Flood Tide Read Online Free

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