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her brother was feeling worse with each minute of the
journey. His freckles stood out on his nose like micro-dots
under a microscope. His mouth was thinned and taut and
his cheeks white. She hoped he would not be sick before
they reached the villa.
But at that moment the car lurched downwards again,
throwing Peter against the door. He rubbed his forehead
resentfully, then bent to pick up the vast tome he had
been reading ever since they left London. Kate watched
him crossly. He had not spoken to any of them all
morning. She knew that dreamy, abstracted expression. It
meant that he was unaware of anything around him.
Including her.
They sto
pped in a gully between dark rocky cliffs, grass
clinging perilously to little clefts, wild yellow flowers
blowing in the sea wind. The path was rough with lumps
of stone, but the car reversed slowly, wheels churning up
pebbles, and turned down a grassy track which ended on a
paved patio.
Kate got out and stood with Sam and Peter, like herded
sheep, gazing in amazement at the view spread before
them.
The Villa Lillitos was modern, but built on classical
lines, a two-storey house, with flat, wide windows, a
terrace running along the front on which stood basket
chairs and several small tables. The terrace was
supported on smooth white pillars of stone, and in the
centre of it stood a portico, beneath which Marc Lillitos
stood watching their arrival.
