Flood Tide

by Stella Whitelaw

  She began to tremble. This was not Ewart, the man who had kissed her with passion and gentleness in the Cascine gardens, whose lovemaking could be so tender. Had she dreamed that romantic ride?

  Button by button, he unfastened his shirt and pulled it out of his waistband. He strolled over to her and tipped back her head.

  “Perhaps this’ll warm you up,” he said huskily.

  His mouth came down on her lips with a ruthlessness that sent shock waves reeling through her body. Her legs went weak as he pulled her against him. She tried to escape his mouth, turning and twisting, but he pursued her relentlessly, biting her soft flesh with an urgency that made her cry out.

  “You liked that, didn’t you?” he whispered. His face was in darkness, a stranger’s face.

  “No…no,” said Reah, blinking back her tears. “You’re being cruel and hateful. Please let me go. The joke’s over.”

  “Don’t tell me that you don’t want my kisses,” he said. He traced the line of her cheek with his finger, following it with kisses persuasive and caressing. She felt a warmth rising in her veins. His arms closed round her, his hands finding the soft curves of her body with an assurance and mastery that had her traitor body responding to his touch.

  “Now take your dress off,” he said again.

  She hardly knew what she was doing. She wanted him so much.

  This was her special man. She wanted to be loved by him, to belong to him. It was bewildering, the fury and the passion…none of it had any relation to her conception of love. This then was the real Ewart Morgan.

  With a small sob, she fumbled with the fastening of the dress and it fell to the floor like a moonbeam. Her hair swung across her face as she stood motionless in her lacy bra and bikini pants. He was looking at her and she could not bear it.

  Her breasts were rising and falling rapidly. He did not touch them but she could feel his breath on her soft skin. She ached with a sweet stab of longing to feel his fingers explore the valleys of love.

  He tugged lightly at the edge of the lacy bra.

  “That’s a very wanton garment,” he said. “Hardly the bra one would expect to find on a school mistress.”

  He slid his fingers to the tiny satin bow at the centre; Reah held her breath at the exquisite pleasure. His other hand went to the small of her spine, jerking her so close that his fingers were trapped in the warm hollow between her breasts. A shudder went through Reah’s body. He was discovering the quickly moving swell through the flimsy material; her senses were reeling, common sense had flown, leaving only a reckless urge for more of this ecstatic pleasure.

  Ewart heard the low moan but did not kiss her, leaving her longing taut and aching almost unbearably. He knew how to arouse her, to tantalise her senses while holding himself in control. It was a demonstration of his strength and her weakness. It was as if he were mocking her frail body, while she could do nothing but surrender to the surging delight.

  She could not escape while his hands played such sensitive music. She was trapped.

  Suddenly he dropped his head, taking her mouth with a thirst that would have sent her staggering if his hold had not been so unyielding. Her mind swam in a misty sea of images. There were stars, bright lights, swirling darkness. The muskiness of his skin was primitive. The shattering intimacy of his invading tongue left her breathless and shocked.

  There had been nothing in her life before compared with this. All her deepest instincts responded to her growing desire. She wanted this man. He was her fate.

  “To bed,” he said. His voice was like a whiplash.

  She was quite unable to move. She thought she saw a different expression, fleeting and unfathomable, cross his face, but it was quickly replaced by a mask. He slipped an arm under her knees and jerked her across him like a doll, carrying her across to the bed. She fell onto it, gasping, but before she could move or regain her breath, the hard crushing weight of Ewart’s body forced her back into its softness.

  She began to weep as his kisses deepened, forcing her body to respond with slow shivers. His weight was forcing her legs to part, crushing her ribs, her arms flung outspread like a ritual sacrifice.

  Suddenly the humiliation of this lovemaking rushed through her with all the force of a torrent. She gathered strength and caught him off guard with a quick, violent catapult movement of her knees. He rolled over, not in pain but definitely taken by surprise.

  “No, I won’t give in to you this way,” she cried, wrenching the sheet up and over her bare skin.

