Sailing to Capri (32 page)

“I wonder,” Montana said thoughtfully.

Bordelaise waved at someone at another table. “Got to go,” she said, grabbing her bag.

I saw Captain Anders get to his feet as she walked toward him. They looked pleased as Punch with each other.

“Bordelaise is back on form,” I said, smiling.

Montana must have mistaken the smile for a chink in my armor because he said, “And what about us, Daisy? Are we to go on fighting about nothing?”

“Nothing!”
My cheeks were hot with indignation. “I fall asleep with a man next to me. Next morning he’s gone and no explanation. That’s
nothing?”

“Of course it’s not, but there’s a reasonable explanation. Besides, I called and left you a message. Didn’t you get it?”

I stared at him. “What message?”

“Do you want to hear it?”

Looking at his anxious face, I thought if I kept on pouting and said no he might leave and I didn’t want him to do that. “Okay. Go on then, tell me,” I said sulkily.

“So what do you think?” he said when he’d finished his explanation.

I got to my feet and gave him a long look. Without another word he took my arm and led me down to the marina, onto the tender and back to
Blue Boat.

Everyone was ashore and the ship was quiet. My suite was cool; the air-conditioning purred and the curtains were drawn against the afternoon sun. I tossed my bag onto a chair and walked to the bedroom. I turned and beckoned him.

“Come here, Montana,” I said. And to his credit, he walked, laughing, into my open arms.

It wasn’t a repeat performance, it was a whole new scenario. His kisses were more tender, mine more demanding. His hands felt new to me, his lips hot and familiar. His body fitted mine, his caresses made me tremble and his mouth made me beg for more. I wanted Harry Montana more than I ever knew I could want a man. And Harry Montana fulfilled every one of my needs.

We were still in bed at seven o’clock that evening, showered and naked. “Just catching our breath,” he said, nuzzling my neck.

I moaned, burying my face in his chest hair and taking little bites. “I can’t face the suspects tonight. I don’t want to think about murder and money and who did it. Can’t we just stay here, be alone?” I begged.

At the back of my mind I was thinking this might be all there was for us: tonight and no more. You never knew with a man like Montana; never knew when he might disappear again, and this time for keeps. I wanted all I could get of him. Now.

“Then let’s not see them,” he said, surprising me. “We’ll send for room service.”

“But then you’ll have to hide in the bathroom,” I objected.

“Do you really think they’ll believe you’re going to eat
two
dinners? Come on, Daisy, get real, nobody cares except you and me.”

I gave him a cautious sideways glance. “And
do
you care?”

“Yes,” he said, suddenly serious. “I care about you, Daisy.”

He hadn’t said “I love you,” but for now I was content. This wasn’t just a brief sexual fling; I was with a man I was growing to care deeply about, a man who cared about me.

“Let’s send for that room service,” I said, beaming.

It was early the next morning, and Montana was on the veranda sipping a cup of coffee. “Come on out here, Daisy,” he called.

Still in bed, I yawned lazily and gave a long luxurious stretch. My body felt as relaxed and supple as a kitten’s. “No, you come back here,” I answered, thinking that making love in the morning might be even nicer than at night. But instead he came and hauled me up by my arms and led me to the ship’s rail.

“Look,” he commanded.

The island of Capri rose in front of us, a tiny jewel on the sapphire sea. The little town was a tangle of brilliant blossoms and greenery studded with white houses. It lay between a pair of towering limestone cliffs where small boats puttered and caves and grottoes lurked and giant rocks sprouted from the depths. I recalled the legend about the Roman emperor Tiberius, who so loved the island he built a villa there and re
fused ever to return to Rome. Looking at the scene before us, I could understand why.

Naked and with Montana’s arm around me, I leaned my elbows on the rail. I wished that we were just a pair of ordinary tourists ready to explore the beauty Capri had to offer and that today did not have to happen.

Montana guessed my thoughts and said, “Maybe one day we’ll come back again.”

Knowing his busy life, I wasn’t betting on it. Deciding I’d better make the most of the time I had, I took his hand and led him back to bed. For now, our date with destiny in Capri could wait.

A couple of hours later we emerged on deck. We took the tender to the Marina Grande and rode the funicular up to the Piazzetta, the little square and the hub of Capri town, ringed with pretty cafés and boutiques and dominated by a tall clock tower with a beautifully decorated majolica face. The hands on the clock pointed to noon. Our rendezvous was at two o’clock at the Villa Belkiss. We had a couple of precious hours to ourselves.

