Flood Tide Read online

  “Of course it’s safe,” said Reah. “I’ve climbed these cliffs a hundred times as a girl.”

  “Why are you stuck then?“

  “I don’t know,” she said, exasperated. “And I don’t wish to have a lengthy discussion about the situation. I just want a helping hand to get off this ledge.”

  “Helping hand on its way,” he said coolly.

  He lay full length on the ground and stretched down his arms. It was all she needed. She grasped his hands to use him as a lever, suddenly surprised by the crushing strength of his grip on her. In moments she was scrambling up, Ewart transferring his hold to her armpit, then grabbing her waist and buttocks till he pulled her over the edge and onto the path beside him. It was very undignified. She lay on the rough ground, gasping.

  She sat up, aware that Ewart was staring at her hair. The red mane was tumbled over her face, strands whipped across her eyes, caught in the lashes and stuck to the moisture on her lips.

  She fumbled under her sweater for her hat and crammed it down on her head, tucking her hair away furiously.

  “You’re laughing at me,” she accused.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped, brushing bits of grass and dust off his immaculate safari suit. “Aren’t you in the least bit grateful that I heard your call?”

  Reah drew a deep, shuddering breath. It went against the grain to thank Ewart Morgan for anything, but he had helped her and she had to say it.

  “Thank you,” she said, almost inaudibly. “I’m grateful for your help. It was very kind of you.”

  “I am overwhelmed by the warmth of your thanks,” he said, his eyes passing over her, scant inches away. “But I think I deserve something better.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course, I forgot. Perhaps you are a little behind in the art of being a woman. The teaching profession is somewhat limiting in that sphere.”

  He leaned forward, pulling her to him. His mouth came down on her lips before she could object or struggle. It was a burning kiss, his mouth expertly seeking her softness, recklessly imprinting his masculinity on her slim body. She tried furiously to free herself from his arms. Suddenly he let her go and stood up. He was already striding back over the Downs before she had even regained her breath.

  Reah put her trembling fingers to her bruised lips. She had never been kissed like that before. Her senses were shattered. Every nerve of her body was tingling. How dare he kiss her so intimately, invading the cave of her mouth.

  And yet something in her had almost leaped to meet his demand.

  Taut and angry, Reah picked up her bag and parcel which she found farther along the path, and turned towards home. She needed the familiarity of her cottage at Southdean to wrap round her like a high, protective wall.

  She kept Miss Hardcastle’s gift as a supper time treat.

  It was a book, a big glossy coffee-table book of art. It was called simply “Florence”. The pages fell open stiffly, revealing the glory of the Renaissance city. Reah’s coffee grew cold as she pored over photographs of the magnificent medieval churches, bell towers, palaces and museums. The preserved world of 14th and 15th-century culture beckoned like some beautiful Florentine enchantress. It was all there in the valley below the Tuscan hills, a small perfect city in total harmony with the span of time.

  Reah’s fingers twitched for a pencil, a pen. The great architecture drew her like a magnet.

  Chapter Two

  Reah was apprehensive at the prospect of her holiday. She had been no farther than Paris before, and that had been as a fifteen-year-old in the company of her father.

  She sat on an upholstered sofa in the departure lounge at Gatwick, content just to be part of the throng of travellers. Memories of that stay in Paris came back, bringing pain and pleasure. Her father had been a wonderful companion, full of the joy of living.

  “Everyone should see Paris in the spring,” her father had said. It was in Paris that she had first thought about teaching art, to impart enthusiasm and knowledge to young people.

  Reah checked her flight number to Pisa on the television monitors. The British Airways flight was still a long way down the list, slowly creeping up as each flight closed and took off.

  “Miss Lawrence, isn’t it?” a voice cut through the noise in the lounge. “I never forget people I rescue. Not stuck on a cliff this morning?”

  Ewart Morgan was looking down at her, not exactly pleased, as if he had almost walked by and then for no reason at all changed his mind.

  “How amazingly observant you are,” said Reah sweetly. “I had hoped never to see you again.”

