Wounds of Passion Charlotte Lamb (you can read anyone .TXT) 📖

up, and broke off one of the plump, pearshaped, ridged fruit which took two years to ripen from green to that rich, luscious purplish black.

Sitting down again, Patrick used his thumbnail to break open the fig, and they both stared at the glistening greeny pink seeds inside.

Patrick broke off one half, offered it to her. Antonia lifted it to her mouth, her white teeth visible as she ate some of the sweet interior, and Patrick did the same, then stiffened, his eyes fixed on her left hand.

‘Is that an engagement ring?’

Antonia pulled her hand down to her side, as if to hide it. The fig fell out of her fingers and rolled under the bench.

Patrick leaned over and seized her hand, lifted it to stare at the enormous diamond surrounded by a circle of smaller ones in an elaborate platinum setting.

‘When did this happen?’

‘I got engaged last month.’ Her voice was a mere thread of sound, with a faint tremor in it.

He was frightening her again. That look was back in his face—a harshness that disturbed her. Why was he looking at her like that? As if she had done something wrong? Then she thought, And why do I feel so guilty? Why didn’t I want him to know?

‘Who is he?’ Patrick’s voice was curt. Seeing the ring on her finger had knocked him off balance. That was the last thing he would ever have expected, that Antonia Cabot might be planning to get married.

He was angry, too, although he didn’t know why he was. Maybe because this had upset all his beliefs about her? He was puzzled. Antonia did not look like a girl who was blissfully in love and couldn’t wait to get married. In fact Antonia Cabot looked like a wraith, afraid of everything, but especially of men.

‘His name is Cy,’ she whispered.

‘Is what?’

‘Cy—short for Cyrus,’ she said. ‘Cyrus Devvon. Mrs Devvon’s nephew, or, rather, her late husband’s nephew.’

Patrick’s brows met. ‘That’s the owner of the palazzo?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is that where you met him?’

‘Yes.’ Her sea-blue eyes were lowered, her darkened lashes shifting and flickering nervously.

‘He lives there too?’

‘He’s in the States at the moment, but he’ll be back next month, for a few weeks.’

‘What does he do for a living, or is he too rich to work?’ Patrick’s mouth twisted in cynicism, and she resented that look.

‘He’s an accountant; he has a practice in Boston. He looks after the family money—Mrs Devvon lives on the interest from all her late husband’s shares. The capital is tied up in a trust fund, and will all pass to Cy when his aunt dies. His firm administers the estate.’

‘A very wealthy accountant, then,’ Patrick said, smiling at her sardonically. ‘Well, congratulations. What’s he like? Is he good-looking as well as rich? A real Prince Charming, I hope?’

The sarcasm made her cross. There was a fine gold chain around her throat, disappearing into the neckline of her dark blue dress. Looking down, she pulled the chain upwards, but it had caught on something on the inside of her dress. Flushed, she tugged unavailingly.

‘Here, let me do it,’ Patrick said impatiently, pushing her hand aside, and then, before she could stop him, had hooked one long finger down inside her dress.

Hot colour flowed up her face; she began breathing raggedly, and tried to push his hand away, but Patrick had already freed the small object on the end of the chain which had lodged itself inside her bra. He deftly fished it out and pulled it into view.

‘Is that what you were looking for?’

Her hand shook as she took it from him, not looking at him.

Patrick watched her, narrow-eyed. It had been a calculated risk to steal that small intimacy. He had wondered how she would react; it had been a litmus test and he was sure now that he was right. He had felt the panic rising in her; under his searching finger he had felt her heart fluttering like a trapped bird. His first impression of her had been all too accurate. What had happened to her in Bordighera had scared her into withdrawal from life, and especially from any contact with men. Which made him all the more puzzled to be told she was planning to get married.

She opened the gold locket with shaky difficulty; not looking at him, she held it out.

‘That’s Cy.’

Patrick looked at the small photograph intently. It was a picture of Antonia with a man in a lightweight white suit and an open-necked shirt. He was tall and thin, with a narrow face, dark eyes and pale hair.

‘He’s old enough to be your father!’ Patrick said.

Flushed, she snapped, ‘He’s only in his thirties!’

‘Late thirties, then, very late,’ Patrick said drily. ‘Why are you marrying him?’

Antonia stared at him in bewilderment.

‘W...why? Well, obviously—’

‘Nothing obvious about it,’ Patrick coolly told her. ‘And don’t tell me you’re in love—I don’t believe it. For one thing, he’s much too old for you, and, for another, your reaction just now when I helped you fish this locket out of your dress told me that you still go into panic every time a man comes near you.’

Resentment in her voice, she snapped, ‘You know nothing about me! You have a nerve, talking to me like that! And you had a nerve putting your hand inside my dress—if you ever do that again I’ll hit you with something hard!’

He gave her a wry smile. ‘You’re just trying to shout me down, don’t think I don’t know that. You don’t want me telling you the truth, but I’m going to, anyway. You aren’t in love—with this guy or anybody else.’

‘Of course you know me so well that you can tell at sight, without ever having even met Cy!’

The heavy sarcasm simply made him laugh. ‘I’ve seen what he looks like, and I can guess why you’ve got engaged. I can read you like a book. He’s your security blanket, isn’t he? You aren’t in love with him; you’ve picked him because you hope he’ll