A warm beach.
She let herself drift away.
POSITANO WAS BEAUTIFUL. SO BEAUTIFUL SHE had almost forgiven him for France.
The hotel was old and distinguished. Its clientele was exclusive, rich but not flashy, European aristocracy mostly.
“You’re a sucker for a title, aren’t you, darling?” he teased her.
She liked it when he teased her. It reminded her of the old days.
“What you wouldn’t do for a coronet on that pretty little head o
f yours, eh? It’d suit you too. You were born for it, I’d say.”
They were at the poolside bar, sipping martinis and watching the sun go down. She thought, I wish we could do this more often. Just relax. The barman smiled flirtatiously as he refilled her glass. He was handsome, olive-skinned and dark-haired, with mischievous almond eyes. For a moment she panicked, afraid that her husband had seen the smile, that he would be angry. It was strange how he could make her feel so safe, yet at the same time she remained afraid of him. But he hadn’t noticed anything. In fact he seemed more interested in the old man playing chess with his daughter at the far end of the bar than he was in her.
They finished their drinks and walked back to their room as the sun oozed into the horizon. Once they were inside, her husband locked the door and undressed, as unselfconscious as a savage in his nakedness. And why wouldn’t he be, with that body? Michelangelo couldn’t have sculpted a better one.
“I saw that barman looking at you.”
He walked toward her and she felt the hairs on her forearms stand on end.
“I…I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered. “No one was looking.”
He pushed her down onto the bed. “Don’t lie to me. You liked it when he looked at you, didn’t you? You wanted him.”
“That’s not true!”
Hands tightened around her neck. “It is true. Did you want that old man too, at the end of the bar? Hmm?” With his knee he forced her legs apart. “Let’s face it, he’s more your type. Old and rich.”
“Stop it!” she pleaded. “You’re the one I want. The only one.”
But the last thing she wanted him to do was stop. He was aroused for the first time in months. She reached for him, clawing at his bare back, squirming out of her bikini bottoms, desperate to pull him inside her. Please let him make love to me now. It’s been so long. But after a lingering kiss, he did what he always did. Wrapped his arms around her like a cocoon and waited until she fell into a fitful, frustrated sleep.
It was a long wait. Finally the regular rise and fall of her chest let him know it was safe to move. He slipped out of bed and down the hotel corridor. Outside it was pitch-dark, but he knew where he was going. Behind the main building, past the tennis courts to the low-built employees’ residence.
Two knocks. The door opened.
“I’d almost given up on you.”
“Sorry. I couldn’t get away.”
He kissed the almond-eyed barman passionately on the mouth. “Let’s go to bed.”
THE BARINGS’ VILLA, MIRAGE, ON THE north side of the island, was idyllic and as secluded as anyone could have wished. The perfect marriage of luxury and simplicity, with its Infinity pool, whitewashed walls and colonial dark wood floors, Villa Mirage was surrounded by thick jungle on one side and shimmering ocean on the other. Even so, Lisa had taken extra precautions, installing round-the-clock details of security men to circle the perimeter and two armed bodyguards inside the property, in addition to the housekeeper, handyman and butler who lived at the villa year-round. Not for a moment did she believe Inspector Liu’s warnings about her attacker returning to kidnap or harm her. That was preposterous. But the media attention was another matter. In the absence of any information, or a viable suspect on whom to focus their anger, the Chinese press had chosen to vilify Miles Baring’s much-younger American wife. Overnight, it seemed, Lisa had gone from innocent victim to calculating gold digger in the minds of most ordinary Hong Kong citizens. She knew from bitter experience that the paparazzi would stop at nothing to steal a picture of her, which the newspapers would no doubt twist to make it look as if she were living it up in Bali. As if she weren’t grieving Miles. Lisa wasn’t about to let that happen.
It was late when she arrived at the villa and she was tired.
“I think I’ll go straight to bed if you don’t mind, Mrs. Harcourt.”
“Of course, ma’am. I’ll have Ling bring you up some warm milk.”
Karen Harcourt, Villa Mirage’s housekeeper, was short and round and motherly. She wore her gray hair in tight curls and had always reminded Lisa of the sweet old grandmother from the Tweety Pie cartoons.
If only I’d had a mother like that, my life might have been so different. If only I’d had a mother at all.
“Thank you.”