  “That hope was entirely mutual,” he said, sitting down beside her. He looked tired. She noticed faint shadows of fatigue deepening his eyes.

  Everything about him was brown today. He wore coffee-coloured slacks, a cinnamon brown jacket with gold buttons, toning silk shirt, no tie, both collars turned up as usual. His shoes were a shiny brown leather, very expensive, probably hand-made.

  “Do you always price everybody’s clothes?” he asked. “It’s a little disconcerting. I’ll save my bills if you like.”

  Reah coloured slightly. She could not help approving of his style, and there was no doubt about the aura of success that clung to the man. He was about thirty-five, young to have already gained such an international reputation. Even Reah, who was not a television addict, could name half a dozen of his plays.

  “I’ve no interest in clothes,” said Reah coolly.

  “That’s obvious.”

  The retort was not fair. Reah had made an effort that morning with her limited wardrobe. Her jeans were well cut; her crinkled dark peach blouson from French Connection; her slim feet in strappy bronze sandals. Her hair was looped back with two large tortoiseshell clips, and weeks of working in the garden of the cottage had given her skin the faintest tan. Several men had turned to look at her that morning and it was not just the colour of her hair which attracted their gaze.

  Her BA flight to Pisa now had a gate number. Reah leaped to her feet, grabbing her bag, almost tripping over Ewart’s outstretched legs.

  “Leaving it a bit late, are you?” he commented, his eyes half closed. “You’d better run. They might take off without you.”

  She was pleased to find she had a window seat, fastened the clasp of the seat belt after stowing her bag by her feet, and waited for the plane to fill up.

  She had never flown before but she was not going to tell anyone. Reah was not afraid, only apprehensive about a new experience.

  “Excuse me, but you are sitting in my seat.” Reah’s spirits fell at the now recognisable voice. The accent was even more pronounced.

  “I don’t believe it,” she said blankly.

  “You are in the right row, but the wrong seat,” said Ewart, glancing at the embarkation card still in her hand.

  “Why are you here?”

  “For the same reason as you—I want to get to Florence and this is the quickest way.”

  So he was going to Florence, too. It was infuriating that Ewart Morgan should be going to the same city. He was the last person she wanted to see, anywhere.

  “Don’t worry,” he said casually. “Although Florence is a small city, I doubt if we shall ever meet. My research will take me along different paths.”

  “I am going to sketch buildings.”

  “I’m more interested in people,” he said. His eyes were fixed on her face. “I like to know what makes them tick, their motives for doing things, saying things. Buildings are just bricks and mortar.”

  “Don’t forget buildings are designed and built by people. They become an expression of themselves.”

  “Ah…” He took off his jacket and put it in the overhead compartment. “Thus speaks the dedicated art mistress.”

  “I don’t believe this is a coincidence at all,” said Reah with a spurt of indignation. “I can’t imagine why, but I think you actually arranged to take this flight and sit next to me.”

&n
bsp; “The flight, yes. The seat, no…merely a computer fluke. I confess that I did know you were flying to Florence today. Miss Hardcastle told me. That nice lady has a soft spot for you. I happened to mention last week that I was going to Florence to research for a new play, and she asked me to keep an eye on you. She said you hadn’t flown before, or been abroad on your own. How could I refuse? I almost felt sorry for you,” he added.

  “There’s no need to be sorry for me,” said Reah, her colour rising slightly. “I can manage perfectly well on my own.”

  “That’s a relief. I’ve really got far too much to do in the short time I shall be in Florence. But Miss Hardcastle is a gently persuasive lady. I began to feel quite saintly.”

  “No need to feel like that on my behalf. I have everything arranged for my stay.”

  “Then perhaps I could have my seat?”

  Reah bent to shift her bag from the narrow space on the floor, forgetting that she had not unfastened the seat belt. Her fingers would not obey her as she struggled with the clasp; the fuselage doors clamped shut and the seat belt and no smoking signs went on.

  The big jet was ready for take-off.

