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

Susan-Jane she badly missed having you to work with; she says the books you two worked on together are selling like hot cakes and the illustrations have made a big impact.’

Patrick smiled. ‘Well, that’s good news—I’ve only earned small advances so far; it will be nice to get some more money from them.’

‘Susan-Jane is having dinner with Rae tonight,’ said Alex. ‘It occurred to me...to us...that maybe you might be interested in working with her again? What do you think? If she flew back with Susan-Jane would you talk to her, Patrick?’

Antonia watched Patrick, jealousy stabbing at her. But she had no right to care whether or not he started working with Rae Dunhill. She was engaged to another man.

He sat there, on the edge of the fountain, his long legs crossed, swinging one shoe and staring at it as if it fascinated him. His face was intent, jawline rigid, mouth a hard line.

‘Well?’ pressed Alex Holtner, watching him too. ‘If you’re interested, next time I talk to my wife I’ll tell Susan-Jane to invite Rae, then the two of you can take it from there.’

Patrick slowly looked up, his mouth twisting drily. ‘Do that, Alex. I was in a very bad mood last time I saw her, but I’ve got over that now.’

‘Terrific!’ Alex grinned.

‘Well, I’ve regretted walking out on my deal with Rae ever since I did it, and I’d like a second chance with her,’ shrugged Patrick.

Antonia drew a sharp breath. Exactly what did he mean by that? Just that he would like to work with Rae again? Or that he would like a second chance with Rae in a more personal sense? Antonia wouldn’t have been surprised to be told Rae was in love with him; there had been something very possessive in the way she talked about him, and Rae was a very attractive woman. But how did Patrick feel about Rae?

‘Let’s go to dinner,’ Alex said, smiling broadly.

It was a strange evening. Alex and Patrick did most of the talking; Antonia said very little but she listened intently, especially to Patrick. Every so often he would look at her small oval face, the sea-blue eyes, which watched him so intently in the candlelight, and then she would look away, the soft fair curls falling over her temples like stray feathers.

She couldn’t help wishing she had never seen Patrick on the vaporetto the other day. Ever since, he had been complicating her life; and she had had enough of complications, didn’t think she could bear any more.

It got worse over the next few days. She began to feel as if she was coming apart at the edges, fraying day by day, unravelling helplessly.

They met at breakfast every day with Alex and talked as they sat around a table out in the garden with the early morning light playing over their faces. Rolls with black cherry jam and coffee had never tasted so good, and she lingered over them for too long and had to rush to get to the palazzo on time.

Sometimes, later on in the day, she went to the Accademia to research an uncatalogued painting in the palazzo, or ask advice from one of the experts who worked there, and usually Patrick was working there too, and they would walk back to the house together in the late afternoon, through echoing quiet squares, along narrow winding alleys, over bridges, talking about High Venetian art, the miraculous skills with which Renaissance painters mixed and made their own paints, talking of oils and tempera and techniques used by favourite artists like Michelangelo or Donatello.

Patrick was far in advance of her, both in the theory of art and in practice, as she realised from watching him draw or paint, awed by his ability. She was learning as much from him as she ever had from one of her teachers.

In the evenings the three of them went out to restaurants or stayed at home in the little pink house to eat spaghetti cooked by Alex, a salad made up by Antonia, or a risotto Patrick had invented, full of seafood and herbs.

After their meal they listened to music and played cards; often Alex went out to visit a friend and Antonia and Patrick were left alone, talking in the garden as the light drained out of the sky and the warm Venetian night began.

Antonia knew what was happening was dangerous, but she felt more alive when she was with him. When she wasn’t with him she thought about him all the time, and her moods became changeable, unpredictable.

For months she had been going along quietly, leading a calm, safe, uneventful life. Now, suddenly, she felt as if she were on a fairground switchback, whirling through gaiety, excitement, alarm, aching uncertainty, at every turn, and all because of Patrick Ogilvie.

Two years ago she had done him a grievous wrong. She knew that. She had felt guilty ever since. Well, now Patrick was getting his own back, knowingly or otherwise. Because of him she was wildly happy one minute, miserable the next, and she didn’t understand why; she only knew that Patrick was the cause of all her odd moods.

CHAPTER SIX

THERE was a sudden heatwave the following weekend. The soft autumnal mists which had hung over Venice blew away on Thursday night, and next morning the sun was blazing as if it were July again. Antonia was so hot that she had to move slowly at work that day. Patsy told her to go home after lunch, which they had together.

‘See you on Monday; I’m off to have a siesta. Why don’t you do the same, darling, when you get home?’ she said, lethargically fanning herself with a real nineteenth-century Venetian fan made of black silk and lace, sprayed with hand-painted red roses, as she made for the stairs.

On her way home, Antonia decided Patsy was right; it was too hot to do anything. She would go straight upstairs