Wounds of Passion

Wounds of Passion
Charlotte Lamb


CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT


CHAPTER ONE
PATRICK OGILVIE flew into Nice Airport on a hot summer afternoon. As he headed towards the taxi ranks, walking fast, his tan leather suitcase in one hand, he heard someone calling his name.
‘Patrick! Hey! Patrick!’
Stopping in midstride, startled, he turned and saw a girl hurrying towards him, looking more like a thin, graceful boy, in a black velvet jacket and sleek black jersey leggings, the only feminine thing about her outfit the jabot of white lace cascading down the front of her shirt.
‘Rae! What the hell are you doing here?’ Patrick was so taken aback that he couldn’t even pretend to be pleased to see her, his brows heavy over his blue eyes; but Rae Dunhill didn’t seem to notice; she flung her arms around him and hugged him.
‘Graham rang early this morning and told me you were on this flight.’ She was out of breath, laughing up at him. ‘Thank heavens I spotted you; I was sure I was too late and had missed you. I got caught in a traffic jam on the motorway.’
‘Our plane was delayed; we should have been here half an hour ago,’ Patrick explained unsmilingly, his body rigid as he disengaged himself. ‘You aren’t staying in Nice too, are you? I thought you were somewhere on the Italian Riviera?’
‘I am,’ Rae nodded, and he caught the secret glance she gave him.
Patrick’s frown deepened. He should never have told their joint editor, Graham Clive, that he was going to Nice, or at least not mentioned the time his plane left Heathrow. He might have known Graham would get in touch with Rae and tell her. What else had Graham told her?
‘I’m staying at Bordighera, not far from the French border, with my American friends, Alex and Susan-Jane Holtner,’ Rae told him. ‘You remember Alex? He’s the cartoonist. He does that very funny series about the American Indian in New York...you know, the one with the wigwam on top of a skyscraper.’
Patrick nodded indifferently. ‘Oh, I know, yes, crazy sort of humour.’
‘I love them,’ Rae said indignantly. ‘I was at school with Susan-Jane; she was my best friend. We’ve always kept in touch. She and Alex have a wonderful villa just outside Bordighera, on the coast road. They come every summer, for three months; they’ve been inviting me to stay for years, but I’ve always been too busy. This year, though, I finally managed to get some time off while they’re here.’
‘You certainly need a good break; you’ve been working hard for months,’ Patrick said.
‘So have you, Patrick. A few weeks in the sun is what you need, too,’ said Rae, sliding her hand through his arm as they emerged into the hot sunshine of Nice. Patrick crinkled his eyes to peer at the ultrablue sky, and, half blinded, slid dark glasses on to his nose.
‘Yes, I am tired. That’s why I’m here, to have a few weeks’ peace and quiet.’ He firmly pulled his arm free of her fingers, hoping she would get the message.
Rae wasn’t that easy to discourage. ‘You won’t get that in a Nice hotel! You must come back to Bordighera with me—it was Alex’s idea. He and Susan-Jane love to fill the villa with friends; they’ve been dying to meet you ever since I first mentioned you to them.’
Patrick’s face set like concrete. ‘No, thanks, very kind of them, but I’ve booked my hotel; I can’t change the arrangement now.’
Rae fizzed with impatience. ‘Of course you can! Don’t be silly! And the villa is so comfortable—much nicer than some impersonal hotel. We can ring up and cancel your hotel room from the villa. It will only take us a few hours to get to Bordighera; the motorway’s very fast.’
Typical, he thought grimly. There she goes again—trying to order me around! Ever since they’d started working together she had given him orders, rearranged his life, made decisions for him, as though she had some God-given right to do it, and he had never argued, because Rae Dunhill was someone he admired.
Only twenty-eight, she was already a best-selling writer. He had been a fan of her work long before he had met her and been invited to illustrate a new series of books she was working on.
Her children’s books were extraordinary: original, sensitive, clever. Like Rae herself, he had to admit. She was fascinating—but she was also a woman of incredible energy and drive, who liked to run the lives of everyone around her, and Patrick didn’t want to be managed by women any more, even for his own good.
‘Very kind of your friends,’ he curtly said, ‘but I would rather go to my hotel. Sorry.’ He didn’t even try to look sorry, glowering into the blue distance of sea and sky. ‘Look, Rae, I’m tired. I couldn’t cope with having to make polite conversation with strangers.’
‘I really think you should, Patrick,’ Rae began, and he suddenly lost patience, and turned on her, with an angry snarl.
‘Stop trying to run my life, will you?’
He felt her tense, staring. She had a memorable face, if not a beautiful one: thin, mobile, high-cheekboned, with brilliant dark eyes and thick, curly black hair cut short like a boy’s, flicked back behind small, neat ears.
Carefully, she said, ‘Sorry. Was I?’
‘Yes, and please stop it; I can run my own life!’
Patrick turned away, shifted his case to another hand, and walked over towards the scrimmage which was what passed for a taxi queue outside the airport, hoping she would take the hint and go. She didn’t, though; she followed him, watching him sideways. Patrick ignored her.
‘Graham told me about Laura,’ she softly said. ‘I’m so sorry, Patrick.’
His profile tensed, dark colour invading his face. ‘Graham talks too damn much!’
He had had lunch with Graham the day after his engagement was broken off; he couldn’t think, talk, about