  Anger flared through her. “How dare you use me to satisfy some animal instinct, to pay me back in some way. I’m a person, a real person and I won’t be treated like this, not by you or by anyone!”

  She gathered the sheet round her like an outraged Buddha, hardly knowing what she was saying or doing.

  “I don’t care who you are or how famous you may be. You’ve no right to force anyone or demand anything. You’re no better than those two hooligans in the street!”

  She was shaking with righteous fury. She scrambled off the bed, pulling the sheet after her, her fingers trembling as she draped it into a toga. She snatched her key from the side table.

  “My father would have beaten the living daylights out of you,” she raged, her eyes spitting fire. “You’re just a brute, Ewart Morgan. No better than the mud and slime that flooded this city.”

  Ewart was watching her from the bed. Suddenly he stretched out and lay back, clasping his hands behind his head.

  “All right, go,” he said casually. “I didn’t really want you anyway.”

  Chapter Six

  She was hurt and angry, scrubbing herself nearly raw in the bath. A sense of desolation swept through her slim body. Yesterday’s happiness had been nothing more than a moment out of time, nothing to do with the real world.

  At last Reah did get to sleep, curled up like a kitten; her bruised and disturbed emotions tossed her straight into the old terror dream of drowning. Now that she knew the identity of the man in her nightmare, it was even more horrific. She saw Ewart fighting against the waves that threatened to pull him under, his face disappearing with a startled look beneath the towering seas.

  She struggled to surface from the dream, gasping, her face streaming with perspiration, reliving the feeling of suffocation. She ached inwardly for all that had happened in these recent months. Her father’s death, the cruel and senseless way Ewart Morgan had hounded her through her solicitor, the strange and exciting chemistry between them, and now to have been used by him so wantonly. She did not know which hurt the most.

  Early the next morning, she threw her belongings into her case. After last night she could not possibly stay.

  She felt the need to make some symbolic gesture. A note did not seem appropriate.

  She laid out the moonlight dress on the bed and tore a sheet from her sketch pad and pinned it carefully to the dress. It was one of her sketches of the head of David, that handsome face with the hooded, troubled eyes, the frown, the concentration, the tight clusters of stone curls.

  She was trying to say that the treasures of Florence were far more important than a romp in bed. If Ewart did not get the message, then it did not matter.

  Reah walked confidently through the streets of Florence. She only needed a room for a few nights, and she had all day to find one herself.

  This time she was lucky at her third call. The plump, black-frocked signora had a cancellation and was prepared to let the room to Reah for the remainder of the week.

  Reah’s bedroom was little more than a cupboard, but she felt immediately at home. The rooms in her cottage were mostly small.

  Reah resolved to put Ewart firmly out of mind. She would forget last night and concentrate on sketching. She would build up her portfolio and plan a course for her students.

  She had not drawn the Ponte Vecchio, the ancient 14th-century bridge—the only one the Germans did not blow up in 1944.

  The bridge was a fascinating jumble of medieval ar
chitecture, stone compartments along the crenellated walls overhanging the river, impossible upper floors leaning out at crazy angles.

  It was Walt Disney long before Walt Disney.

  Reah was good at buildings. She had a keen eye for perspective and composition, and her own particular style for conveying the texture of stone or brickwork.

  She settled herself onto a step beneath a statue, her pad open on her knees.

  “La bella signora, buon giorno.” The compliment was slightly hesitant. Giovanni was looking at her shorn jeans and fringed shirt, not knowing what to make of them. Rich women had strange whims, and to look like a street urchin, even an adorable street urchin, could be one of them.

  “Hello, Giovanni,” said Reah. She had forgotten he had a goldsmith’s shop on the bridge.

  “I went to your hotel this morning,” said Giovanni, getting straight to the point. “They said you moved out.”

  “That’s right. I didn’t feel like paying the bill.”

  Giovanni looked bewildered. “You have left your husband?”

