What was happening to her? It was madness.

Was she falling in love…? She did not know…perhaps this inner turmoil was the brink of love. But why this man who she knew had a cruel, ruthless streak, who had already hurt her, yet every time she needed help he was there with a certain tempered kindness and consideration. He did not seem to connect her with Stanford Lawrence, and she was not going to tell him.

The stall holders were busy selling flowers. The
signoras
in black frocks and aprons were buying flowers to put on the tables of their
pensiones
or
trattorias
.

She sought the head of cropped brown hair among the crowds. He was always so assured, so unshakable. He easily stood out: that extra height, the vigorous way he walked, the classy clothes.

She wandered up and down aimlessly, her anticipation evaporating. She had taken longer than usual to get ready. They could have easily missed each other in the maze of twisting streets.