Fire on the Moon. V. J. Banis

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СКАЧАТЬ masculine, yet delicately feminine. It was like Carlotta herself—a paradox, a lovely paradox.

      When I turned I saw the note propped on the refectory table just inside the door. Towering above the slip of paper was a handsome porcelain vase holding a huge spray of yellow flowers.

      Jen, Make yourself at home. Sorry I couldn’t meet you but I asked Philip Alenquer to pick you up. Isn’t he a love? I should be back from Paris around six. Philip will see that you’re entertained, I’m sure.

      Love, C.

      “Philip?” I said aloud to the empty room. The man who met me said his name was Neil. I frowned. I scanned the note again. “Philip Alenquer.” Carlotta had written it quite clearly despite the hasty scrawl of the other words. And I absolutely could not agree that he was a “love” as Carlotta had written. Something got mixed up along the way, I decided, as I folded the note and tossed it into the waste-basket.

      I shrugged my shoulders. Carlotta would straighten it all out when she got here. Six o’clock, she’d said. I glanced at my watch. It was only a little after three.

      The time suddenly reminded me that I hadn’t eaten anything substantial all day. I’d take Carlotta at her word. Make yourself at home, she’d said. My hunger convinced me that I would do just that. I went in search of a kitchen.

      I went through a lovely formal dining room, through a serving pantry and finally into a large kitchen, very modern and equipped with the latest conveniences. It was spotless and the refrigerator was virtually bursting with all sorts of good things to eat.

      I slipped out of my suit jacket, rolled up the sleeves of my blouse and went to work. It took a while to search out everything—bread, seasonings, dishes, napkin—and by the time I’d fixed myself an omelet and toast, made the coffee and set a place in the breakfast nook, I was truly ravenous.

      As I sat relishing my meal, I noticed another terrace just beyond the window—at the back of the villa. It was white with a pink balustrade and overlooked the ocean from the cliff on which it was perched. At one end was a long flight of wooden steps leading down to a private beach.

      One look at the terrace told me how I would spend the afternoon. The sun was hot and inviting. I could afford some exposure to the sun. My skin was far too pale compared with the dark-skinned natives of Portugal. And there was that book I hadn’t glanced at once on the flight over.

      I finished eating, rinsed the dishes and put away all evidence of my culinary efforts. I felt better. My body ached less, my step was a bit springier as I walked back into the foyer and picked up my small overnight case.

      Upstairs I found three bedrooms. The one with the study/sitting room was obviously Carlotta’s. The one adjoining I took to be mine because there were flowers and a bowl of fruit on a low table.

      I intended to don a swim suit and get some sun, but I remembered that my suit was in the large bag and I didn’t feel much like going back downstairs and lugging it up right now. Instead, feeling a bit daring, I slipped into a shorty nightdress and made my way down to the rear terrace, uttering a silent prayer that no one would discover me in my slightly scandalous attire.

      The sun was as warm and wonderful as I had imagined it. Far below me the waters of the Atlantic lapped and soothed the shore. I was tempted to climb down the wooden steps to the beach, but considering my apparel, thought better of it.

      I pulled a chaise into the direct sunlight and stretched out on it. I picked up my book, but couldn’t concentrate on the first sentence. Neil what-ever-his-name crept into my thoughts. I suddenly realized how reckless I’d been getting into a strange car with a man I’d never seen before. Anything could have happened to me.

      Perhaps Carlotta didn’t know Neil at all. Who on earth was he? Obviously Carlotta hadn’t intended him to meet me. Why did he?

      I couldn’t see that it made much difference now, though. I was safe and sound. And the sun was being unreasonably kind. It proved to be the friend I needed just then. My head nodded, my muscles relaxed and I closed my eyes. I slept.

      A buzzing interrupted my sleep. My eyes flew open. The sky was darker, the air crisper and less comfortable. I shivered, pulling my night dress down over my knees.

      The buzzing came again. Someone was ringing the doorbell. I jumped to my feet and hurried from the terrace. I couldn’t answer the door in the outfit I was wearing. I dashed up the stairs, glancing at my watch as I went.

      It was almost five. Surely it wasn’t Carlotta. She would have her own key. But then I thought of the key in the potted cyprus—the one I’d dropped into my handbag. Possibly Carlotta didn’t carry a key and relied upon that one.

      I went to the window of the bedroom and looked down onto the front terrace. It wasn’t Carlotta. It was a man. I could just see the top of his head and his automobile—a sleek, bright sport car, its top down, its motor running, its radio playing.

      One glance in the mirror told me I wouldn’t answer the door. I looked a fright. My hair was disheveled, my face puffy from sleep. I was hardly dressed to receive a gentleman caller.

      I stood at the window and waited. He rang several more times, each time holding his finger on the bell a little longer. Finally he stepped back and looked up. I backed away from the window, but didn’t know whether or not I’d been fast enough to escape his notice. I must have been, because he turned and got into his car.

      When he looked in my direction I saw his face. He looked a bit like the man who’d driven me to the villa, but this man was younger, slighter of build and even better looking than Neil—if that was possible. What I really was saying to myself was that this man didn’t have an ugly scar on the left side of his face.

      The sound of the car’s motor drifted into the distance. The quiet was suddenly deafening. I turned from the window and again verified the time. I’d have time for a bath before Carlotta arrived.

      * * * *

      I was seated at the dressing table putting on the last of my makeup when I heard her car pull into the drive. It skidded to a halt just as I looked down. Carlotta got out from behind the wheel, picked up a huge handbag and started up the stairs onto the terrace. I saw her stop at the potted Cyprus and fumble around.

      The key.

      I rushed from the room and down the stairs just as I heard her call my name and bang the large, brass door knocker. I had to smile. Carlotta wasn’t the type to trust the subtle sound of an electric buzzer.

      I pulled open the door and threw myself into her arms.

      “Jen,” she cried. We hugged like two school girls who hadn’t seen each other since graduation. “Oh, Jen,” she said, fighting back the tears. “You’re here at last—and I wasn’t here to meet you.”

      I held her at arm’s length. “You get younger and prettier with the years,” I said.

      “And you just get prettier.” She looked me up and down boldly. “Yep, you’ve filled out in all the right places, thank heaven. I was afraid that family of yours would keep you skinny and willowy like the rest of that social set you spin around in.”

      She hugged me again and led me through the foyer into her lair. She slipped out of her chic light coat and tossed it over the back of one of the French chairs. She was just as I remembered, short and a bit on the stocky side, yet СКАЧАТЬ