  “It’s too late now,” said Ewart, fastening himself into the seat next to her. “Stay where you are. I’m going to work.”

  He took a folder out of his briefcase and began to read through some papers.

  Reah gripped the armrests as the Trident gathered speed along the runway. The vibration of the gigantic wheels shook her spine. The sense of speed was at the same time exhilarating and frightening.

  Ewart noticed the clenched fingers and shot a glance at her tense face. At the very moment that the plane lifted off and went into a sharp angled climb, he put his hand over her own. She was acutely aware of his masculine presence. Trees and hedges were suddenly left below. The Surrey countryside became Lilliputian, the roads ribbons, fields a patchwork quilt of browns and greens.

  Wisps of cloud streamed past the window, then there was nothing more to see as the plane climbed through a belt of thick cloud. It broke through into another world, dazzling with sunshine, the unbroken blue of the sky stretching endlessly.

  Reah was spellbound. Ewart removed his hand without comment. They were soon over the English Channel and through breaks in the clouds, she saw bobbing fishing boats and the sandy line of the French coast.

  When she caught a first glimpse of the majestic, snow-crested Alps, she could not contain her excitement.

  “Look, look,” she said, tugging Ewart’s sleeve. “The Alps! Aren’t they beautiful?”

  He leaned across her and she caught a whiff of his after-shave. It was a subtle, poignant scent and came as a surprise. Her father had smoked a pipe and the aroma of tobacco had always clung to him.

  “Marvellous,” he agreed.

  He was too close. There were strands of grey among the light brown hair falling over his ears. They were infinitely touching as if each grey hair was a sadness in his life, or the price of overwork. Her gaze wandered over his skin. He had a tiny blemish near the corner of his eye: a tiny mole that flawed his handsome features and made him vulnerable. His lashes were blunt and speckled, veiling his eyes now as he squinted against the bright sun.

  She was trapped against the back of her seat. If he came any closer, she would not be able to resist touching his hair. It looked so fine, newly washed and she knew it would be soft. She imagined him standing in the shower as naked as Michelangelo’s David, the soap suds running down his glistening brown skin.

  Then Reah reminded herself who he was. This was no vulnerable, dreamy poet but a hard and ruthless writer.

  It was unbearable. She shut her eyes with a sharp intake of breath.

  “Ah, breakfast,” he said, bringing everything back to normal.

  At Pisa airport, she lost him. They were queuing up to go through Immigration Control, and without a word, he vanished. Reah told herself she did not want his company. After retrieving her suitcase, she found the coach going into the city.

  It was hot. The Italian sunshine was much stronger than the English summer she had left behind.

  Tuscany was a beautiful area: a region of thickly wooded hills, snowy peaks and lush vineyards laden with fruit. Rows of tall, dark cypress trees marched up the hillsides, and the olive groves filled every space in the fertile valleys.

  It was a long, winding drive to the outskirts of Florence. Even the outlying villages, picturesquely shabby, had their share of unexpected glory…an ancient church, a bell tower, a sprawling villa.

  The city of Florence was a sun trap that lay within a circle of low hills. The dun-coloured river Arno, once a mountain torrent, flowed past little streets and under many bridges. Dominating the city was the immense terracotta dome, a feat of medieval engineering.

  “Brunelleschi,” Reah murmured in awe.

  Tourists thronged the pavements, gaping at every artistic achievement, while noisy little Fiats and Vespas ripped along the streets.

  She had made a reservation through her local travel agent at an inexpensive pensione in a street some distance from the walled city centre. A bus dropped her off at the end of the small street and she was just congratulating herself on finding the pensione without any trouble, when she noticed something strange about the appearance of the narrow, old house.

  All the shutters were closed. She put down her case and rapped the heavy brass knocker. There was no answer.

  She wiped her damp hair back from her forehead. It was the hottest part of the day and she was longing for a wash and fresh clothes.

  She began to think that she ought to ask someone, but her Italian was minimal.

