After Felix - Lily Morton Page 0,82
dying away to be replaced by silence. When he pulls away, my arms want to keep him again, but I know I’m pushing my luck. I force my body to relax and watch him take a few steps back.
“It’s too late,” he whispers. “Far too late for that now. It’s all water under the bridge.”
“Water has a way of circulating, and Venice is full of bridges,” I say steadily, my eyes fixed on his face. “It’s not over for me and you know that. It never will be.”
“It is for me.”
I note his flushed cheeks and the tremor in his hands as he clasps them together. His body language does not say, “unmoved.”
“Okay,” I say placidly. “I’ll take your word for it.”
His eyes narrow. “You should do,” he says, drawing himself up and gathering his control. “I’m immune to you now, Max. We’re friends, and that’s all it will ever be.”
“Of course,” I say and lean back against a handy cupboard. “Well, friend, tomorrow I’ve got a lot planned for us, so go to bed and get an early night.”
“You’re not going to try and get me into bed?” He sounds bemused and adorably put out.
“Perish the thought,” I say cheerfully. “We need our energy for tomorrow.”
“What have you got planned?”
“Seeing some sights, eating out at restaurants I know.”
His expression becomes nonplussed. He nods, murmurs, “Goodnight,” and he walks away.
“And getting you back,” I whisper to his retreating form. “That’s my only real plan, Felix Jackson.”
Chapter Seventeen
Felix
It’s late when we wind our way back to the hotel, and I don’t mind admitting that I’m knackered. We seem to have walked the length and breadth of Venice today, and I’ve fallen in love with the city. It’s indescribably beautiful, with its old buildings that seem to be in danger of tumbling into the water at any moment. The whole place has an air of timelessness. Every time we’d rounded a corner, I’d been sure we’d come across some masked aristocrats on their way to a hedonistic ball.
Max has been a good guide, which isn’t surprising, because if you turned him upside down and shook him, stories would come tumbling out. He knows Venice like the back of his well-travelled and badly behaved hand, so I’m sure I’ve seen a side of the city that tourists rarely do.
Every few minutes, he’d drag me down some picturesque alley or back street, finding unique experiences beyond the well-trod tourist spots, with the air of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. He’d waited patiently as I goggled at each place—like the opulent Doge’s Palace or the beautiful Saint Mark’s Basilica—regaling me with facts and insisting on taking hundreds of pictures.
He treated me to peach Bellinis in the famous Harry’s Bar, a dark little place that had apparently been frequented by everyone from Ernest Hemingway to Charlie Chaplin. The Bellinis were lovely, with the sweetness of fresh peaches cutting through the tart prosecco, and we drank them as he regaled me with some extremely scurrilous tales of an Italian politician he’d seen in here with his two mistresses. Then he whisked me to a little restaurant in a quiet square where only locals went, and we ate bigoli in salsa—a thick spaghetti in an anchovy sauce.
As the day draws to a close, a melancholy descends. Our time together has a limit. Tomorrow is the conference, and then we’ll be back in England, and then when the two months are up, I’ll have to go back to the agency. He’ll return to his conquests, and I’ll have to pack away the maelstrom of feelings he’s raised in me again and get on with my life.
Being with him here has been a pleasure-pain all its own. In this city, I’ve been given a view of what it would have been like if we’d worked as a couple, and it’s wonderful and everything I secretly wanted. I’ve imagined how it would be to spend my days hearing his warm, rough voice and listening to his laughter that seems to fill a whole room.
The problem that tortures me is that our circumstances haven’t changed. Not really. Max turns me into a fool who dreams of being with him like this for eternity—traveling and laughing or just sitting in his cosy fairy-tale cottage. But this isn’t a fairy tale—Max hasn’t suddenly gained the ability to fall head over heels in love with me. The shadow of Ivo still looms between us, and Ivo-shaped shadows do not belong in