Villa San Angelo, Anacapri, Capri, Italy

Charles Bonnard looked away from the majestic view of the sea and saw the light blinking on his cell phone. He retrieved it from the stone parapet and sat down in the alcove. After looking at the water, his eyes had to adjust to the shade. It took a moment to register the number of the missed call.

John Sinclair’s international cell number—that was odd. They weren’t supposed to talk until the end of the week. He pressed the voice-mail retrieve button and listened.

“Charles, I’m heading to Monaco a few days early . . .”

Sinclair was going back to Monaco already? There could only be one reason: a five-foot-eleven, 118-pound bundle of destruction named Shari. What stunt could she be pulling now? Poor guy. Sinclair sure knew how to pick them—each one worse than the last.

Charles sighed and walked back into his house. He had better go meet Sinclair. But he really didn’t want to go back to Monaco and leave this little piece of paradise.

Villa San Angelo was built high into the hills of Capri and stood apart from the mayhem of the fashionable and famous down below. While the glitterati enjoyed their international watering holes in town, above them on the hillside Charles gloried in monastic isolation. Three hundred meters above the sea, his villa claimed the spectacular views that had been enjoyed by the ancient Romans when they built upon this spot. Charles had planted the Mediterranean garden out back. With his own hands, he had unearthed bits of Roman artifacts buried in the soil. Those marble fragments now held places of honor on the walls of the villa.

He walked into his bedroom to pack. The Villa San Angelo’s beautiful whitewashed rooms had the pure décor of a monastery. It dated back to the late nineteenth century. When he first bought the house, the locals had repeated the legend of an angel who had been seen sitting on the cliff side looking out to sea. It was his favorite place in the world, and the parapet was built on that spot, with a glorious view of the Bay of Naples.

He sighed. It was always hard to leave. He finished putting a few things in a duffel and looked around the room one last time before closing the door. In the town square, Charles just managed to catch the local bus down to the harbor. He took a seat for the death-defying ride along the cliffs and considered his plans. He had better get to Monaco as soon as possible. He had a strong suspicion it wasn’t going to be pretty.

The bus had nearly reached the village below when he remembered Brindy’s luncheon tomorrow. He’d have to make a quick stop to apologize. The contessa Giorgiana Brindisi wasn’t going to like it that he was not coming to her little party. And she would be furious when she found out the reason he couldn’t come—it was because of John Sinclair.

© 2011 Kitty Pilgrim