Flood Tide (5 page)

“Yes.
You’ll do. Come along. I’ve been waiting ten minutes already.”

Ewart was leaning against the doorway. He had changed into a dark blue velvet jacket, light slacks, a Givenchy shirt finely tucked and open at his tanned neck.

“I’m not wearing it,” said Reah.

“Unless my eyes deceive me, you are wearing it,” he said, barely concealing his amusement.

Reah wished he had not caught her trying it on.

She should have returned the box to him straight away, unopened.

“I intend to change,” said Reah with some dignity.

“Later. I booked a table in restaurant and we are already late.”

“I—

“Are you ever going to stop arguing with me? It would be pleasant if we could manage to have a meal together without this constant disagreement.”

“I don’t want the dress.”

He sighed with exasperation. “I’ll put it on the bill. Will that satisfy you? At least you look more like a woman now.”

Reah fought down an angry retort.

“What are we waiting for?” she said. “A civilised meal sounds nice.”

She spoke huskily, suddenly all woman. Despite what she knew of Ewart Morgan, she was drawn to him. It was a heady feeling.

Chapter Three

Reah was out before breakfast while the leaves still hung with dew and the air of Florence was drenched with sweetness.

She had a sketch pad, pens and pencils in a bag slung over her shoulder.

She had resolved before arriving in Florence that she would not attempt to draw the whole of a great building or statue. It had already been done many times by people far more talented than herself.

She would instead take a particular aspect of a sculpture—a foot, a hand, the angle of an elbow—and of a building some architectural detail, an oculus, a pulvin, a cornice or a span of stone arch that defied gravity.

Her feet took her first to the little streets where, since medieval times, each one specialised in a trade—the street of silks, the street of shoes, the street of caged birds where ravens, robins, canaries and nightingales filled the early morning air with their plaintive song. In another street the shopkeepers were putting out fruit, mushrooms and ripe cheeses from every region of Italy, the produce cradled in leaves of oak and chestnut and vine.

The aroma of coffee from the rough sacks propped against each other reminded Reah that she had not had breakfast.

Supper with Ewart had been an oasis of order in a chaotic day. He guided her through the menu, talking pleasantries. The meal had been delicious…veal escalope cooked in cream and wine, then Ewart recommended the
torta della nonna
—a light cream flan with almonds.

They took their coffee onto the garden terrace, the night air folding them into intimacy, still full of the day’s heat but without its stifling oppression.

Reah, still feeling a different person in her shimmering dress, found herself drawn to Ewart against her will. His face was thrown starkly into a gauntness under the shadows of the overhead vine and his eyes glittered. He had the look of a medieval knight lean from war and famine but with the fierce strength of his heritage. There was a remoteness about him that was unfathomable.

“Miss Hardcastle will be pleased,” said Reah, accepting a second cup of coffee from the waiter.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The way you are keeping an eye on me. You’ll be able to report back that you rescued me from the streets, put a roof over my head, fed me, even put a suitable dress on my back. Not bad for one day’s work. Miss Hardcastle should be impressed.”

“Do I detect a note of scorn? I take it you are not similarly impressed, or in the slightest way grateful,” he said with infuriating accuracy.

Reah took a deep breath and hardened her resolve. She was aware that he had delivered her from a possibly uncomfortable experience in a dormitory in a crowded hostel.

Delivered was an apt word. She was beginning to feel like a parcel.

“I am grateful,” she said, lowering her eyes. “I appreciate that the Palazzo Excelsior is a far cry from a bed for one night in an unknown youth hostel on the outskirts of Florence, but I do object to the high-handed way you arranged it. You didn’t even bother to ask me what I thought.”

“Would you have agreed to staying here if I had asked you? Of course not, you would have gone charging off to your crash pad, full of indignation and probably got lost on the way. The only way of dealing with you is to go ahead, and tell you afterwards.”

“Thank you for the warning,” she said crisply. “Now I know what to expect. I’ll remove myself from the Palazzo Excelsior as soon as I can find alternative accommodation.”

“Please yourself,” he said, draining his coffee.

He stood up. “I’ve notes to go over for tomorrow. A day is wasted if I don’t write something.”

“I understand. But there are times when it’s impossible to work. If there’s a complete block.”

“An emotional block?”

Reah nodded, hating the huskiness in her voice. “An artist gets an emotional block as if part of you had died and withered away. It’s impossible to be creative. Perhaps it’s different for writers.”

She had lost all inspiration to paint since her father’s death; part of her had drowned with him in the sea. Anguish slashed across her heart as she thought of her father. Stanford Lawrence, tall, bearded, with a great, deep laugh and big, strong hands that had nursed her so gently through childhood illnesses.

She shut her eyes tightly against the memories.

“There’s no easy way,” she heard Ewart saying. “The only answer is to pick up a pen and work.”

As Reah roamed Florence that morning, that lost feeling stirred within her. Her fingers were longing to hold a pencil, to feel smooth paper beneath the palm of her hand, to have the lightning message between eye and brain move down her arm and translate itself onto paper.

There was so much to see. Reah wandered through alleyways, courtyards, cloisters, not wanting to miss any glory or splendour. She began to feel dizzy with so much to take in; her pad started to fill with little sketches.

She came into the Piazzale degli Uffizi, outside the famous Uffizi Gallery, and found herself ankle deep in broken flowers and leaves. The early flower market was over and the stall holders were sweeping up the debris. The scent of fresh flowers was heavenly.

She bent and picked up a yellow rose, its stem crushed but the bud still perfect. She marvelled at the curves of its fragile velvet petals. The stall holder paused to lean on his broom and threw her a kiss.

“
Grazie
.” She smiled, and that seemed payment enough for the man, for he put his hand on his heart and sighed dramatically.

