really are, don’t they?”
“What? Who?”
“Your grapefruit,” said the waitress.
“Oh, certainly. I feel very stupid.”
“I did too when I first got here. This is a playhouse. Don’t think it’s sexist, because it isn’t. You’ll see very mature ladies with hunks you wouldn’t believe. Well, I hope you enjoy yourself. You should, you know. This is a wonderful place.”
“I hope so too,” Rafaella said. The waitress was beautiful enough to be a model. Speaking of which, hopefully today she would finally make contact with Coco Vivrieux, Dominick Giovanni’s French mistress and former model.
Rafaella left the lanai and wandered through the lush colorful grounds. The place was almost more than the senses could take. So much color, and foliage andflowers so abundant. She’d counted twenty-one different gardeners. They seemed to blend into the greenery and they worked very quietly. Acres and acres of beautiful gardens, none of them rigidly manicured like Charles Rutledge’s English gardens.
There were golf courses, tennis courts, three swimming pools, plus, of course, the beautiful Caribbean splashing up onto white-sand beaches. The island was shaped like the upper northwestern chunk of San Francisco and was only about three square miles. Antigua was to the east and some guests flew into St. John’s. The resort took up the east side, the Giovanni compound the west side. It was paradise, no doubt about that, and it was only for very, very rich people—and her father.
Rafaella supposed she fit in well enough. Her trust fund was substantial, her stepfather was one of the richest men on the east coast, and she did recognize a Givenchy dress when she saw one.
She returned to her villa, a miniature Mediterranean, all whitewashed walls, arched doorways, and red-tiled roof. It was surrounded by frangipani and hibiscus, all yellows and pinks. She had complete privacy. The interior furnishings were late baroque, heavily ornamented Louis XVI, the floors hardwood with Kashmir wool and silk carpets as throws.
Almost too much, Rafaella thought as she turned the gold-plated faucet of her washbowl, a hand-painted porcelain bowl from Spain.
She allowed herself another hour of decadent appreciation, then got herself into gear. She went for a workout in the gym.
What a gym, she thought, eyeing the newest of Nautilus equipment. She changed into the designer leotards a friendly young woman gave her, a woman who had pink hair with a wild yellow stripe and said, “Hey, call me Punk! I’ll show you everything. You don’tlook like you need much help, though. You’re already there. But any questions, just holler.”
The leotard was pale blue with matching tights. Rafaella didn’t bother with the leg warmers, which she’d always considered an affectation, particularly if one were in the Caribbean. She’d wondered where the natives were, if indeed there were any on this private island, and finally saw three or four local black women who appeared to be in charge of the guests’ dressing rooms. They were handsome women, silent and discreet, and Rafaella wondered what they thought of this outrageous place.
She took herself to the soft-as-butter leather floor mat and began her workout. As she stretched, she checked out every person there—men and women. Most were friendly, particularly the men. She met a half-dozen within thirty minutes.
She was doing leg lifts when she saw him again.
It was the same man who’d stopped early this morning on the beach and been nice to her, a stupid weeping woman. He was speaking to Punk; then he laughed, worked his shoulder a bit, and sauntered off to the men’s dressing room.
When he came out, he was wearing shorts, sneakers, and a white T-shirt. She could see an elastic bandage around his chest and over his shoulder beneath the soft white material. She hadn’t noticed the bandage earlier.
He was built very well. In his early thirties, she guessed, hair black as sin, and eyes a
“What? Who?”
“Your grapefruit,” said the waitress.
“Oh, certainly. I feel very stupid.”
“I did too when I first got here. This is a playhouse. Don’t think it’s sexist, because it isn’t. You’ll see very mature ladies with hunks you wouldn’t believe. Well, I hope you enjoy yourself. You should, you know. This is a wonderful place.”
“I hope so too,” Rafaella said. The waitress was beautiful enough to be a model. Speaking of which, hopefully today she would finally make contact with Coco Vivrieux, Dominick Giovanni’s French mistress and former model.
Rafaella left the lanai and wandered through the lush colorful grounds. The place was almost more than the senses could take. So much color, and foliage andflowers so abundant. She’d counted twenty-one different gardeners. They seemed to blend into the greenery and they worked very quietly. Acres and acres of beautiful gardens, none of them rigidly manicured like Charles Rutledge’s English gardens.
There were golf courses, tennis courts, three swimming pools, plus, of course, the beautiful Caribbean splashing up onto white-sand beaches. The island was shaped like the upper northwestern chunk of San Francisco and was only about three square miles. Antigua was to the east and some guests flew into St. John’s. The resort took up the east side, the Giovanni compound the west side. It was paradise, no doubt about that, and it was only for very, very rich people—and her father.
Rafaella supposed she fit in well enough. Her trust fund was substantial, her stepfather was one of the richest men on the east coast, and she did recognize a Givenchy dress when she saw one.
She returned to her villa, a miniature Mediterranean, all whitewashed walls, arched doorways, and red-tiled roof. It was surrounded by frangipani and hibiscus, all yellows and pinks. She had complete privacy. The interior furnishings were late baroque, heavily ornamented Louis XVI, the floors hardwood with Kashmir wool and silk carpets as throws.
Almost too much, Rafaella thought as she turned the gold-plated faucet of her washbowl, a hand-painted porcelain bowl from Spain.
She allowed herself another hour of decadent appreciation, then got herself into gear. She went for a workout in the gym.
What a gym, she thought, eyeing the newest of Nautilus equipment. She changed into the designer leotards a friendly young woman gave her, a woman who had pink hair with a wild yellow stripe and said, “Hey, call me Punk! I’ll show you everything. You don’tlook like you need much help, though. You’re already there. But any questions, just holler.”
The leotard was pale blue with matching tights. Rafaella didn’t bother with the leg warmers, which she’d always considered an affectation, particularly if one were in the Caribbean. She’d wondered where the natives were, if indeed there were any on this private island, and finally saw three or four local black women who appeared to be in charge of the guests’ dressing rooms. They were handsome women, silent and discreet, and Rafaella wondered what they thought of this outrageous place.
She took herself to the soft-as-butter leather floor mat and began her workout. As she stretched, she checked out every person there—men and women. Most were friendly, particularly the men. She met a half-dozen within thirty minutes.
She was doing leg lifts when she saw him again.
It was the same man who’d stopped early this morning on the beach and been nice to her, a stupid weeping woman. He was speaking to Punk; then he laughed, worked his shoulder a bit, and sauntered off to the men’s dressing room.
When he came out, he was wearing shorts, sneakers, and a white T-shirt. She could see an elastic bandage around his chest and over his shoulder beneath the soft white material. She hadn’t noticed the bandage earlier.
He was built very well. In his early thirties, she guessed, hair black as sin, and eyes a
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