Wounds of Passion, Charlotte Lamb [english novels to improve english .TXT] 📗

at the charm in that smile—the little lines that creased in that tanned skin beside his eyes, the crook of his mouth.

He lifted her hand and she drew a sharp breath as he held it against his cheek.

Watching her, he turned his head slightly and his lips brushed her hand. Antonia couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe properly. His mouth opened against her palm; his tongue moved lightly, moistly, and she began to shake so much that she swayed. At once his arm went round her waist and she tensed, ready to fight, to run, to push him away.

‘Was that so frightening?’ he softly asked, smiling again, and she slowly relaxed again.

‘No, of course not.’ She tried to back away, her eyes flickering nervously. ‘Alex will be back any minute.’

‘What a tiny waist you’ve got,’ Patrick said, his hand pressing along her spine, pushing her closer, closer, until there was barely any space at all between them.

She put her hands against his shoulders to thrust him away, shivering. ‘Stop it! Let go!’

He relaxed his hold again, but didn’t let her go. Staring down into her eyes, he murmured, ‘What was it you didn’t want me to do in your dreams, Antonia?’

Hot colour rushed up her face; her sea-blue eyes widened like great pools of stricken light.

‘Was it this?’ Patrick asked, and his mouth swooped, moving urgently, hotly, against her parted, quivering lips, his tongue-tip sliding between them.

For a second she just stood there like a stone statue, then she fell back into darkness again, back in the confusing, disturbing dreams that had haunted her for two years. She was torn between a wild attraction and a sick dread, fighting herself as much as him, not even sure who he was now that her eyes were shut and he was just a male body touching her, intimately, sending these tremors of devastating upheaval right through her, making her want him, even while she hated him.

She had been too young to learn how desire felt before that night in Bordighera, when all her natural instincts were dammed up at once. Since then, she had refused to let anyone close enough to get through to her. Now the dam had broken and the flood waters had burst through; she was shuddering with wild erotic feeling.

And then another, even more disturbing thought leapt out at her. If she had not been attracted to Patrick Ogilvie, if she had not followed him down to that beach, she would never have been attacked.

The panic came surging back; she began to fight, gasping, sobbing, a blind terror in her face.

Patrick stopped kissing her, and raised his head, frowning down at her, then caught her shoulders and shook her. ‘Stop it! Stop it, Antonia!’

She looked at him wildly, a sob in her throat as she whispered, ‘Let go of me, then!’

He didn’t; he put both arms around her and held her even closer, pushing her head down on to his chest. ‘Ssh, calm down; stop fighting me,’ he murmured, beginning to stroke her hair, his hand light, moving rhythmically.

The violent tremors running through her body slowed gradually until they stopped. She leaned on him, her breath catching for another moment, and then her breathing grew regular again; she gave a long sigh.

Patrick pushed her backwards, lowered her on to the bench, and sat down next to her, leaving space between them. He looked levelly at her. ‘OK, now, tell me about it. Why did you go into hyper-panic suddenly? And be honest with yourself, Antonia. What really scared you just now?’

She looked down at the dark pattern of the fig leaves moving on the gravel.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’

‘Not really. One minute you were kissing me back—’

‘No! I didn’t!’ she broke out hoarsely.

He seized her chin, turned her face towards him, tilting her head up so that she had to look into his set, stern face. ‘Antonia, we both know you were. Do you really think I can’t tell whether or not the woman in my arms wants me to make love to her?’

Heat blazed in her face; her sea-blue eyes filled with shame and misery. ‘I didn’t! That’s a lie! Don’t say that!’ She felt tears welling up, trickling down her face, and saw Patrick’s face darken, tighten into a stiff, formal mask.

There was a silence, then he said quietly, ‘You’re terrified of admitting it, aren’t you?’

She sobbed, put her hands over her face.

Another pause, then Patrick produced a clean handkerchief and began wiping her face, drying her eyes. ‘Stop crying, Antonia. Come on, cheer up before your uncle comes back and blows a fuse when he sees you looking like a cloudburst.’ He handed her the handkerchief. ‘Here, blow your nose.’

She obediently blew her nose, while Patrick got up and walked away, prowling around the sunny garden, his hands in his pockets and an abstracted frown on his face. She didn’t look at him, yet she picked up his mood, and wished she knew what he was thinking.

She fished her make-up case out of her bag and with a shaky hand did something to repair the damage to her face, made herself look normal, just as her uncle came out of the house, smiling.

‘Well, Susan-Jane says the baby is gorgeous, but she’s missing us already and will be back soon. She sends her love, Tonia.’ Then he turned to grin at Patrick. ‘And guess who she ran into in a street in Colchester? Rae Dunhill.’

Patrick looked startled. ‘Rae? What on earth was she doing in Colchester?’

‘Apparently she’s doing a book on the Boadicea uprising against the Romans, and it seems Colchester was the first place they burned to the ground. I’m not even sure where Colchester is—except that it’s in Essex and Susan-Jane is staying near there with Jan and her husband. There are lots of Roman remains to be seen, however; and Rae is there, doing research.’

‘She’s always very thorough,’ Patrick said, grimacing. ‘Who’s doing her illustrations now, I wonder?’

‘She’s been doing them herself,’ Alex said. ‘But she told