James Beach in the very best part of the island. From her usual early-morning position by its oval pool, Olympe could survey the beach of the smart hotel to the left and the scatter of neighboring villas to the right. Bendor couldn’t have chosen better. Apart from the fact that it was the most expensive villa on the island, it was the perfect gossip and meeting place—all you had to do was to take a stroll along the water’s edge, or even float gently in the silken blue sea just a little way offshore, and you’d be bound to meet someone you knew, or someone who knew someone else you knew, or at the least someone very charming. A smatter of conversation and the strains of a Gregorian chant on the hi-fi signaled that the rest of the house party was up. Bendor had a passion for Gregorian music and the sound of that monkish singing was driving them all crazy—especially at this time in the morning. Stretching lazily, Olympe flung on the man’s white evening shirt she always wore as a beach cover-up, and strolled through the gardens to the terrace.
