Wounds of Passion by Charlotte Lamb (primary phonics .TXT) 📕

face was nothing like Laura’s. The thick beating of his heart slowed; he felt a burst of rage, as if the girl had deliberately deceived him.

She was staring straight at him now, as if she had picked up his intense concentration on her, half smiling. Her eyes were blue, not green, he noted dully. She was young, not more than twenty, her face heart-shaped, with a softness in the curve of the cheek and jawline, a fullness in the mouth, that was completely different from the delicacy of Laura’s features.

He turned away, heart-sick, finished his red wine, and put the glass down.

‘Come and dance!’ said a voice beside him, and he swung round, stiffening.

He knew it was her before he saw her; she had a light, young voice with a distinct accent. American, he thought. Some relative of Alex Holtner? He remembered over lunch some talk of a niece, a young art student, coming down that day for the party from Florence, where she was spending the summer studying Renaissance art. He had barely listened, indifferent to everything they said.

‘You do speak English?’ she asked, watching him secretly, her eyes half veiled by long, curling lashes loaded with mascara; shyness mingled with silent invitation in the way the full mouth curved in a smile.

The neckline of the silk dress was low; you could see a lot of golden tanned flesh, the cleft between her small, high breasts.

She moved closer, put out a hand to him; and he was tempted for a moment. He could pretend, just for a little while, hold that slender body in his arms, touch her and pretend she was Laura. It would be so easy.

Her fingers brushed slowly along his bare arm, sending a wave of self-disgust through him.

‘I don’t dance, thanks,’ he said brusquely, and turned and walked away. It would have been madness, like an alcoholic taking just one more drink, kidding himself it wouldn’t be a risk. He would never forget Laura that way, and it would have been unforgivable to use that girl as a puppet in his private fantasies. She was so young, skin like a peach, tiny fair hairs giving her that shimmer, that radiance; and she had had an unconscious sensuality in the swing of her hips, in the rich curve of her mouth.

She had aroused him with her faint resemblance to the woman he loved. He was too restless now to stay around at the party. He walked out of the glare of lights, away from the blare of the music, the laughter and voices, into the shadows of the trees, down through the gardens to the beach, took off his sandals and walked barefoot through the creaming surf. He headed off along the beach with no real idea of where he was going, sat down on the sand to stare out over the sea for half an hour or so, then got up, brushed the sand off his jeans, and walked back up through the gardens to the villa.

Everyone seemed to be down around the pool, eating and drinking; he skirted the lights and managed to slip into the house without running into anyone, went to his room, took off his clothes, dropped them on a chair, and got into bed, naked, because it was so hot.

Outside the party was in full swing, noisier than ever; but Patrick’s shutters were closed and he was so exhausted, emotionally and physically, that he drifted off to sleep.

He woke up some time later when the door burst open with a crash and men poured into the room.

Dazed, blinking, as the room light was switched on, Patrick sat up in the bed, a sheet falling off his smooth brown shoulders.

‘What the devil do you think you’re doing?’

The intruders fanned out around the room, watching him as if expecting him to do something violent. They were wearing uniform. His mind, still half asleep, registered: wasn’t that Carabinieri uniform? Policemen? he thought blankly; what on earth was going on? Had somebody burgled the villa while the party was going on, while he slept?

‘Patrick Ogilvie?’

Patrick’s head jerked round towards the man who had spoken in English, a short, broad man in his forties, black-haired, pugnacious-looking, who needed a shave, his olive skin rough around the jaw.

‘Yes, I’m Patrick Ogilvie. Who are you? What is all this? What are you doing, bursting into my room like this in the middle of the night?’

‘I am Brigadier Saltini of the Carabinieri. Please get dressed; I cannot interview you while you are naked in bed—do you always sleep naked?’ The man’s black eyes focused on Patrick’s clothes, thrown across the back of the chair. ‘Is that what you wore last night? What are those stains on the jeans? Salt water? Sand? You went down to the beach, then?’ He jerked his head, and one of the other men produced a plastic bag, put on transparent white plastic gloves, and began carefully sliding Patrick’s clothes into the bag.

‘Why is he doing that? Why are you taking my clothes away? What’s going on?’ Patrick was feeling chilled, distinctly disturbed now. He didn’t like the way these policemen watched him; there was a coldness in their eyes.

Calmly, Brigadier Saltini said, ‘How long have you been in bed, Mr Ogilvie?’

‘I don’t know—I’ve been asleep.’ Patrick looked at the time shown on his watch, which he had left on the bedside table overnight. ‘Two hours, maybe?’

‘Are you sure? You didn’t come to bed just around an hour ago?’

‘No, longer than that.’

‘Well, will you get up and get dressed, and come down to the station house, please?’ the brigadier asked him.

‘Not until I know what this is all about, and not in front of all these people!’ Patrick said stubbornly.

The brigadier nodded his head towards the door, and the other men filtered out.

‘A girl has been attacked,’ the brigadier said quietly, and Patrick looked at him in shock and disbelief.

‘Rae? Not Rae?’

The brigadier slowly shook his head, and watched him, frowning, as Patrick relaxed