Lisa Meets Her Match

By Gary M. Crist

After extracting revenge for the brutal rape she endured at the hands of her mentor when she was a young, aspiring, professional golfer, Lisa flees from Miami to Venezuela. The revenge she extracted included the murder of her mentor, and the embezzlement of five million dollars of golf tournament prize money.

She is met in Caracas by Mario LaMay, an Ex-Champion Formula One racecar driver whose current profession is that of assisting fugitives who wish to stay in hiding and adopt new identities. LaMay quickly falls for his new and beautiful client who has an uncanny resemblance to his deceased wife.

Mario introduces the athletically gifted Lisa to the world of sports car racing, but things go wrong when she crashes on the Isla de Margarita, off the coast of Venezuela. The crash is orchestrated by the infamous insurance investigator Peligro, who has been retained to recover the embezzled money. Lisa is plucked from the wreckage, kidnapped, and tortured in an effort to get her to divulge the location of the money.

But Mario has dealt with Peligro before, and is up to the challenge of rescuing Lisa from Peligro’s evil clutches. Employing a clever combination of investigative techniques, he ultimately liberates her.

Four years pass, and Lisa secures her new identity as a Latina, Mario schools her in racing, and she wins the Formula Three championship. Returning to the U.S., Mario has an ambitious new goal in mind—for Lisa to become the first woman to win the Indy 500. Unfortunately, fate intervenes before Lisa can make it to Indy. She is offered a ride in the Rolex 24 Hours of Daytona endurance race. Against Mario’s advice, she accepts, and it quickly becomes her potential undoing. The race team is headed by Mario’s old Formula One rival, Guiseppe Revolta, who learns of Lisa’s criminal past and seeks to use it to blackmail her. Being up to the challenge, Mario arranges for the car to explode during the 24 Hour race when it is being driven by Revolta, and after Lisa has been spirited out of harm’s way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brighton Publishing LLC
• Release date: Mar 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781621833031

Gary M. Crist

Gary Crist grew up in Indiana in the 60’s. Like many Hoosiers in love with sports, he spent countless hours in his backyard, on playgrounds and in gymnasiums playing basketball. He dreamed then, and still dreams now, of the State Championship his Southport Cardinals never won.His best sport turned out to be golf, and he won the Club Championship at his father’s country club in Franklin, Indiana twice. Sometime thereafter he forgot how to chip and putt, and his playing skills eventually declined to almost nil. Nevertheless, Gary continues to enjoy the game, of which he has been a non-stop student for over fifty years.A graduate of the Indiana University School of Law, Gary’s practice gravitated to “Sports Law” and he served as Legal Counsel to the PGA Tour and PGA of America for over thirteen years. Thereafter, he maintained his own law practice, specializing in the representation of athletes and a wide variety of sports industry organizations, including Wilson Sporting Goods Company, the National Golf Foundation, the Dan Marino Foundation, the PGA Tour Tournaments Association and others.His enthusiasm for writing has been a life-long experience. His first story, about his beloved Southport Cardinals winning the State Championship at hallowed Butler Fieldhouse in Indianapolis, was pecked out on a dilapidated Underwood when Gary was ten years old.Gary day dreamed during his business career of retiring to a seaside resort. Magically, that has happened. He lives at PGA National in Palm Beach Gardens, where he enjoys the company of his sons, daughters-in-law, two very special granddaughters and Vicki, the best wife God ever created.

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Lisa Meets Her Match

Gary M. Crist

Brighton Publishing LLC

435 N. Harris Drive

Mesa, AZ 85203

www.BrightonPublishing.com

Copyright © 2015

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN 13: 978-1-62183-303-1

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Ebook

Cover design: Tom Rodriguez

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. The characters in this book are fictitious and the creation of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Acknowledgments

The author gratefully acknowledges the editorial input and encouragement of my two sons, John and Matt, and Bill Kist, himself an author and former editor at McGraw-Hill in New York.

The author also appreciates the patience and advice of Don and Kathie McGuire and everyone involved at Brighton Publishing, LLC. Lastly, I also wish to acknowledge the assistance of my friend Marvin Waters in fine-tuning the motorsports aspects of my story.

