Flood Tide (8 page)

She waited almost an hour, then hurried back to the hotel. Reception confirmed that
Signore
Morgan had gone out. She hid her disappointment. He would turn up, she told herself; he always did.

She steeped her mind in the atmosphere of Florence itself…the lime trees in the piazzas, balconied terraces overflowing with flowers, the Madonnas on every street corner, the dark-turretted villas and narrow, old houses still with square holes in their stonework.

These holes were where beams of oak once acted as bridges between the houses. Acres of red-tiled roofs with ochreous walls jumbled together, planless; gardens grew over gardens; tall magnolia trees were on nodding terms with palms and pomegranates.

She kept expecting to feel a hand on her bare midriff and Ewart smiling mockingly down at her.

She kept in the shade, drank
limone
with crushed ice. Ewart would come soon. He could not be long now. He was busy; he had to work. She would see him at dinner and she would wear the moonlight dress. So the day passed and Reah could not wait for the evening.

She bathed in deep, scented water, dressed carefully, taking a long time over her make-up. She did not want to arrive in the bar before him. He had to be there first, to turn and see her.

There was a wary look in her eyes. The day had been a strange one; one moment walking on air and the next so desperately alone she could have sat on the pavement and buried her head in her arms.

But her sketch pad was full of delightful scenes. Tomorrow she would go to the street of stationers and indulge herself by buying more lovely paper.

Reah walked downstairs, the silk chiffon pleats rustling demurely round her knees. She glanced into the dimly lit bar but Ewart was not there. The barman smiled at her; she passed by as if she had not been going there anyway.

She stood outside the hotel in the dusk of the evening, her heart fluttering in her breast. It had all gone wrong.

Wildly, her thoughts raced to street accidents. He could be lying unrecognised in some casualty ward…or ill in his suite unable to reach the telephone. She gasped as another awful thought hit her. The two youths might have seen him during the day, lain in wait and leaped on him in some alleyway.

“
Signore
Morgan?” she asked anxiously at reception, trying to control her fears. “Do you know where he is? Did he leave a message for me?”

“No,
signorina
, there is no message.” They knew she was worried. The hotel staff had been watching her.

“
Momento, signorina
,” said the receptionist. He went into an inner office to talk to someone. Reah waited expectantly.

“
Signore
Morgan took the train to Milan this morning,” he said, returning.

“Milan?” Reah repeated, stunned. “He took the train? I didn’t know…thank you,
grazie
. Do you know when he will be returning?”

“No,
signorina.
He did not say.”

Reah walked away, shocked. Ewart had gone to Milan without telling her, letting her wait and hope. How cruel. That wonderful drive in the park meant nothing to him; he had been amusing himself. She had been right the first time. An Italian Contessa would be much more his style.

Probably the Contessa had gone to Milan with Ewart. Supposing the Contessa had kept him at arm’s length the night before, that would explain Ewart’s eagerness to get his kisses elsewhere.

Reah shut her eyes. Her imagination was out of control.

“Ah,
signorina
, permit me. There is a moth caught in your hair. He thinks you are a flower …”

The tone was light, admiring, friendly. The owner of the friendly voice was a young man, tall with glossy black hair.

“Permit me,” he said again, flicking at her hair.

“A moth?”

“Si—there it goes.” He pointed into the darkness towards the climbing roses. Reah was not sure whether she saw anything.

“Thank you.
Grazie
.”

“Forgive my English. At school I am always looking out of the window.” He grinned.

“Your English is very good,” Reah assured him. “It would have been better if my teacher had been like you.” His eyes were openly admiring. “But she was old lady with hair done up in a cake.”

“You mean a bun,” said Reah, amused. “Her hair was up in a bun.” She twisted her hair back with her hands. “Like this?”

“
Si
,” he agreed, but shook his head at the same time. “But she did not look like you.
Scusi, signorina.
My name is Giovanni da Cortona. Please you will have a glass of wine with me? I should be so honoured.”

His words were like honey to her ears. She knew she was being outrageously flattered but it was nice. Ewart had left Florence. He did not care whether she was on her own or not. Giovanni seemed a pleasant young man. She would have one drink with him.

Giovanni escorted her into the bar and found her a seat. He had charming manners and Reah allowed him to fuss over her.

Was the draught from the door too much? Did she like red or white Chianti?

“There is a special wine you must try while you are in Florence. The rose…a dry pink wine…it is called Vinrosa di Torre de Passeri. You will like it.” The name of the wine rolled off his tongue like a poem.

Giovanni came back, balancing a bottle and two glasses, and dishes of olives and nuts. Reah took the dishes from his hands.

“A whole bottle?”

“But of course,” he grinned, mischievously. “I wish to take a long time to get knowing you. Talking will make us thirsty. We will eat, drink, talk, make friends. Then I will take you for supper of the best pasta in Florence.”

“Oh, I don’t know …”

“
Scusi
,” he said quickly. “I am over my head meeting such a beautiful lady. I am afraid of losing sight of you.”

“Do you live in Florence?” Reah asked, deliberately changing the subject.

“
Si
, I am born Florentine.” There was unmistakable pride in his voice and a fierce gleam in his eye.

“It is a beautiful city,” she agreed.

“I am glad you like my city. My city only wishes all its visitors were as beautiful as you.”

Reah hid a smile. She had a feeling that this young man could turn practically any remark into a compliment.

Giovanni was the kind of company she needed to take her mind off Ewart’s sudden departure for Milan. He was absurd and amusing, his fractured English adding charm to his conversation.

He was about her own age, perhaps a year older. He told her that he was a goldsmith and had one of the shops on the ancient stone bridge, the Ponte Vecchio.