  “He wasn’t my husband.”

  “Ah …” he nodded knowingly, pursing his lips.

  “I made him up.”

  Giovanni looked blank. Ewart had seemed pretty substantial to him.

  “I thought it was one way to curb your amorous advances. A husband in the background seemed a line of defence.”

  Giovanni blinked his long lashes, astonished. “To stop me? How could you? But, cara, surely you would have been deadly offended if I had not made the advances? What else can compliment a beautiful woman?”

  Reah laughed, a delightful sound that brought a sparkle to her hazel eyes. “You may find it hard to believe, but I would have preferred an ordinary, uneventful evening with a pleasant young man for company instead of having to fend you off after every mouthful.”

  He looked crestfallen, then his face lit up. “I was so attentive,” he grinned. “Now you tell me I could have taken it easy.”

  “No need to make it sound like hard work,” said Reah.

  “So you are not married, not staying at the Palazzo, not looking for a lover,” he said with a big sigh.

  “And not rich,” Reah added.

  “Ah, triste…triste,” he said with mock sadness. “Just when I am beginning to like you.”

  “I am a school teacher. I teach art. This is a holiday and I work for my living, like you do.”

  Giovanni put his hand on his heart dramatically. “I am confessing also. One step along the bridge and you would have discovered my deceit. I am not a goldsmith. I do not own a shop, but one day I will. That is my ambition.” He grew inches with pride. “Now I am…just salesman.”

  “Thank you for telling me,” said Reah, now placing the dark suit accurately. “I’m sure you will own your shop one day, especially if you are so charming to your customers.”

  “Now I will ask you to be my date this evening. We will go dancing? You would like that? I can hold you in my arms and there will be no fighting off.”

  Reah had not been dancing for ages. It might be fun, especially now that there were no pretences.

  “I’d like that. Thank you.”

  They arranged to meet at the Piazzo Duomo at eight o’clock when Giovanni had finished work and locked up.

  Later, Reah sat at a pavement cafe, sipping a limonata in the shade of an umbrella. It must have been one of the hottest days of the year. Male tourists mopped their foreheads with large handkerchieves; women fanned themselves with straw hats bought in the market. The Florentines had mostly disappeared.

  Reah watched a car coming along the street. It was being driven slowly, which was unusual, the sun flashing on its huge chromium headlamps. Reah could see it was a vintage model of an Italian sports car, all dash and elegance with masses of shiny chrome.

  “That’s an Alfa Romeo,” said a man nearby. “Worth a fortune, a car like that.”

  But Reah was staring at the man in the passenger seat. It was Ewart, his face relaxed, his arm resting comfortably along the edge of the open window. Beside him, driving, was a slim woman, sitting very erect. Her face was hidden by enormous sunglasses, and her hair was covered by a cream silk scarf. She looked every inch a Contessa.

  He was obviously enjoying the Contessa’s attractive company, she thought, forgetting her own arrangements with Giovanni. She felt pretty sure he had not seen her.

  Her face clouded as she thought of his demands last night. It was just as well she would not be meeting him. She would be tempted to tell him exactly what she thought of his behaviour.

  She heard the empty chair at her table being scraped back and someone sat down. Her heart fell as she met the steely gaze in his dark eyes.

  “Is this seat taken?” he asked, sitting down.

  “It appears to be now,” she said curtly.

  “You might be waiting for someone. You don’t normally sit down for long. You dash about like a frantic rabbit. So foolish in this heat. One should slow down and adapt.”

  “I think I’ve heard this lecture before,” said Reah stiffly. “Don’t you have an alternative?”

  “Don’t tempt me,” said Ewart, beckoning a waiter. “I have several lectures suitable for young women. Dos cafe freddo,” he ordered. “You deserve a good dressing down.”

  “Me?” Reah flashed dangerously. “I suggest we leave the subject of last night alone if that’s what you are inferring. I should enjoy telling you exactly what I think of you, and it might deflate your ego to the point of extinction.”

