Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [94]
She dashed into her bedroom and hauled a suitcase from the closet. How long might she be—a couple of weeks? A month? Maybe even two? There hadn’t been time to ask Fabrizio, but she’d bet on at least a month. Would Aldo Montefiore be at the palazzo? she wondered. Wait a minute, though, he was supposed to marry money, wasn’t he? Marisa had warned her off him; she was reserving him for her cousin Renata. Well, then, that took care of that. She surely wasn’t going to escape from one role as mistress only to jump into another. No, she was going to be a career girl, no more sexy black nighties and rendezvous for her. Firmly, she packed sensible country clothes, skirts, jeans, sweaters, a couple of good dresses for dinner, a trim, businesslike suit, silk shirts. And as a safety measure in case her resolve should be put to the test, her plainest underwear. After all, she thought with a grin as she closed the lid of the suitcase, how can a girl get herself seduced when she’s wearing pants with a Snoopy picture on the front?
15
The idyllic coral-stone villa overlooked the powdery pink curve of St. James Beach in the very best part of the island. From her usual early-morning position by its oval pool, Olympe could survey the beach of the smart hotel to the left and the scatter of neighboring villas to the right. Bendor couldn’t have chosen better. Apart from the fact that it was the most expensive villa on the island, it was the perfect gossip and meeting place—all you had to do was to take a stroll along the water’s edge, or even float gently in the silken blue sea just a little way offshore, and you’d be bound to meet someone you knew, or someone who knew someone else you knew, or at the least someone very charming.
A smatter of conversation and the strains of a Gregorian chant on the hi-fi signaled that the rest of the house party was up. Bendor had a passion for Gregorian music and the sound of that monkish singing was driving them all crazy—especially at this time in the morning. Stretching lazily, Olympe flung on the man’s white evening shirt she always wore as a beach cover-up, and strolled through the gardens to the terrace. There were a dozen guests, almost equally divided in sexes. The girls were youngish, late twenties, and ranged from very attractive to beautiful. The men were older, well held together, some attractive—and all rich. Bendor had no friends who weren’t rich, it was a policy of his. He’d never been poor and considered the poor boring rather than unfortunate.
Pitchers of chilled orange juice and cups of thick strong coffee were being downed rapidly, along with slices of fresh fruits—papaya, mango, melon—the perfect breakfast.
Olympe frowned as she kissed Bendor. He had a can of Banks beer in front of him—his first of the day; he seemed to be addicted to the stuff. She sniffed fastidiously. If Bendor was going to turn out to be a beer drinker it simply wouldn’t work. But wasn’t beer drinking a German tradition? Maybe this was just a holiday indulgence. She wasn’t sure, she wasn’t sure about Bendor at all.
Olympe ignored the babble of conversation around her, sipping her juice and staring out to sea at the enormous yacht cruising slowly past on its way to Carlisle Bay. She’d noticed it several times this week; it was magnificent.
“Beny, what yacht is that?”
“It looks like the Fiesta—there aren’t too many of that size around anymore.” Bendor picked up his binoculars, focusing them on the prow. “Yes, it’s the Fiesta, all right. Fitz McBain usually has her in these waters in the winter.”
Olympe’s ears pricked up. “Fitz McBain?” Taking Bendor’s binoculars she scanned the ship. “Beautiful, beautiful,” she murmured, “very, very nice. Do you know if he’s on board, Beny?”
“I can find out if you like. Why?”
“I thought we might give a little party tonight, invite our