‘Put that aside for me; I’d like to see that before we decide whether to sell it or not. It would fit quite nicely into my own collection.’
Cy had inherited the collecting bug from his uncle, but he brought a cool intelligence to bear on it and already knew precisely how he wanted his collection to develop. He had decided to concentrate on nineteenth-century art. It should have occurred to her that the Munnings portfolio would interest him, but she had had other things on her mind.
‘Well, I’ll let you get to bed early, Antonia,’ Cy said. ‘Talk to you again soon; goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, Cy,’ she said, and hung up after he had replaced his phone.
She turned and met Patrick’s coolly mocking stare. ‘That must have made the transatlantic line red-hot!’ he drawled. ‘The two of you are hardly Romeo and Juliet, are you? It was more like a business report than a bedtime chat between lovers.’ Then, his voice stiletto-sharp, ‘Are you, by the way?’
Dazedly she stared. ‘Are we what?’ Then she picked up what he meant and felt heat burn her face. ‘Can’t you talk about anything else?’
‘You aren’t lovers yet, are you? But then I never thought you would be. You’re still covered in permafrost, and your fiancé doesn’t have a blow torch.’
It was somehow the final straw for Antonia. Her temper raced away from her, she hit him round the face, and saw him rock back on his heels, startled and incredulous, a dark red mark across his cheek.
She couldn’t believe she had done it. She stood there, aghast, staring up at him, her sea-blue eyes wild and stormy between dark lashes, her lips parted, quivering, and a second later Patrick had her in his arms and his mouth descended.
Antonia twisted, struggled, feeling her mind cloud, panic rise inside her, suffocating her. She was thrown back two years, was fighting helplessly against a man’s insistent body, a silent scream in her head.
As abruptly as it had begun it ended. The compulsion of his mouth lifted from her; Patrick’s head came up, his breathing thick and impeded, his face darkly flushed as he looked down at her, groaning as he saw the look on her face.
‘God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Antonia, that was unforgivable. I lost my temper—not that that’s any excuse, but when you hit me something blew in my head and the next thing I knew I was grabbing you, but, please believe me, I never intended to hurt you. That was the last thing on my mind!’
White with shock and fear, Antonia put a hand to her mouth, swallowing convulsively.
‘I...I’m going to be sick...’
She broke off and began to run to the stairs, afraid she would throw up before she got to the bathroom.
She only just made it in time, too distraught to think of anything but the agony of what was happening to her heaving body.
A few minutes later she sat on the bathroom floor with her back against the bath, shuddering and sobbing, having got rid of her entire supper, her short blonde hair a tangled web around her white face.
A sound made her head flick round, her eyes wide, hazed with tears. Patrick stood in the doorway, grim-faced.
‘Are you OK? Can I get you anything?’ His voice sounded different, unfamiliar, a low, harsh noise that made her tense again.
‘Just go away,’ she whispered. ‘And don’t come back.’
His features tightened, his mouth a hard white line, his eyes dark. For a moment she thought he was going to come towards her, and shrank; he gave her one long, last, level stare, then he turned and walked away. Nerves leaping like candles in a wind, she heard him go downstairs, heard the front door open and click shut. He had gone; she was alone. Only then could she slacken, let go, let the full flood of tears break through the dam behind which she had penned them until now.
CHAPTER FIVE
WHEN Antonia had cried out all her tears she shakily got to her feet and went downstairs to check that the doors, back and front, were locked, then she went back to the bathroom and took a long shower before climbing into bed and putting out the light. She fell asleep sooner than she had expected; the emotional shock of the evening had used up all her energy. Almost as soon as her head hit the pillow she began to drift downwards into a heavy sleep.
The dream began some time later. It always unrolled like an old film one had seen a hundred times before—familiar, inconsequential, nightmarish. She was on the beach under the warm Riviera night sky; there were people there laughing and talking one minute, the next they had gone, just as the moon kept coming and going behind clouds. Even the sound of the sea had a sinister note, a whispering, menacing sound, as she walked in Patrick’s footsteps, already half expecting the lunge of terror which came a moment later. He sprang out at her from darkness and she screamed, before the rough hand clamped down over her mouth and she was pulled down on to the sand, struggling uselessly.
It always happened the same way, a deadly routine dulled by time yet still terrifying. She saw a face, tanned skin, bright blue eyes, sun-bleached hair, heard his English voice, thought, It’s him; it’s Patrick...and for a second wavered in uncertainty. Is it a game? Is he playing a joke on me? Her heart beat faster, feeling Patrick’s hands touching her, until she realised the hands were hurting, the body on top of her wasn’t playing games. Terror beat back up and she thought as always, Does he think I followed him because I wanted this? A scream formed in her throat, couldn’t escape because he had gagged her; and then the worst nightmare of all as he taped her eyes,
