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

to her room and lie down with the shutters closed to keep the heat of the day out. When she got back to the little pink house, though, she found Patrick sitting in the garden, sketching, under the fig tree.

‘You’re early,’ he said, glancing at her sideways as she tried to slip into the house without his noticing her arrival.

She halted, shyly said, ‘Hi, isn’t this some heatwave? Patsy sent me home; she said it was too hot to work.’

‘She’s right; I was just going to stop. Come and see this. What do you think? Have I managed to get those shadows on the wall right?’

She stood behind his shoulder and stared at his pencilled sketch of the house. ‘It’s terrific,’ she said, admiring his technique. He was better than her by miles; he always would be. She wished she had his talent.

He put his head back to look up at her, his face oddly inverted, the lids half down over glimmering blue eyes, smiling. ‘Thank you.’

She felt a tremor deep inside her, and turned away, her breath catching. ‘Well, I’m going to have a siesta for an hour or two.’

‘Come to the beach instead,’ he said, standing up. ‘A swim will help cool you down and afterwards you can sleep under an umbrella.’

‘The Lido will be too crowded today.’

‘Not by the time we get there.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s gone three now; it will be half-past four before we get on to the beach. Come on, this is the perfect weather for the Lido.’

She looked up at the deep blue bowl of the sky, cloudless and brazen. He was right; this was a day for being on the beach. She had a sudden yearning to plunge into the sea, feel cold water breaking over her whole body. She looked at Patrick’s coaxing face and gave in, shrugging.

‘OK.’

The Lido of Venice had originally been a barrier of silt built up over centuries by local rivers rushing down from the Dolomite mountains, carrying mud and sand which was thrown out into the Adriatic and stuck there, forming a very elongated, narrow island with some fine sandy beaches which became the playground of Venice. Always crowded, these were now lined with cabins, some belonging to the Lido’s grand hotels, others rented by local people or visitors.

Antonia hadn’t often been over there, but she had stayed at the Grand Hotel des Bains for a few days once. One of the gracious, faintly old-fashioned hotels from the nineteenth century, the hotel had a private beach near by, and Antonia could remember spending hours there.

Today, though, Patrick took her to another beach, where they each rented a mattress and umbrella, side by side. The beach wasn’t as crowded as she had thought it would be, since the heat of the day was subsiding now and people were beginning to leave the beach and head for home, but there were plenty of people still around—children running about, laughing and shouting, teenagers splashing in the sea, playing beach-ball, and older people asleep in the shade.

Antonia was wearing a smooth-fitting black swimsuit which left her tanned shoulders, arms and legs bare, but demurely covered the rest of her. When she emerged from the changing-room to find Patrick waiting she was very self-conscious, expecting some teasing comment from him, but apart from flicking a wry, narrowed glance over her he merely said, ‘Do you want a long, cool drink first, or shall we have a swim right away?’

‘A swim,’ she said, dying to get into the water.

‘OK,’ Patrick agreed, and they both headed for the water’s edge, the hot sand burning the soles of their feet.

Antonia only meant to splash around a little, to get cool, but while she was idly swimming along Patrick suddenly dived beside her and she felt him grabbing her feet and pulling her under the blue lagoon.

She gave a little scream, half laughter, half alarm, and kicked violently, forcing her way back up to the surface, and began to swim far faster.

‘You can’t get away from me, Antonia!’ he called out, and she felt her heart knock at her breast.

She put on a further spurt, using all her energy to push herself through the water. She was quite a good swimmer, and she was very fit. Without thinking, she headed out further and further from the Lido until the sounds of voices, the laughter and chatter, died away behind her and the only sounds she heard were the slap and splash of the waves around her, the laboured breathing of her own lungs, and the sound of Patrick forging a path behind her.

He reached for her again and she put on another burst of speed to get away.

‘Antonia, what the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he yelled, but she ignored him, her eyes almost closed as water swirled across her face while she swam onwards.

She was tiring now; her body seemed very heavy, it was hurting to breathe and her muscles were aching. How much longer could she go on? she thought. Maybe she should head back now?

Getting worried, she slowed, shot a look over her shoulder, and saw Patrick’s set, grim face not far behind, his bronzed hair dark with sea water, his arms and shoulders smoothly working to push him through the waves, and far, far behind him the beach in the distance, hazy in the late afternoon sunlight, the figures of people on the sand seeming very small, and wavering, like mirages.

It was further than she had thought it would be. She bit her lip, beginning to turn, and that was the moment when cramp struck. A spasm of pain hit her and she gave a cry of agony, corkscrewing, beginning to sink, struggling. She had never felt pain like it.

As she cried out she swallowed water and began to cough and choke, going into panic as she realised she was in serious trouble.

Patrick reached her a moment later. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Cramp. Terrible cramp,’ she breathlessly groaned.

He gave