began her run back to the resort.
The place was incredible. The airstrip couldn’t accommodate jets, so she’d flown to Antigua yesterday afternoon, then hired a private helicopter to fly her to Giovanni’s Island, otherwise known by its resortname, Porto Bianco. She’d found out in Antigua that most people bound for the island had their own private planes. As she ran steadily, she remembered when she’d dropped in to visit her travel agent to get reservations to the island. When she’d told Crissie she wanted to book into Porto Bianco, the agent had dropped her jaw.
“Porto Bianco? You want to go
there
? Do you know how much it costs? And there’s probably a waiting list a mile long—good grief, Rafaella, did you just inherit a fortune? Oops, I forgot about that trust fund of yours. Well, in any case, the club’s private, members only.”
And Crissie carried on and on about all the gold-plated faucets in the bathrooms and how even the Jacuzzis had gold-plated jets. And there were many security guards so that all the wealthy women could drip with their diamonds and rubies without fear they’d be stolen. And the casino was more elegant and understated than the casinos in Monaco. It was the most exclusive, most expensive resort in the Caribbean. Did Rafaella know it had been built back in the thirties by one of the Hollywood movie moguls? Crissie thought it was Louis B. Mayer, or maybe Sam Goldwyn, she wasn’t sure. But she’d heard he’d bought it from the estate of this American merchant who’d had this French aristocratic wife who’d left him for a fisherman on Antigua.
Rafaella had listened to her carry on; she hadn’t bothered to tell her that Dominick Giovanni had bought the resort, the entire island, back in 1997. She asked if there were any photos of the place, and was told that no, there weren’t. This wasn’t a place that wanted new business. Their business was mouth-to-mouth from old money to more old money. It was exclusive; it was private; it was members and their guests only.
“Ah,” Crissie said, her voice lowered to wickedness,“I know what it is. You want yourself a handsome playmate, right?”
“I don’t think so. I just broke it off with Logan.”
“Forget Logan—he’s got hang-ups, right? You probably broke off with him because he acted like a jerk, right? I heard that Porto Bianco has gorgeous men and women there for the guests, if you know what I mean.”
That was a kicker. A giant pleasure palace, replete with male and female playmates.
“Do you know anything else about the place, like how I can get in?” How difficult it was to keep her voice light, uncaring.
But Crissie had just shaken her head. “Do you know any members? That’d be the only way. What I told you, I’ve just heard gossiped about by other travel agents. I don’t have the foggiest notion of how to get you there, Rafaella, without being a member, sorry. I remember now that it changed hands back in the eighties—it was all run-down then. Then somebody else bought it just a few years ago—a rich Arab or a rich Japanese, something like that, and he poured millions into it and got it back up to what it had been in the thirties. I’d give a year’s pay or my virginity to get in there, just for a week.”
“You’re not a virgin, Crissie.”
“You’ve been in the men’s room again, Rafaella.”
But it had been so simple, in the end.
Al Holbein wasn’t a dummy. He’d found out about Rafaella’s access of their information service and her search through the
Trib
’s library. And since all topics were either on private arms dealers, or Dominick Giovanni, or Porto Bianco, he didn’t have to strain to come up with some of the answer. He was toying with the idea of demanding what she was up to when she walked into his office.
“What is it, Rafe? You can’t handle the heat out there in the newsroom? You’ll get used to all the jealousies.Goodness, you’ll be jealous yourself before too
The place was incredible. The airstrip couldn’t accommodate jets, so she’d flown to Antigua yesterday afternoon, then hired a private helicopter to fly her to Giovanni’s Island, otherwise known by its resortname, Porto Bianco. She’d found out in Antigua that most people bound for the island had their own private planes. As she ran steadily, she remembered when she’d dropped in to visit her travel agent to get reservations to the island. When she’d told Crissie she wanted to book into Porto Bianco, the agent had dropped her jaw.
“Porto Bianco? You want to go
there
? Do you know how much it costs? And there’s probably a waiting list a mile long—good grief, Rafaella, did you just inherit a fortune? Oops, I forgot about that trust fund of yours. Well, in any case, the club’s private, members only.”
And Crissie carried on and on about all the gold-plated faucets in the bathrooms and how even the Jacuzzis had gold-plated jets. And there were many security guards so that all the wealthy women could drip with their diamonds and rubies without fear they’d be stolen. And the casino was more elegant and understated than the casinos in Monaco. It was the most exclusive, most expensive resort in the Caribbean. Did Rafaella know it had been built back in the thirties by one of the Hollywood movie moguls? Crissie thought it was Louis B. Mayer, or maybe Sam Goldwyn, she wasn’t sure. But she’d heard he’d bought it from the estate of this American merchant who’d had this French aristocratic wife who’d left him for a fisherman on Antigua.
Rafaella had listened to her carry on; she hadn’t bothered to tell her that Dominick Giovanni had bought the resort, the entire island, back in 1997. She asked if there were any photos of the place, and was told that no, there weren’t. This wasn’t a place that wanted new business. Their business was mouth-to-mouth from old money to more old money. It was exclusive; it was private; it was members and their guests only.
“Ah,” Crissie said, her voice lowered to wickedness,“I know what it is. You want yourself a handsome playmate, right?”
“I don’t think so. I just broke it off with Logan.”
“Forget Logan—he’s got hang-ups, right? You probably broke off with him because he acted like a jerk, right? I heard that Porto Bianco has gorgeous men and women there for the guests, if you know what I mean.”
That was a kicker. A giant pleasure palace, replete with male and female playmates.
“Do you know anything else about the place, like how I can get in?” How difficult it was to keep her voice light, uncaring.
But Crissie had just shaken her head. “Do you know any members? That’d be the only way. What I told you, I’ve just heard gossiped about by other travel agents. I don’t have the foggiest notion of how to get you there, Rafaella, without being a member, sorry. I remember now that it changed hands back in the eighties—it was all run-down then. Then somebody else bought it just a few years ago—a rich Arab or a rich Japanese, something like that, and he poured millions into it and got it back up to what it had been in the thirties. I’d give a year’s pay or my virginity to get in there, just for a week.”
“You’re not a virgin, Crissie.”
“You’ve been in the men’s room again, Rafaella.”
But it had been so simple, in the end.
Al Holbein wasn’t a dummy. He’d found out about Rafaella’s access of their information service and her search through the
Trib
’s library. And since all topics were either on private arms dealers, or Dominick Giovanni, or Porto Bianco, he didn’t have to strain to come up with some of the answer. He was toying with the idea of demanding what she was up to when she walked into his office.
“What is it, Rafe? You can’t handle the heat out there in the newsroom? You’ll get used to all the jealousies.Goodness, you’ll be jealous yourself before too
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