The name flowed in stylish script across the little wooden gate at the top of a rocky path and Jim checked it against the scrap of paper in his hand. Yes, this was it all right. He slammed the door of the yellow Mercedes-Benz and put on his jacket. Might as well look smart even if it’s hot. You can’t ask a woman to marry you in your shirt-sleeves, even if she did know you a lot better without your clothes on. He grinned as he opened the gate and strode down the path.The house stood white, four-square and green-shuttered, amid a riot of flowers on an olive-strewn slope leading to the sea. He smiled in satisfaction. He liked that blue sea. He liked this place. All of it. Naturally she would live here. He started for the front door that stood open to the sun, flanked by great earthenware pots of geraniums, but stopped suddenly. He followed the path around the side of the house, emerging onto a broad terrace overlooking the sea. Another little path led from the steps down the slope past a silent pool that reflected the blue of the sky and a vine-covered arbor.