“Here are the shops of the best jewellers, goldsmiths and silversmiths. The workshops above are so small, you could not swing a cat. Tomorrow you will come and see my shop? I will give you a beautiful necklace.”

“No, you really are most kind, but I could not possibly accept such a gift,” said Reah firmly.

“You will hurt my heart to the quickly,” he said, putting his hand over the offended organ. “The necklace will look perfect on that slender neck. It is made for this very expensive Italian dress.”

Reah laughed softly. The pink wine was going to her head.

She found she had agreed to supper. Why not, she thought? They might as well eat together, and Giovanni would know the best places. Giovanni escorted her from the hotel with obvious pride, taking her arm protectively. He liked to be seen in the company of rich, beautiful, foreign women.

He took her to a cellar restaurant which was lively and crowded. Giovanni was greeted on all sides, admiring glances being thrown in Reah’s direction. The
signora
came out of the kitchen, with rapid words of welcome and smiles of delight that Reah was to eat with them. She gave them a discreet table in a corner; a candle flickered in a Chianti bottle on the red check tablecloth. Two carnations leaned over in a small vase.

“This is nice,” enthused Giovanni. “The tortellini is a dream. You will like? You have no need to think of your figure.”

His eyes travelled over her slimness.

“The treasure of Florence is not all from the ground,” he went on, waving his hands expressively. “You
must see the bird’s eye. I will take you to the hillside of Bellosguardo where the view is
magnifico
. We will climb the steps of the Campanile to see the rooftops of Florence.”

Reah smiled at the way Giovanni had taken over the organisation of her sight-seeing. The new bottle of wine was rougher than the pink, but Reah did not care. She was enjoying herself.

Giovanni leaned across the table and stroked her bare forearm. It was a soft caressing movement. He had long fingers with well-kept nails. She removed his hand, and he leaned back, grinning, his eyes lazily half closed.

“The so reserved English lady,” he teased. “She sits like the Madonna of the Stairs, so serious. I long to arouse the passion of your heart.”

Reah was surprised that he compared her to Michelangelo’s marble relief, but then if he lived here he would know all the famous treasures.

“Such beauty should not be wasted,” he went on ardently, his eyes openly admiring her figure. “Such perfection is made to be loved by a man who is a passionate lover of women.”

Reah knew he was about to recommend himself as such a lover; she had allowed him to go too far. It had been easier to let the talking go on, and not to worry too much about what he was saying.

“Not me,” said Reah briskly. “I’m not waiting for a passionate lover of women. I don’t care to be part of a collection. I’m waiting for a very special man.”

Giovanni misunderstood Reah, partly because the wine had taken any coolness from her voice, and it was warm and throaty.

“
Carissima, carissima
,” he said tenderly. “You have found that special man.”

“But my husband would not approve,” she laughed, saying the first thing that came into her head. “He is very jealous.”

He looked somewhat taken aback.

“Your husband is a fool to leave such a beautiful woman alone,” he said with a careless shrug. “If I had such a jewel, she would always be in my sight.”

He seemed not in the least perturbed by the news that she might be married. Reah began to think of routes of escape. She took her hand away.

“Tell me about yourself,” she said quickly, steering the conversation into safer channels. “Tell me about your family and your work. Have you any hobbies?”

“Hobbies?” He looked bemused.

“In your spare time, when you are not working.”

His eyes lit up. “Of course,” he said with unashamed pride. “Beautiful women and love are my hobby; I am much accomplished in these arts!”

Reah wondered if there was any subject he could not turn to love, but she was used to coping with a room of girls bent on not doing any work. She thought of her pupils with affection. They had been stunned when her father drowned. For weeks there were small anonymous offerings of flowers on her desk…a few primroses, a bunch of violets, wild cowslips picked from the Downs…they arrived unseen and she put them in jars around the art room as silent tokens of sympathy.

“Are you as charming to all your sisters?” asked Reah, making a guess as to the size of his family.

“
Mamma mia
! My sisters!” he exclaimed. “They talk of nothing but love and babies and men. I cannot understand it.”

Giovanni was diverted and began to talk of other things, amusingly.

Reah could not help wondering if Ewart was dining in some sophisticated night spot with the elegant Contessa at his side, sipping champagne.

“Now we will go back to your hotel, yes?” he suggested, finishing the last of the wine.

“I’ll go back, alone,” said Reah.

“I will not allow you to walk in the streets. It is not safe. I will see you to your room,” he insisted. “I promise only to your room,
cara
. And no more.”

Reah did not believe a word of his promise but she would feel safer if she got as far as the hotel. She would have to deal with him there.

Once out into the dimly lit street, his arms went swiftly round her. Reah pushed him away, breaking into a determined English stride in the direction of the Palazzo Excelsior.

He caught up and put her arm through his, holding on to her hand.

“
Scusi, cara
,” he pleaded. “I am insensible about you. It is a madness. Forgive me.”

“I don’t like people grabbing me in the street,” said Reah, her nerves raw from the previous evening’s encounter. “I thought I had made it quite clear that I am not looking for a romantic interlude. No lover, no man…understand?”

“
Si…Si.
” It was all a game to him.

They went into the hotel foyer, a mask of composure on Reah’s face. His fingers were in a limpet grip, curled round her arm. She did not want a scene in public, but she was embarrassed by his air of proprietorship and intimacy. “The
signora’s
key,” he said to the reception staff. There was not one raised eyebrow but Reah knew that they were watching intently.

“Thank you very much for a pleasant evening, Giovanni,” she said loudly, her voice raised for their benefit. “I’ll say good night now.”