“I said you should smile more often. You’ve made his day, and no, I am not following you.”

Ewart was regarding her mockingly with a glimmer of amusement. He was wearing a cool pilot-style shirt, open necked of course, and belted, dark jeans.

She was momentarily disconcerted when he turned to look at her sketch pad and his arm brushed against her.

There were soft dark hairs on his arm growing almost down to his wrist; the open buttons of his shirt revealed the beginning of hair on his chest, not swarthy but brown and virile. Reah knew, with a tightening of her nerves that it would be as fine and soft as a baby’s hair to touch.

“You
are always turning up,” said Reah.

“I have an elusive nature,” he said solemnly. “I like creating surprises. These are quite good,” he added, indicating her sketches.

“You don’t have to patronise me,” she said, snatching them away. “They’re not finished.”

“Surely you know by now that I never say anything I don’t mean. If I say your sketches are quite good, then accept my opinion without getting touchy.”

“Sorry,” said Reah. “Yes, I am touchy about my work, especially before it’s finished. If anyone says something too soon, the feeling can go and the picture is spoilt.”

He nodded. “It can happen with my work.”

He looked at the yellow rose bud in her hand and then at her outfit.

“I presume the gear is a Miss Hardcastle special,” he said, lazily admiring her long, bare legs.

Reah had not known what to wear that morning. The luxury of the palazzo was a little overpowering. She decided that reverse thinking would be her salvation. She had taken scissors to her second-best jeans and chopped the legs off above the knee.

She had tied the ends of a faded, well-washed blue shirt high under her breasts, leaving a cool bare midriff. She was determined to beat the heat today. The result was stunning: the pale blue against her hair, her slim figure so feminine and enticing.

His eyes ran over her with a disturbing intimacy.

But she was unconscious of her allure. She did not see herself as a beauty; she saw only her flaws.

“Oh, yes,” she said flippantly. “I wear this at prize-givings. Can I buy you a coffee? I noticed a pretty little cafe facing the river.”

“Okay, thanks,” he said after the briefest pause. It was a long time since anyone had bought him anything. Because he was successful and rich from his success, it always seemed expected that he would pay. Now this long-legged, red-haired girl in shorn jeans was treating him to coffee, demonstrating their equality. He liked it. “Lead on.”

They sat with big steaming cups of frothy coffee and freshly baked rolls. The riverside cafe was quiet, the tables still damp from scrubbing, the air clean and invigorating. They sat watching people on their way to work. There were few tourists about.

She found herself watching his face closely. That inner camera was working again. The lines of strength in his jaw would endure, eyes become darker, hair greyer…he would grow more and more attractive with the years.

He did not offer to pay. He rose, thanked her and said he had to go and see a man about a hero.

“Remember to stop and drink,” he warned. “Don’t get dehydrated. Just to make sure, I’ll meet you at the ‘Perché no?’ at noon and treat you to the best ice cream in Florence.”

“All right,” said Reah, trying to sound off-hand. They were parting, going their separate ways, free spirits, individuals, and yet…something indefinable existed even if it was only conflict, a strange, exhilarating feeling.

After a morning crammed with sight-seeing, she discovered Florence’s famous ice cream mecca in Via dei Ravolini. Her mind was staggering under the richness of treasures in every street, at every corner.

“Would you like an ice cream?” he asked, appearing out of the crowd. The stifling heat, noise and crowds had ruffled his hair and his shirt was damp with perspiration.

“Why not?” she murmured.

He chuckled and she wondered what was funny. He nodded towards the name of the shop. “’Perché no means why not. Come inside and choose your flavour.”

The choice was bewildering. Oxborough offered little more than vanilla, strawberry and chocolate. It had been a great day when mint arrived. She took so long deciding that Ewart became impatient and ordered a triple sundae. It arrived—three scoops of mocca, orange and almond, topped with whipped cream. It was his favourite.

“Quite delicious,” said Reah, savouring the taste of each flavour. “I hereby resolve to try three different flavours every day and who cares about becoming fat.”

Reah had momentarily forgotten that she had sworn to hate the name Ewart Morgan for the rest of her life. The magic of Florence had her in its grip, binding her with invisible threads.

It was surprising that he did not seem to connect her with Stanford. “I’ve been to the Tourist Office in the station and they are making enquiries for me. I’m sure they’ll find somewhere.”

“I think you’re being very foolish. Why don’t you simply stay at the Excelsior? It would save a lot of time and trouble.”

“Because I don’t wish to,” said Reah defiantly. “Firstly, I can’t really afford to squander money recklessly on such an expensive place. We are not all over-paid for our talents.”

“And secondly?” he enquired with a slight lift of his brows, ignoring the jibe at the financial success of his plays.

“Secondly, I have no intention of remaining in the same hotel as you. I came to Florence to enjoy myself, and being organised by you is not my idea of enjoyment.”

“Nor mine, incidentally. At least we agree on that point. I’ve wasted enough time.”

“You need not waste a minute more. I can manage perfectly well now.”

His hand slipped round her waist in an insolent manner. Reah flinched. She could feel his fingers prodding her bare skin.

“There’s room for a bit of flab,” he suggested flippantly. “You’re far too skinny.”

Reah removed his hand firmly.

“Funny how men think they can put their hands on a woman as if they have a right,” she said. “I wouldn’t dream of touching you in such a familiar way.”

“Why not?” he asked. She knew he was mocking her. It was infuriating. “I might even like it, but then I probably wouldn’t…you are hardly a sophisticated woman and the experience might be rather tame.”

If the cafe had not been crowded and the ice cream too good to waste, Reah would have been tempted to tip the lot in his face.