Sailing to Capri by Elizabeth Adler Read Free Book Online Page A

freckled, lanky kid who grew up into a freckled lanky woman. My boobs are too small for the current bosomy fashion; my long dead-straight dark red hair has a mind of its own which is why I usually wear it pinned up at the sides or pulled back out of my eyes, which are the color of green olives. My legs are my best feature, long and slenderand I’ve progressed from the S and M stilettos to smarter, more flattering and horribly expensive shoes that are my greatest indulgence. I have a good clear skin under its dusting of freckles, a straight nose and full lips, and I am one of the few women I know who can wear red lipstick—namely Armani No. 9. Actually, I’m not too bad for a woman who doesn’t even try, always hiding my vulnerability behind my black suits.
    In fact, I’m a successful fraud. The superefficient, clever P.A., fair but harsh when I need to be; always cool, always in charge. Only Bob knew the true me; he’d seen through me right from the beginning. And Rats knows who I am too; he jumps on my bed at night, ignoring my bed socks (I always have cold feet, which Bob said was “significant”) and my cozy but dowdy nightie. The dog snuggles up to me, a warm living being to whom I pour out my heart just as though he understands. And who’s to say he does not? Anyhow,
I
believe he does, and only Rats and Bob—and my friend, Bordelaise, about whom more later—know the real me.
    Now, naked in my pretty bathroom, I felt the same way I had when the For Sale sign had gone up on my house that was no longer mine. Out in the cold. Alone again.
    I dressed quickly in a black sweater and loose black velvet pants; then, sitting at my pretty dressing table, I powdered my nose, put on some lipstick and brushed my hair. I dabbed on Guerlain’s L’Heure Bleue—a gift from Bob and a far more exotic scent than I would ever have chosen myself—pushed my bare feet into a pair of flat black ballerina shoes, and walked downstairs to have dinner with Harry Montana.

7

Daisy
    Montana was standing before the hall fireplace, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans. He looked up when he heard my footsteps, holding my eyes with his as I walked toward him.
    He gave me a smile. “Less of the Siberian refugee, more the lady of the house,” he said.
    “Think it’s an improvement?” Was I
flirting
with him? How could I? At a time like this.
    “Definitely.”
    “Anyhow, as you know, I’m not the lady of the house. I’m merely an employee.”
    “More than that. You were a friend.”
    I smiled. “That’s better than ‘kind of a friend.’”
    “I didn’t know Bob well enough to be more than an employee,” he explained. “But—simply because Bob was the kindof man he was—I had the privilege of becoming a ‘kind of a friend.’”
    Of course I wanted to know why Bob had employed him in the first place, but I didn’t ask. Discretion was part of my job. Instead I offered Montana a drink. The dog followed me as I led the way into the drawing room where an array of bottles and glasses arranged on large silver trays on the massive seventeenth-century oak sideboard constituted the bar. I glanced inquiringly over my shoulder at him.
    “I guess you don’t have bourbon?” he said.
    “I certainly do. On the rocks?”
    “Please.”
    I poured the drink and handed it to him then busied myself fixing my usual evening tipple, the cosmo I’d developed a liking for after my first at Le Gavroche. I shook the silver flask vigorously, poured the drink into a martini glass, added a spiral of lemon.
    Montana watched me with a bemused expression. “A girly cosmo,” he said. “I’d have expected more from you.”
    I bristled at the implied criticism. “Such as?”
    “Oh, maybe a malt whiskey, a rare Russian vodka …”
    “What makes you think I look like a drinker? Am I that tough?” I offered him Mrs. Wainwright’s homemade cheese straws, still warm from the oven.
    “Not tough. Just, maybe … a façade of toughness. These are