‘I’m a dog lover. And that little boy would have been broken-hearted if I’d left his dog to die.’
‘And what about you? Don’t you mind if you live or die?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t worry about it. It’ll happen when it happens.’
‘It’ll happen a lot sooner if you take crazy risks.’
‘Maybe it will, maybe it won’t. What’s wrong with taking risks? Life’s better that way. Think of it as doing the quick-step with fate as your partner. You go faster and faster, never knowing which of you is going to reach the edge first. Everything is possible; it’s the only way to live. And, if not, better to die like that than, well, some of the other ways.’
‘You nearly came to grief,’ she reminded him. ‘When you were on top of the ladder you seemed to collapse. You just clung there and I thought you were going to fall. What happened?’
‘Nothing. You imagined it.’
‘But I didn’t. You slumped against the ladder.’
‘I don’t remember. There was smoke everywhere and a lot of things passed me by. It doesn’t matter now. Let’s leave it.’
‘I don’t think we ought to leave it. You may have been affected in some way that isn’t obvious yet. I want a doctor to have a look at you.’
‘There’s no need,’ he said in a voice suddenly full of tension. ‘It’s over.’
‘But you don’t know that,’ she pleaded. ‘You passed out on the top of that ladder and—’
‘How the hell do you know?’
The sudden cold fury in his voice was like a slap in the face, making her flinch back.
‘You weren’t up there; you don’t know what happened,’ he snapped. ‘You saw me close my eyes against the smoke and give myself a moment’s rest before climbing down the rest of the way. And that’s all! Don’t start dramatising.’
‘I didn’t mean—I’m just worried about you.’
‘Do I look as if I need worrying about?’ he asked in a voice that was now quiet and steely.
Ferne was struggling to come to terms with the terrible transformation in him, and she had to take a deep breath before she could reply bravely, ‘Yes, actually, you do. Everyone needs worrying about. Why should you be any different? Something dreadful has happened to you. It might have made you ill and I simply want to find out. Why should that make you angry?’
‘Why does any man get angry at being fussed over? Just leave it, please.’
His voice was still quiet, but now there was something in it that was almost a threat.
‘But—’
‘I said leave it.’
She didn’t dare to say any more, and that word ‘dare’ told her what a dreadful thing had happened. The mere thought of being afraid of Dante was incredible, and yet she was. This was more than masculine irritation at being ‘fussed over’, it was bitter, terrifying rage.
But he was recovering himself. Before her eyes, the temper drained out of him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m not quite myself. I’ll be all right soon. Just promise me one thing—you won’t say anything about this at home.’
‘Not tell them about the fire? I think that story will get around somehow.’
‘I don’t mean that. I meant the other thing, that I had a bad moment on the ladder. Hope worries easily. Say nothing.’
When she hesitated he said, ‘You must give me your word.’
‘All right,’ she said quickly. She had a fearful feeling that his rage was on the verge of rising again.
‘You promise faithfully?’
‘Yes, I promise.’
‘Fine. Then everything’s all right.’
Everything was far from all right, but she couldn’t say so. She could never forget what she’d seen.
But now his mood was lightening, changing him back into the Dante she knew.
‘Look on the bright side,’ he said. ‘Think what exciting pictures I must have given you.’
Pictures. Stunned, she realised that she’d never once thought of them.
She, to whom photography was such a part of her DNA that even her own lover’s treachery had been recorded for posterity, had forgotten everything the moment Dante had started to climb.
‘I didn’t take any pictures,’ she whispered.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked in mock outrage. ‘You take pictures of everything. How come I’m not considered worth the trouble?’
‘You know the answer perfectly well,’ she snapped. ‘I was too worried about you to think of photography.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what the world is coming to,’ he said sorrowfully. ‘My great moment and you missed it. Shall I go back up and give you a second chance?’
‘Don’t bother,’ she said crisply. ‘The second take is never as effective as the first.’
They both knew what they were really talking about. The woman who let nothing get in the way of a good picture had missed this because she’d forgotten everything but his being in danger.
Now he would know, and how he would love that! But when she met his eyes she saw in them not triumph, but only bleak weariness, as though a light had gone out. He was struggling to present his normal, jokey self, but it was an effort.
‘Come on,’ he said tiredly. ‘Let’s go home.’
They found the car and drove back in silence. At the villa he immediately went for a shower. While he was away, Ferne outlined the events to the family but, remembering her promise, said nothing about what had happened at the end.
‘Trust Dante to go back for the dog,’ Hope said.
‘He loved it,’ Ferne said. ‘It was as though risking his life gave him some sort of kick.’
‘His father was the same,’ Toni sighed. ‘Always finding excuses to do crazy things.’
‘Yes, but—’ Hope began to speak, then stopped.
Puzzled, Ferne waited for her to continue. Then Hope met her husband’s eyes and he gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head.
‘If a man is like that, he’s like that,’ she finished lamely. ‘I’ll just go up and see if he’s all right.’
She returned a moment later saying, ‘I looked in. He’s asleep. I expect he needs it.’
Then she deftly turned the conversation, leaving Ferne again with the impression that where Dante was concerned there were strange undercurrents.
Next morning he’d already left for town when she rose. She tried not to believe that he was avoiding her, but it was hard.
Her new credit cards arrived in the post, and news came from the consulate that her passport was ready. She drove down and collected it, then went to a café by the water and sat, considering.
Surely it was time to move on? Her flirtation with Dante had been pleasant but it would lead nowhere. Forgetting to take pictures was an ominous sign, because it had never happened before. But the mere thought of a serious affair with him was madness, if only because of his habit of withdrawing