She got up and showered half an hour later, dressed, and made herself a very early breakfast of fruit and hot rolls from the bakery near by. She might as well go to work. At least she’d be out if Patrick came back.
When she went home the following evening she was on edge as she walked across the sleepy little square towards the pink house in case Patrick Ogilvie had climbed over the garden wall again, and was waiting for her.
Putting the key in the lock, she stiffened, hearing voices inside. Who on earth could that be? There was laughter, the clink of glasses, a slow American drawl. A smile lit her face. Uncle Alex’s voice! He was home.
She turned the key, pushed open the gate, looked across the garden and stopped dead, her face blank and shaken. Alex Holtner was there, certainly, lounging on the bench under the fig tree, a glass in his hand. But with him was Patrick Ogilvie.
Casually perching on the edge of the fountain, splashing one hand idly in the water as he talked. His bronzed hair gleamed in the sunlight, and at the sight of him she felt the usual confusion—the stab of attraction, the underswell of fear.
She forced herself to walk into the garden, fighting to look as normal as possible, and both men looked round.
Uncle Alex got up, smiling warmly, and came over to greet her with a kiss and a hug.
‘There you are, darling! I wondered when you’d get back. Have you been OK on your own? No problems?’
‘None I couldn’t handle,’ she said, meeting Patrick’s mocking blue eyes over his shoulder and coldly looking away again.
‘Good girl.’
‘Is Susan-Jane in the house? I’ll go and find her,’ Antonia quickly said, but Uncle Alex shook his head.
‘No, she didn’t come back with me; she has gone to stay with her cousin Jan in Kent, the one who just had a baby.’
‘Why didn’t you go too?’
Alex grimaced. ‘Oh, Susan-Jane asked me to, but...well, Jan is OK but I find her husband Rod a bit heavy going; he seems to think that because I’m a cartoonist he has to be funny. The trouble is his idea of humour is a lead balloon. Ten minutes of his company and I want to hit the guy. So I flew home instead.’
‘I’m glad you did,’ she said, aware all the time of Patrick’s ironic eyes.
Alex grinned at her. ‘Were you lonely without us? Nice to be missed. I’ve missed you, too, honey. Sit down and talk to us. Patrick and I are having a very civilised chat in the shade—after London it seems so hot here, especially indoors; the garden is the only place I can breathe. Have a glass of home-made lemonade.’
She had been hoping to escape, think of some excuse for going into the house, but, with Patrick’s derisive gaze fixed on her, she had to stay. He would only think she was running away from him.
‘Thanks, I’m dying of thirst,’ she said, and Alex Holtner picked up a large deep blue glass jug and poured some of the contents into a glass, ice chinking as he held it out to her. There were thin slices of lemon floating on the surface of the drink, a sparkle of frosted sugar on the rim of the jug. Antonia’s mouth was parched; there was perspiration running down her back after her walk back here from the Accademia vaporetto stop, not to mention from the nervous tension of being in Patrick Ogilvie’s company. She took the glass and drank, thirstily.
‘Good?’ Uncle Alex said, smiling as she lowered the glass, more than half empty already.
‘Delicious!’ she admitted, sitting down on the bench and fanning herself with the white sun-hat she had been wearing on her short blonde feathers of hair.
‘I gather you and Patrick met at the vaporetto stop at the Accademia the other day,’ her uncle said. ‘Amazing how that sort of coincidence always seems to happen. It’s a small world. I was just telling him how glad I am to have the chance to say sorry about our mistake in Bordighera—I did write to his publisher, but the letter was returned unopened; I think they had lost your address, Patrick.’
‘I moved and didn’t tell them,’ Patrick coolly said.
Uncle Alex laughed. ‘Good for you. I often think I’ll do that—move far away, and not tell anyone where I’m going. Especially my publishers.’
He looked at Antonia. ‘Patrick has had a piece of bad luck, Tonia. He has had to get out of his lodgings, and is staying in a rather nasty, cheap hotel, so I’ve invited him to stay with us for a few days. That’s OK with you, isn’t it, honey?’
Antonia was appalled. Huskily she said, ‘But...where would he sleep? There’s no room.’
Alex shrugged that aside. ‘Oh, he can have the room on the top floor. It isn’t very big and it isn’t very nicely furnished, but it’s not uncomfortable. I showed it to him, and Patrick seemed to think it was satisfactory.’
Desperately she said, ‘But are you allowed to sublet part of the house?’
‘I’m not asking Patrick to pay; it isn’t subletting,’ Alex cheerfully said. ‘He’s just our guest.’
‘I’m very grateful,’ Patrick said. ‘You should see the room I’m living in at the moment. It’s like living in a furnished dustbin. It’s very kind of you, Alex.’
Antonia was too horrified to risk arguing any more. Her sea-blue eyes stared rigidly up into the black shadows of the fig tree, her hands tightly clasping her glass of lemonade. He had somehow managed to talk his way into the house; he would be staying here, under the same roof! She felt an icy shiver run down her spine. Why was he so determined to push his way into this house, into her life?
Was he still angry because of what happened two years ago? The first time she had seen him again, standing on the deck of the vaporetto, she had picked