  “I often wonder how you managed to become a school teacher. Don’t you have to be an adult or something?”

  Reah bit back her anger. There was nothing apologetic or conciliatory about his manner. He was looking at her as if she was the one in the wrong.

  “Why have you run away?” he asked abruptly.

  Her eyes widened with astonishment. “Run away? I haven’t run away. I’ve merely moved to a more agreeable residence. I had no intention of running the risk of a repetition of your despicable behaviour last night.”

  “What about your own behaviour—blatantly taking a man to your room. I supposed you’ve moved to an area where such arrangements are less noticeable.”

  “What rubbish,” said Reah fiercely. “You’re jumping to conclusions without knowing the facts. Giovanni was not coming to my room. He was merely escorting me to the door. There’s a world of difference. I had no intention of letting him in.”

  “He had your key,” Ewart interrupted.

  “I admit he had the key,” Reah hastened to add. “And he was holding my arm. I was doing my best to discourage him.”

  “You were making an excellent job of it,” said Ewart sardonically. “The young man certainly got the message.”

  “Oh, don’t be so stuffy,” said Reah. “I wouldn’t even have spoken to Giovanni if you’d had the courtesy to leave me a message. I didn’t know you’d gone to Milan.”

  “Why should you know?” he said. “You’re not my keeper.”

  It was like a slap across the face. Reah was shaken by the coldness in his voice. Was this how he really felt about her?

  “I know I’m not your keeper,” said Reah, trying to bring down the level of her voice. People were looking at them from other tables. “But I waited around for you all day. You might have said you were going to be away.”

  “There was absolutely no reason why I should have told you where I was going,” he retorted, glaring at her. “Possessiveness is a trait I dislike in women. Give an inch and the next moment they are choosing your ties and redecorating your flat.”

  “So the ride in the park was an inch of the famous playwright’s attention, was it? How many inches are you allowing the Contessa? Do you have a scale according to status? A Contessa would rate pretty high up, I should imagine.”

  “You do talk nonsense. The Contessa Bernini is a charming woman and I suggest you leave her out of this conversation.”

  Reah gave a short laugh. �
�Caught you on the raw, have we? I saw you in her car just now. That was her, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, I’m not denying it. I was worried. I was looking for you. I was wondering what fool trouble you were in now.”

  “You didn’t look worried, sitting there quite relaxed and comfortable.”

  “I found you, didn’t I?” he snapped.

  “You didn’t appear to see me.”

  His cold anger was mixed with exasperation. “If I had started waving, you would have been off in a second. I suggested to Bianca that she drive round the corner and let me out there.”

  “Bianca?”

  “The Contessa. I’m a little tired of this third degree, Reah. And you haven’t answered my original question.”

  Tears pricked Reah’s eyes. It was she who should be reproaching him for his brutal treatment; instead he had her on the defensive as if she was at fault.

  “I can’t argue with you,” she said bitterly, searching in her bag for money to pay for her drink. “You turn everything round. I suppose your behaviour to me in your room was normal to you and nothing to be ashamed about. Well, I’m glad I live in a more civilised community where women aren’t forced to give sexual favours, and we still believe in a funny old-fashioned thing called love.”

  She rose awkwardly, knocking over what was left of the drink.

  “I have no wish to see you again,” she said. “So don’t look for me and don’t follow me. I’ll send you money for the hotel bill if you’ll kindly let me know how much.”

  “Rubbish,” he said. “Keep your money.”

  “A gentleman to the very last,” said Reah with acid sweetness. “I think I prefer statues.”

  She managed an exit with élan despite the shorn jeans and fringed shirt.

  That afternoon Reah bought a sketch pad and chose a pair of Florentine gloves for Miss Hardcastle. They were pale grey, in a suede so soft it felt like velvet.

  She put on the eau de nil dress for her evening of dancing with Giovanni. It was a modest enough dress despite the slashed sleeves. She did not think there would be any problems tonight.