She was aware of him moving away, as another paroxysm shook her, and she buried her wet face in the soft square of linen. She could hear him moving about, followed by the chink of a bottle on glass, and then he was back, seating himself beside her, closing her fingers round a tumbler.
‘Drink this.’
She tried to obey, but her hand was trembling too much.
He muttered something she did not understand, and raised the glass to her lips himself.
As the pungent smell reached her, Harriet recoiled. She said, her voice drowned and jerky, ‘I don’t drink spirits.’
‘You do now.’ He was inexorable.
She took one sip, and it was like swallowing liquid fire. She felt it burn all the way to her stomach, and flung her head back as he offered the glass again, saying hoarsely, ‘No more—please.’
He put the glass down on the floor. ‘So,’ he said. ‘This is more than just a drawing. What has happened to you?’
‘Nothing that need concern you.’ She scrubbed fiercely at her face with the handkerchief, trying to avoid looking at him directly. However, she was immediately aware that he was a little more dressed now than he had been before, in that he’d fastened the waistband of his jeans, pulled on another disreputable tee shirt, and had a pair of battered espadrilles on his feet.
But if this was a concession, it was a very minor one. It didn’t make him appear any more civilised, or encourage her to feel any better about the situation. Or about him.
Oh, God, she thought with something like despair. What could have possessed her to do such an appalling thing? To have—flown at him like that, whatever the provocation. Then, worst of all, to have allowed herself to break down, and wail like a baby. How could she have behaved like that? It was as if she’d changed into a completely different person. And she wanted the old one back.
‘But I am concerned.’ He touched the mark on his cheek with a fingertip. ‘See—I’m scarred already.’
‘I’m—sorry,’ she offered stiffly. And she was—but for letting herself down—not for hurting him. In fact, she wished she’d connected with her fist, instead of just a fingernail.
He gave her a sardonic look, as if he knew exactly what was going through her mind. ‘A suggestion,’ he said softly. ‘Next time you’re in scratching mood, my little tigress, make it my back, and not my face.’
As the implication in his words sank in, her face warmed with a blush she was powerless to prevent. Her fingers tightened, crushing the handkerchief into a damp ball. She needed to get out of there, she thought, before she embarrassed herself even further—if that were possible.
‘I—I must be going.’ She kept her voice artificially cool and clipped. ‘I’ve a cab waiting for me.’
‘I doubt that,’ he said. ‘But stay where you are, and I’ll check if it’s still there.’
She watched him go to the door with that lithe long-legged stride that she’d noticed in the restaurant. A realisation that disturbed her. And with his departure an odd stillness descended, as if the energy in the room had somehow gone with him.
He was, Harriet thought with a shiver, altogether too physical a presence. And it occurred to her that maybe she had got off lightly, after all.
On impulse, she pushed back the sleeves of her jacket, scanning her wrists and forearms for the marks of his fingers, but there were none, which surprised her. Although she could not speak, of course, for the emotional bruising she’d suffered.
But don’t think about that, she told herself. Just concentrate on getting out of here.
She glanced around for her bag, and saw it lying where she’d dropped it, the contents spilling out across the floorboards, with the laptop case beside it. She crossed the room shakily, knelt and began to repack her bag. She’d check on the computer when she got home, but hopefully the outer padding would have saved it from serious damage.
As she rose, brushing off her skirt, she hesitated, taking another, closer look at her surroundings, and particularly at the paintings leaning against the walls that she’d seen on the periphery of her vision when she arrived.
And, as she soon realised with an odd excitement, they certainly repaid more thorough attention.
The majority of the paintings were abstracts, wild, ungovernable masses of colour applied to their canvases with an almost violent intensity, and, to Harriet, they were like experiencing an assault to the senses.
She went from one to another, aware that her arms were wrapped tightly round her body, as if she was warding off some danger. Knowing that, whether she liked them or not, they were impossible to ignore. She was being drawn to them unwillingly, she thought. Fascinated in spite of herself.
And there were landscapes too—bleak stretches of ochre-coloured earth, more bleached stones like the fallen columns of dead buildings, hard glittering sand bordering a dark and ominous sea. All battered by the light of that same brilliant and relentless sun that she’d seen in the original painting.
And that same sense of anger, barely contained, that she’d found emanating from him only a short while ago.
But this time no human element in any of the paintings. No trace that anyone had ever inhabited these alien environments.
They were raw—they were vital. But they belonged to no comfort zone that she knew. She could not imagine hanging one of them on the plain neutral walls of her determinedly minimalist flat. Or living with it afterwards, come to that.
She suddenly remembered a book she’d read as a child, where the young heroine stepped through the pictures in the gallery of an old house to find herself in the world they portrayed.
But to walk into the kind of barren burning wilderness that confronted her now would be a terrifying leap into the unknown—with the possibility that she might never be able to find her way back again. That she’d be trapped for all eternity in some living nightmare.
She shivered suddenly. My God, she thought in swift self-derision, am I letting my imagination run away with me here?
And it was no excuse to tell herself that it was sheer overreaction, because she’d been knocked sideways emotionally in all kinds of ways. Because the sheer power of these paintings could not be dismissed so easily.
He said, ‘Your taxi’s gone. But I called a local cab company. They are on their way.’
She whirled around as his voice reached her, her hand going to her mouth to stifle her startled cry. Because she’d had no idea he’d come back into the studio. Been far too absorbed to register his approach.
But he was there, leaning against the frame in the sunlit doorway, one hand negligently hooked in the waistband of his jeans, the other holding his mobile phone as he watched her.
Harriet snatched at what was left of her composure. She said stiltedly, ‘Oh, right—thank you.’ Then paused. ‘I’ve been looking at your work. It’s—good.’ She recognised the lameness of that, and added hastily, ‘In fact, it’s probably far more than just good. It might be—amazing.’
‘Does this signal that you are changing your opinion about me?’ His mouth twisted mockingly. ‘I’m flattered.’
‘Well, don’t be,’ she returned curtly. ‘I may recognise you have talent, but it doesn’t follow that I have to like you any better.’
He winced elaborately. ‘I see that the flood of tears was a temporary aberration. The real Miss Flint is back, and firing on all cylinders.’
‘What I don’t understand,’ she went on, as if he hadn’t spoken, ‘is why you waste a moment of your time on those street portraits. They can’t bring in enough money to pay the bills.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I look on