Page 22 of Under a Dancing Star

“There’s no need to talk to me like I’m a child,” I say stiffly.

“I wasn’t,” he says with a grin. “It’s simply an observable, objective fact, like the ones you’re so fond of.”

“Well, if that’s the case I had better go and get changed.” I keep my voice deliberately detached. “Thank you for the lesson.”

“Do you want to know what I think?” Ben asks slowly.

“Not desperately.”

“I think you don’t dislike me as much as you would like to believe,” he says, using that smooth voice I’ve heard him use on other girls. The flirtatious eye-twinkling is happening too.

“Oh?” I raise my eyebrows. “Is this the famous charm I’ve heard so much about?” He looks startled. “I don’t dislike you, so you can save the performance, Ben,” I say, mildly amused now. “I’ve already seen it in action and I’m sure it’s very effective on some people, but I don’t think it will work on me.”

Something that I can’t identify flashes in his eyes. “Oh really?” he asks softly.

“Really.” I nod.

“What a shame.” His voice is low as he moves a little closer, and the tingling feeling of anticipation between us grows again, my heart thumping irregularly in my chest. Soon, we are standing so close that I feel sure he’ll be able to hear it himself. I tilt my chin and look up into his so-blue eyes. The exact same blue as the margins of a swallowtail butterfly, I realize.

“Do you want me to kiss you, Bea?” he asks softly.

I take a sharp breath. Do I want him to kiss me? My body certainly seems to think so, given that it’s currently swaying towards him like a flower towards the sun.

“Absolutely not,” I say, relieved to hear that my voice is crisp, steady.

“Well I won’t, then.” His voice is still low, intimate. “At least” – the corner of his mouth tugs up – “not until you ask me to. Nicely.”

I step smartly back, unable to believe that seconds ago his smirking mouth looked so appealing. “That won’t happen,” I say firmly, disliking the jangling, nervous feeling in my belly.

“We’ll see,” he replies with maddening carelessness.

I give him the coolest, calmest smile I can muster, then swing around on my heel and stalk off. His self-satisfied laughter chases after me as I disappear into the tree-lined avenue, determined to put as much space between us as possible.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Rounding a corner at some speed I walk smack into Ursula. She is wearing wide, red silk trousers and a peacock blue shirt. Large sunglasses with blue frames are perched on her nose and her lips are scarlet. She looks like a particularly glamorous butterfly.

“Oh, sorry,” I say, reaching out a hand to steady her.

“Careful!” She springs back, looking at my paint-stained fingers, though they’ve pretty much dried now. “Why is it,” she asks, arching an expressive eyebrow above her sunglasses, “that you are always running about covered in paint?”

“Technically, this is only the second time,” I say. I’m still rattled from the strange moment with Ben, and the adrenaline has faded, replaced by a curious, bone-deep tiredness. I’m not sure I’m up to verbal sparring with Ursula. Her moods are mercurial; one moment she’s withdrawn and the next she’s full of life and enthusiasm.

She watches me for a moment. Then she turns.

“Come with me,” she says, heading further down the path we’re on, before disappearing along a small rough track that forks off to the right. She doesn’t check to see if I follow but of course I do, surprised by the brisk pace she sets and finding myself stumbling through the trees towards a building I haven’t seen before.

It’s a small, squat and rather ramshackle affair made of light timber. A veranda wraps around the outside and a set of rickety wicker furniture with faded cushions is clustered at the front beside a table full of bottles and dirty glasses.

“Come, come,” Ursula calls over her shoulder and I follow her towards this intriguing building. I thought I had found all the villa’s secrets, but this just goes to show that there are still hidden corners waiting to be discovered.

“Where are we?” I ask, looking around at the dappled space, hemmed in by ilex trees. This is obviously a man-made clearing but it feels a little like the woodcutter’s cottage from the fairy tales.

“Leo calls it the summer house,” Ursula says, coming to a halt on the veranda. “Rather grand, I know. It’s a sort of folly he had built a few years ago and then promptly forgot about. It was almost falling down when we arrived. He and Filomena have been letting me use it while I’m here.”

As we get closer I see that the building does look a bit unloved. The roof has been patched up, and the timber veranda is missing several floorboards. From where I’m standing, I can just see through the window to a large, square room with an unmade bed and a small desk pushed to one side. There are hundreds of sheets of paper scattered across the floor.

“There is water around here,” Ursula says, gesturing with her hand and, following her, I see that to the side of the house is an old-fashioned water pump. “You can wash.”