  “Pensione Orsaria?” She stopped passers-by, waving her hands towards the shuttered house. They returned blank stares, then a neighbour appeared and in loud and rapid Italian explained the situation to Reah. She was no wiser.

  “In English, please…” she pleaded, shaking her head.

  A girl student came to Reah’s aid. Her English was good enough to give Reah the bad news.

  “The madre, the grande-madre, has died. The family go to funeral in Naples. Much family business to attend. Not return this week,” said the girl. “You go Tourist Office in station.”

  By the time Reah found the Tourist Office, her soft-topped case seemed to weigh a ton. She was hot, sticky and worried about accommodation for the night.

  The woman in the Tourist Office was helpful but not hopeful. Everywhere in Florence was fully booked. She could only offer the top luxury hotels or a crash pad at a youth hostel.

  “A crash pad?” Reah felt she had reached the depths. She longed to give up the whole expedition and back track to her cottage in Southdean. The wonders of Florence no longer seemed worth the effort.

  “The hostels are clean and cheap,” the woman reassured her. “You may have to share with two or three; some have dormitories. They are very popular and always full. You may only get one night. Shall I find a place for you?”

  Reah nodded. She had no choice. The woman made some phone calls and then wrote down an address on a piece of paper with directions for finding the hostel. Reah thanked her, shattered by her bad luck. Perhaps some village would have rooms free. But she would not go without first seeing the giant cupola of Brunelleschi.

  She had picked up a map in the Tourist Office. The Via de Panzani would lead her to the Piazza del Duomo, to the steps of the great cathedral, the Sante Maria del Fiore, the largest church in the world after St Peter’s in Rome.

  It was a tiring walk in the sunshine carrying her case. The red and green marble of the exterior of the cathedral was unexpectedly bright and took some getting used to. The great dome dwarfed everything in the busy, bustling square.

  Next to the cathedral stood Giotto’s 14th century Campanile, one of the most beautiful bell towers in the world. Reah had planned to climb its four hundred-fourteen steps to see the famous panoramic view of Florence’s rooftops.

  She was quite exhausted. She sank down onto a high,
uneven curbstone, not bothered by the dozens of feet almost stepping on her; she was past caring.

  A pair of expensive Ruchi brown leather shoes stopped a few feet away, hesitated, then returned. Reah did not look up. He could laugh all he wanted to. She was too tired to move.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked sharply, looking closer at her pale face. “Homesick already?”

  Reah’s hazel eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them back quickly.

  She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing that her plans had gone awry and that after tonight, she had nowhere to sleep.

  “Go away, please,” she moaned, hanging her head. The heat on the back of her neck was making her feel sick. She thought of her cool English garden, full of sweet peas and marigolds, and she was ready to burst into tears.

  “You’ll get sunstroke sitting there,” he said brusquely, helping her to her feet. “And get dehydrated. What have you had to drink? Nothing? I thought so. Come along, you stupid girl. You need some iced limone.”

  Ewart picked up her case. Reah felt so ill she would have left it on the pavement. He took her arm and threaded through the pavement tables, and down a quieter side street. A little trattoria had a few tables outside shaded with green umbrellas.

  “Have you eaten since our airline breakfast?”

  Reah shook her head.

  “For a school teacher, you have little common sense,” he said, ordering a lasagne, lemonade and caffe freddo for himself. “That’s iced coffee,” he translated for her benefit.

  Reah took a deep breath. Her strength was beginning to return. She brushed her hair away from her face, her forehead damp with the heat.

  “I have had one hell of a morning,” she said. “The last thing on my mind was food or drink. While you were settling into your air-conditioned, luxury accommodation, I was tramping the streets in the sweltering heat trying to find somewhere to sleep tonight.”

  “Didn’t you make a reservation before you arrived? Florence is always packed out.”

  “Of course, I did; I am not that dim. My travel agent booked me into a small pensione, but when I got there, it was completely shut up. The grandmother had died and the whole family has gone to Naples for the funeral. I went to the Tourist Office in the station and they found me a crash pad for the night.”