Hand in hand we strolled the cobbled streets, stopping to peer into the tiny boutique where the famous Capri sandals were handmade, and at the jewelry stores and the fashion boutiques. Tempted by the aromas coming from the Ristorante Pizzeria Aurora on the Via Fuorlovado, we sat on the terrace sipping fortifying glasses of red wine and watching the Caprese world go by, sharing a
pizza all’acqua,
topped with mozzarella and
peperoncino
chilies in the Neapolitan style. Heaven on a thin crust.

I was enjoying myself so much I almost forgot why we were here, but then Montana’s cell phone beeped. He answered quickly. A look of concern crossed his face and he ran a hand over his stubbly dark head.

“Are you sure?” he asked finally. Then he nodded. “Okay. Right. Got it.”

He rang off and his eyes met my anxious ones. He said nothing, but I guessed he knew who the killer was.

“Tell me,”
I demanded.

“You’ll know soon enough” was all he would say.

I slugged down the last of my wine and called for another, but Montana ordered espressos instead.

“You’ll need to keep your wits about you,” he warned. “There’ll be a couple of guards at the door, but they’ll be unarmed. I can’t take a risk of weapons with all those people in the room. You’ll be safe, don’t worry.”

I nodded, wishing Bob hadn’t set this up but if he hadn’t then I wouldn’t have met Montana. I guessed I had to take the good with the bad.

We strolled slowly up the beautiful Via Tragara, peering at the intriguing arched stone stairways set between the pale stucco buildings, and at villas behind tall iron gates, flanked with giant oleanders like bridal bouquets. The lane was bordered with high garden walls and the sounds of summer were all around us: the chatter of the birds, the crackle of crickets, the hum of dragonflies. Sunlight sparkled in diamond points off the sea, slicing through trellises dripping with vines and anointing the bunches of small, tight, opalescent green grapes, beating down as we turned gratefully in to a narrow shady lane
that led up the hill. At the end was a high white wall and a pair of massive blue wooden gates. A tiled plaque with the name THE VILLA BELKISS was set into the wall.

Montana gave me a long look as he rang the bell. We were finally here.

A white-jacketed servant, an older man with a wrinkled walnut brown face and dark hair sprinkled with gray, flung open the gates.

“Welcome to the Villa Belkiss. I am Enrico,” he said. “I worked for the Signore Vassily for almost twenty years. Signorina, Signore, the Villa Belkiss welcomes you. Refreshments are waiting. Please come in.”

We stepped into a courtyard. Twin bluish gray pools bordered the sides, lit with the flash of small golden fish. The path between led to broad steps with risers tiled in blue and turquoise. Narrow columns flanked the portico, and the front door stood open. Beyond it I could see a great room running the full width of the house. And beyond that, through open French doors, was the sea.

The ceiling soared two stories high and its wide beams were painted a soft blue. A mezzanine jutted over one end, and the
terra-cotta floors were studded with cobalt blue stars. The white walls were hung with old silver mirrors and muted artworks, and there were white sofas deep enough to sink into.

Lured by the view, as everyone who ever came here must have been, Montana and I walked out onto the terrace. An infinity pool seemed to spill into the horizon, and a narrow waterfall cascaded from above us into a lower deep green pool, where the sea surged over the rocks. Under a vine-covered pergola was a long wooden table, the perfect place to dine on a hot summer night, and comfortable chairs were grouped around a large outdoor fireplace. Another blue wooden door set in the garden wall led out onto the rugged limestone cliffs, but in the Villa Belkiss’s garden, all was soft and gentle.

Roses and honeysuckle, bougainvillea and hibiscus, morning glory and jasmine climbed trellises and flowed over the low stucco walls. There was the murmur of the brook and trickle of the waterfall, and the cooing of doves and the soft hum of cicadas.

“It’s so peaceful,” I whispered to Montana. “So tranquil. Did you know that Vassily designed it himself?” I added.

Vassily was the son of a Russian mother and a Turkish father, famous for the ethereal lightness of his dancing and his ability to lift prima ballerinas like feathers. When he first found the villa, it was a mere two-bedroom, flat-roofed, whitewashed cube surrounded by scrubland, but it had the magical view, and of course he fell in love with it. He spent years designing the house and its gardens, and when it was finished he gave lavish parties with musicians on the terrace or the mezzanine, to which all the European haut monde came. He served
lobster and champagne and caviar, as well as the local flinty white wine he was fond of, and later he would dance for his guests.