Prologue

January 2014

Bristol, Connecticut

On Monday morning, ESPN had planned to break the story of the heist of the International Women’s World Cup of Golf prize money during SportsCenter. But the producer killed the story at the last minute. Had the story aired, the announcers would have informed the TV audience that five million of the six-million-dollar purse—by far the richest in the women’s Tour history—had been redirected from a tour account in Daytona Beach to a numbered account in Zurich. The announcers would have also reported that Miami police were not commenting on the case due to the ongoing nature of the investigation, nor were they offering details regarding how the theft had been carried out.

***

Miami, Florida

Privately, the detectives dispatched to the scene of the crime, the Coral Reef Resort and Spa, thought the evidence established an open-and-shut case: Tournament Director and CEO Hank Detmer had hijacked the millions through a complicated series of wire transfers that he’d personally authorized. The only problem with following up on their suspicions was Detmer’s murder late Wednesday night. The preliminary investigation of his death indicated that the CEO had been involved in a sordid, sadomasochistic encounter in his hotel suite at Coral Reef. Among the items discovered in the suite were submissive female sex slave paraphernalia, a bloodstained leather crop, a nearly full bottle of Mumm’s Champagne, and a first-class airline ticket to Rio de Janeiro.

Laboratory testing established that the champagne was laced with potassium cyanide. Oddly, the police report noted that the grisly evidence at the crime scene revealed that the dominant/submissive sex roles had been altered. At some point, the slave had morphed into the executioner. Detmer’s naked body was striped with angry welts that had apparently been inflicted by vicious strokes of the crop during the time that he’d succumbed to the ingested poison. The report also included the coroner’s statement, which noted that death from potassium cyanide poisoning usually takes up to five minutes. No evidence was recovered that could help the police identify the female who’d participated in the wild and warped encounter.

***

Representatives from the women’s Tour and the Miami bank whose negligence had facilitated the theft pleaded with ESPN to drop the story. The Tour’s commissioner and the bank’s president assured the producer that the bank would replace the intercepted five million dollars, allowing for full payment to the winning players. They stressed that media exposure of the unfortunate situation would benefit no one and only serve to embarrass the tour and make recovery of the money and apprehension of those responsible more difficult.

Acceding to the pleas, the ESPN report on SportsCenter made no mention of the heist. Instead the announcers focused exclusively on the outcome of the competition, and the stirring victory of the young South Korean rookie, Sun Yen Moon. The report concluded with the reading of a statement from the Tour commissioner concerning the death of the event’s tournament director, Hank Detmer, whose body had been discovered the night preceding the first day of the tournament. The quote was typical, hypocritical, lawyer-crafted public relations spin:

The Tour is shocked by, and deeply regrets, the loss of a valued member of our community. The Tour extends its condolences to Tournament Director Hank Detmer’s family. Our thoughts and prayers are with them at this sorrowful time.

The fact of the matter was that most of the golf business community secretly believed that Detmer’s demise was well deserved and long overdue.

Part One

Chapter One

Reclined in the first-class window seat, 4A, on the United Airlines red-eye flight #344 from Miami to Caracas, Venezuela, Lisa Johanssen fluctuated among states of exhaustion, exhilaration, and regret. Only hours before, she’d committed premeditated, cold-blooded murder. And no measure of justification, not even the fact that her victim had drugged, raped, and beaten her when she was a twenty-year-old rising star in the world of professional golf, could completely overcome her sense of remorse. Of course there was also the law to worry about. Lisa was well aware that the legal system looked upon murderesses with extreme disfavor, even pretty ones like her, who kill wicked, lecherous manipulators like Hank Detmer. Detmer had been a father figure and mentor, who had garnered her trust and admiration when she was a young and trusting athlete, only to ravage and sexually exploit her at the first opportunity: the night of the biggest victory in her young golfing career.

Whatcha thinkin’ ’bout, baby doll? Lisa’s uncle, Ingemar Petterson said as he awoke in seat 4B.

I don’t know, I-man, Lisa said dreamily. I guess I just can’t believe we really did it. It all seemed like such a pipe dream when you cooked it up. When was it? About a year ago?

"Yeah, about that, I’d guess. When they announced they’d be playing at Coral Reef for five million, I thought, that’s gonna be my five million. Worthless sons of bitches… Firing me after thirty-five years for telling the truth… that seventy percent of the players are gay—"

To be fair, I-man, Lisa interrupted. I think the statement that got you in trouble was a little more graphic than that. Didn’t you tell the Miami Herald guy that most of the players on the tour would…? How’d you put it? They’d rather go down on each other than screw Don Juan?

