Free Deep and Silent Waters by Charlotte Lamb Page A

enjoyed his pain, his frustration, his rage? If Sebastian had killed her, he had had good reasons for doing so.
    Poor Sebastian. Laura knew how he must have felt. No other emotion was as corrosive: jealousy hurt, burned acidly in your stomach, destroyed your peace of mind, kept you awake at night and, when you did snatch a few minutes’ sleep, tortured you with dark dreams. Laura knew all about jealousy now.
    ‘Laura! Wait! Laura!’
    His voice behind her made her panic. She ran faster but the path she was following now was so narrow that she was afraid she would fall into the narrow canal that wound beside it.
    Sebastian caught her arm. ‘Why did you run away?’ He was breathless from running, or from the rage she had seen in his face when he was talking to the old man. She wished she knew exactly what they had argued about.
    She didn’t answer, tugging to get away from him, her eyes lowered to the surface of the canal, which sparkled in the late-afternoon sunshine, the gleam of petrol turning the water into a spreading rainbow.
    ‘You’ve changed,’ he said, almost as if it was an accusation.
    She looked up into his face. ‘So have you.’ Her tone was heavy with sadness, a voice of mourning. ‘Far more than me.’
    He knew he looked older now than he had when they first met, and he felt older. Sometimes he felt like the oldest man still breathing.
    ‘Far more has happened to me,’ he said, in a harsh, smoky tone.
    ‘Yes.’ She took a breath, looked up, then plunged in. ‘I was very sorry to hear of your wife’s death.’
    Their eyes held. ‘You think I killed her, too.’ Sebastian’s voice was low and hoarse. ‘Go on. Say it. You think I killed her, don’t you? Everyone does. They don’t come out with it but I see it in their faces. They all think I killed Clea.’
    ‘Did you?’ She stared at him, seeing the dark eyes glittering, the mouth hard and leashed. He looked capable of murder now.
    In her head the old man’s words ran like the words of a song.
Morte
…
moglie
…
morte violente
…
assassinio
…
    Sebastian’s tight lips parted. ‘No.’ The word grated though his teeth. His mouth said no, but his face contradicted what he said.
    She could not stop staring at him, at the beauty of his face, the lustre of those great dark eyes, fringed by long, thick lashes, the powerful bone structure that told of strength and conviction, the stubborn, wilful jawline.
    They heard footsteps behind them: an elderly woman with a shopping bag was walking along the narrow path. Sebastian’s hands dropped to his sides and, freed, Laura turned and walked away very fast, towards the open waters of the Grand Canal. He followed and caught up with her.
    ‘Have you been sightseeing?’ His tone was politely distant, the voice of a stranger making small-talk.
    She nodded without speaking, sick with desire, miserable with guilt.
    ‘Where have you been?’
    ‘The basilica.’ Her throat was ash-dry – it was hard to speak at all. She forced herself. ‘Breathtaking, isn’t it?’
    ‘I haven’t been there yet.’
    Her green eyes opened wide, startled, instantly suspicious. ‘You told me you were born here. You must have visited it some time.’
    ‘I was six when we left.’
    Slowly she said, ‘Yes, of course. I suppose you don’t remember much.’
    ‘Not much.’ Too much, he thought, yet not enough. It was like seeing in flashes by a flickering candle in a high wind. ‘How long are you staying?’
    ‘Only a couple of days. Have you finished the film you were shooting in South America?’
    ‘Yes, I wrapped it up the day before yesterday, just before we hit the deadline. Are you working at the moment?’
    ‘No. I just finished filming in Ireland with Ross Kintyre. An Irish novel,
The Grey Pebble
. A small part, but the money was good, and he’s a wonderful director. It was great experience.’ How easy it was to slip into shop-talk, avoiding anything personal. Easy, but unreal.
    They were not talking at