wrench it open, fleeing out into the rain.
If she could get far enough away she could hide from him and when the weather calmed she could even swim for it. She was a strong swimmer and might stay afloat until a passing boat picked her up, but for the moment she could only run and run, propelled by anger more than fear. She wouldn’t let him win-
The rain was pelting down, soaking her, turning the ground to mud, slowing her down. She could hear him just behind her and tried to run faster, but she was at the limit of her strength. She wasn’t going to make it-but she must-she must-
It was too late. He had her, pulling her to the ground, holding her in a fierce grip. Now she could feel how fearsomely strong he was. There had never been any chance to escape him. She writhed uselessly but he held her without trouble until she stopped struggling and lay there gasping. Then he rose to his feet and began to walk back to the house, his arm fixed around her waist, forcing her to go with him. She tried to squirm free but she might as well not have bothered for all the notice he took.
Now they were at the house, he was locking the outer door and marching her into the bedroom, still holding her in a grip of steel. He didn’t speak and there was something chilling about his silence as he dropped her down onto the bed and began to work on her buttons.
‘No,’ she gasped. ‘You can’t do this.’
‘Yes, I can. From now on we do it my way.’
He wrenched open her jacket, tossing it aside, and with horror she realised that he meant to undress her forcibly. She lashed out but she could make no impact on him. One by one he removed her garments-blouse, trousers, pants, bra-until she was completely naked.
She lay there, looking up at him with hate. Memories of the passion they had shared flashed through her brain and she wanted to cry out her anguish that something so much like love should end this way, with a union that he clearly intended to force on her. After that there would be nothing left for her in the world.
He stood for a moment, looking down at her nakedness while his own chest rose and fell fiercely. Then he went into the connected bathroom, returning with a large towel that he tossed over her.
‘Dry yourself,’ he snapped. ‘Do it quickly before you get pneumonia. I don’t want your death on my conscience.’
He walked out.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THERE was a blinding light somewhere, insistently penetrating the darkness, calling on her to awaken.
She opened her eyes to find the sun streaming into her room, and Salvatore beside her.
‘I brought you some tea,’ he said briefly, setting it down and departing at once.
The tea was good and when she’d drunk it she felt better. The sleep, also, had helped. She hadn’t expected to sleep at all, feeling sure that she would lie awake fretting, and at first it had seemed that she was right. Pictures and sensations flooded her brain, the sheer strength of him, holding her, stripping her, but then releasing her to spend the night alone. Then she’d seemed to sink into darkness.
Now she was awake. She could still feel his hands on her naked body, but whether the memory came from last night, or other nights when he’d held her in the fires of passion, she could not have said.
She looked down at herself, wearing a slip from the bag she’d brought with her, which contained only underclothes. Last night she’d dried herself hurriedly, put on the only clothes she could find, and huddled under the duvet. She looked around for the outer clothes he’d torn off her, but they had vanished.
He pushed the door open slowly. ‘Are you ready for more tea?’
‘I’d like my clothes back.’
‘They’re still wet; I’ve hung them up to dry.’
‘I need something that covers me better than this,’ she said firmly.
‘All right.’ He opened his buttons and removed his own shirt, handing it to her. ‘I’m afraid this is all I have here at the moment. It will cover you completely.’
It did, buttoning up to the neck and enclosing her in warmth from his body. She regretted that at once. It was too intimate, as was the sudden view of him bare-chested. But he retreated at once, returning in a moment with more tea, and breakfast.
‘Boiled eggs?’ she queried.
‘Don’t you eat them? I thought all the English did.’
‘As long as they’re soft boiled.’
‘If not I’ll do them again. And don’t look at me so suspiciously.’
‘You think I shouldn’t be suspicious after what you’ve done?’
‘No, you probably should. But it’s not for much longer. I want you to hear me out. After that I’ll return your phone, you can call for help, accuse me of kidnap and by tonight I’ll probably be in gaol. You can look forward to that, but listen first.’
‘As though anyone at Venice is going to arrest you!’ she said scornfully.
‘What about the people on the other end? Wasn’t someone meeting you at the airport? There’ll be a hue and cry by now. Cross your fingers and you’ll see me locked up yet.’
If she hadn’t been so wary she might have thought his voice held a note of resignation, almost of defeat. But she suppressed the thought before it could flower. She’d let down her guard with him once. Never again.
‘I look forward to seeing you locked up,’ she said.
He looked at her for a moment, then left without speaking.
The eggs were perfect. She ate every last crumb then got out of bed and went for a wash. Putting back the shirt made her relatively decent, she reckoned.
Going through her bag, she found her things untouched except for the missing phone. There, in its own small compartment, was the glass heart Antonio had given her, and a sudden impulse made her put it on. It would tell Salvatore where her true heart lay, and it gave her a mysterious feeling of safety, as though Antonio was watching over her, as he’d often promised to do.
‘Look him up in gaol,’ she muttered. ‘He doesn’t mean it. He’s just trying to get around me.’
But her own words didn’t convince her. Once again she had the frustrating sense of thinking she knew all about Salvatore, only to find a new side to him that left her as confused as ever.
He was waiting on the terrace as she went out and sat a careful distance from him.
‘What game are you playing?’ she wanted to know.
‘No game. You shouldn’t be surprised that I stopped you returning to England, after your graphic description of what you were going to do when you got there. You knew what you were telling me-’
‘That I could raise the money I needed to fight you-’
‘Helena, let’s be honest. Our fight has nothing to do with money or glass. We were made to belong together, but only if we could get other things out of the way first. We started as enemies but it didn’t stop me wanting you more than I’ve ever wanted any woman. No-don’t say it.’ He held up a hand to silence her. ‘Don’t say anything about that figurine,’ he continued. ‘It was designed long before I met you, and its coming out now was an unlucky accident. It’s just that…’
There he stopped, silenced by pain and confusion. Never in his life had he known how to describe his own feelings, or perhaps there simply hadn’t been any worth describing. The few times he’d managed to find words he’d been talking by rote, saying what was proper, disconnected from meaning.
But now that the meaning overwhelmed him, burning him up with emotions more intense than any he’d allowed himself to feel before, he was struck dumb.
Why didn’t she help him? She was the one who was clever with words.
‘It’s just that what?’ she asked.
He made a helpless gesture. ‘Nothing. You wouldn’t believe me, anyway.’
