lotus-land, nothing was important enough to quarrel about. Especially with Marco, who could be so kind when he chose, and even at his worst, never failed in his princely good manners.
Remembering Marco, she remembered they had a date at five o’clock to go swimming. And before that, there would be the Signora Cellini’s tea, served on the terrace overlooking the Bay, as delicate and formal as a ballet, with Francesca in a clean white cotton apron and wearing white silk gloves. To-day Marco would be there. Punctilious in his attendance on his mamma, he would never miss her tea-time when on the island.
Jan got up, showered, and pinned her hair into a neat bun on top of her head. It was cooler that way, and would be easier to handle after the sea-water swim. Then she pulled out all Bianca’s swim suits and made a careful choice. Italian fashion house or British chain store made little difference when one got down to basic girl-in-a-bikini, and Jan had confidence in her long shapely legs and slim bare midriff. It was the teatime cover-up that was important. She chose a strawberry- red and white polka-dot halter-neck playsuit, with matching choker necklace and lime-green leather sandals. Marco was so right, for the wrong reasons. Good clothes did a lot for a girl’s morale.
Marco Cellini had, it seemed, completely forgotten the brush they’d had at lunch, and forgiven her for her theft of the morning. He rose when Jan appeared, kissed her hand and adjusted the big rose-pink fringed umbrella which shaded the white wrought-iron table.
‘ About Capri,’ he began as if they were in the middle of a conversation. ‘ You cannot leave the Bay of Naples without going there. In spite of the tourism boom, it is still a heavenly spot and I promised to take you. If I am free, we shall go there the day after tomorrow. Tomorrow, you are to collect your valuables in Rome. I have business in Rome, so you must be ready to leave at eight in the morning. We shall travel together, in my car. It will be pleasanter for you than the train.’
‘ You change your mind quickly, Signor Marco. At lunch you promised to lend me the fare. I can manage alone, truly I can. You’re a busy man and I do not wish to be a nuisance.’
‘ I have changed my mind,’ he replied in a tone which forbade argument.
He had changed for the bathe. He wore a white shortie bathrobe, with short sleeves, and was more powerfully built than appeared when formally dressed. Muscular forearms, and legs, were brown as mahogany. His feet, thrust into well-used leather sandals, were shapely and strong. As he conversed with his mother, Jan studied him with professional interest; the muscles beneath the satin smooth skin, the bone beneath the muscles. Almost one could take him for the original model of some of those old Roman gods, br o nze or marble, in the museums and gardens she had seen.
‘ Well,’ he said at last, with a smile in her direction which would have set any woman’s pulse stirring, ‘ shall we go? You need reliable sandals on your feet, not those nonsensical ankle-twisters you’re wearing. Put on the pair you were wearing this morning. We have a lot of clambering to do, and I promise you I’m not prepared to carry you up the cliff if you damage yourself.’
She said demurely, ‘ The ankle-twisters belong to your sister. The reliable ones are my own.’ He acknowledged the shaft with a rueful grin.
‘ T ouch é ! You have a quick tongue. I wouldn’t care to trust you with a rapier.’
Without a word, Jan unrolled her scarlet towel. The approved sandals were rolled in it. Did he think her such a fool as to attempt the cliff steps in fashion sandals?
His eyebrows rose in surprise, mock or genuine. ‘ Mamma, this is the first young woman who ever got the better of me, and made me laugh at myself ! ’
‘ Your father said the same thing about me. It is good for a man to have to laugh at himself sometimes. Otherwise he becomes pompous. Your father
Remembering Marco, she remembered they had a date at five o’clock to go swimming. And before that, there would be the Signora Cellini’s tea, served on the terrace overlooking the Bay, as delicate and formal as a ballet, with Francesca in a clean white cotton apron and wearing white silk gloves. To-day Marco would be there. Punctilious in his attendance on his mamma, he would never miss her tea-time when on the island.
Jan got up, showered, and pinned her hair into a neat bun on top of her head. It was cooler that way, and would be easier to handle after the sea-water swim. Then she pulled out all Bianca’s swim suits and made a careful choice. Italian fashion house or British chain store made little difference when one got down to basic girl-in-a-bikini, and Jan had confidence in her long shapely legs and slim bare midriff. It was the teatime cover-up that was important. She chose a strawberry- red and white polka-dot halter-neck playsuit, with matching choker necklace and lime-green leather sandals. Marco was so right, for the wrong reasons. Good clothes did a lot for a girl’s morale.
Marco Cellini had, it seemed, completely forgotten the brush they’d had at lunch, and forgiven her for her theft of the morning. He rose when Jan appeared, kissed her hand and adjusted the big rose-pink fringed umbrella which shaded the white wrought-iron table.
‘ About Capri,’ he began as if they were in the middle of a conversation. ‘ You cannot leave the Bay of Naples without going there. In spite of the tourism boom, it is still a heavenly spot and I promised to take you. If I am free, we shall go there the day after tomorrow. Tomorrow, you are to collect your valuables in Rome. I have business in Rome, so you must be ready to leave at eight in the morning. We shall travel together, in my car. It will be pleasanter for you than the train.’
‘ You change your mind quickly, Signor Marco. At lunch you promised to lend me the fare. I can manage alone, truly I can. You’re a busy man and I do not wish to be a nuisance.’
‘ I have changed my mind,’ he replied in a tone which forbade argument.
He had changed for the bathe. He wore a white shortie bathrobe, with short sleeves, and was more powerfully built than appeared when formally dressed. Muscular forearms, and legs, were brown as mahogany. His feet, thrust into well-used leather sandals, were shapely and strong. As he conversed with his mother, Jan studied him with professional interest; the muscles beneath the satin smooth skin, the bone beneath the muscles. Almost one could take him for the original model of some of those old Roman gods, br o nze or marble, in the museums and gardens she had seen.
‘ Well,’ he said at last, with a smile in her direction which would have set any woman’s pulse stirring, ‘ shall we go? You need reliable sandals on your feet, not those nonsensical ankle-twisters you’re wearing. Put on the pair you were wearing this morning. We have a lot of clambering to do, and I promise you I’m not prepared to carry you up the cliff if you damage yourself.’
She said demurely, ‘ The ankle-twisters belong to your sister. The reliable ones are my own.’ He acknowledged the shaft with a rueful grin.
‘ T ouch é ! You have a quick tongue. I wouldn’t care to trust you with a rapier.’
Without a word, Jan unrolled her scarlet towel. The approved sandals were rolled in it. Did he think her such a fool as to attempt the cliff steps in fashion sandals?
His eyebrows rose in surprise, mock or genuine. ‘ Mamma, this is the first young woman who ever got the better of me, and made me laugh at myself ! ’
‘ Your father said the same thing about me. It is good for a man to have to laugh at himself sometimes. Otherwise he becomes pompous. Your father
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