Well, dammit, it’s true. And the asshole reporter said it was off the record.

Let’s not go there again, Lisa implored, fearing yet another drawn-out ranting about why her uncle hated the Tour, particularly the general counsel who’d fired him—for cause—thereby disqualifying Ingemar for the comfortable pension he fervently believed he deserved, considering his long-term service as the head rules official on the oft struggling Tour.

OK baby doll, I hear ya’. Anyways, we got nearly five million locked down tight in Switzerland. And maybe at the next board meeting, the directors will ask Mr. General Counsel—the esteemed esquire—‘How’d you let that happen? Were you home sick the day they taught about secured transactions at law school?’ Worthless little prick. Maybe they’ll fire his ass now… for cause!

Let it go, I-man, Lisa said drowsily. Let it go… You won! She looked tiredly, but contentedly, out the plane window. Off to the east, in the clear star-studded night sky, a full moon shone as if illuminating the route to the next chapter of her life. The revenge she’d sought through the murder of Detmer was now a fait accompli, and the millions she and her uncle had acquired would leave them financially set for life. A stress-free life in a villa somewhere in the Caribbean seemed, almost miraculously, to have become hers for the taking. But for every minute of bliss she enjoyed, as she nodded off to sleep again, Lisa sensed a twinge of unrest. Is this really what I want for the rest of my life? she pondered.

Her sentiment recalled an adage often employed by her golf coach back at DePauw University: Be careful what you wish for—because you just might get it.

***

About the time Lisa had resumed her onboard slumber, Mario LaMay summoned his driver for the trip to Simon Bolivar airport near Caracas. During the half-hour ride, he would review the dossier he’d prepared regarding his new clients. They were quite unlike his usual constituency: persons seeking refuge from the drug cartels and high-profile, high-net-worth fugitives—political, criminal, or otherwise.

LaMay’s business card identified his profession as Facilitator and his path to that career had been convoluted, to say the very least. After losing his parents at a young age, he’d been raised in a Franciscan monastery on the island of Margarita, off the coast of Venezuela. Recognizing the young man’s extraordinary talents, both athletic and academic, the brothers of the monastery had arranged for Mario’s acceptance into the Military Aviation School at Maracay. After graduation, he’d spent six years piloting F-16s as part of the air combat command stationed in Palo Negro, southwest of Caracas, where he rose to the rank of distinguished airman.

As a jet pilot, Mario became comfortable with, if not addicted to, speed. His interests expanded to include auto racing. While still in the air force, he acquired a Porsche 944 Turbo that he campaigned in local road races. In 1990, Mario won the Venezuelan National Championship. After an honorable discharge from military service in 1992, he got a ride in the CART Indy Car series and raced in the United States until eventually gravitating to Formula One in Europe in 1996. Driving for Tyrrell Ford, Mario had early success in F1, garnering several podium finishes and winning Grand Prix races at Spa, Monza, and Monaco.

As a fearless, dashing, and handsome F1 star, Mario lived the glamorous, but incredibly demanding, lifestyle characteristic of the sport: seemingly endless physical training, press and sponsor functions, and galas and parties, to say nothing of the eight-month-long series of grueling, ultra-high-speed weekends of practice, qualifications, and races all over the world. But, as with so many involved in the high-stakes profession of piloting race cars, that phase of Mario’s career came to a sudden, violent, and fiery conclusion on a gloomy, rain-soaked and wind-swept racecourse in France.

Nowadays, Mario made his living managing life-threatening risks for others, assuming, in the process, many risks of his own.

***

Clearing customs and immigration after landing in Caracas was a breeze. A young customs official took appreciative note of Lisa’s flaxen-hair and beautifully tanned good looks and graciously directed them to the front of the line. In less than five minutes, even though neither Lisa nor Ingemar had any luggage, they were on their way to baggage claim, where phase two of their getaway would unfold.

He’s supposed to be a tall guy, Ingemar said as they descended the escalator to the ground level. And he’s supposed to have a sign that says Margarita.

Spotting Lisa and her uncle from some fifty feet away, Mario tossed the no longer necessary MARGARITA sign in a trash bin and moved forward to meet his very special guests. Mario couldn’t have picked Ingemar out of a lineup, but Lisa would stand out in any crowd. He’d studied many pictures of her, but not even the best ones did her justice. His study was part of the meticulous preparation he’d engaged in after being retained by Ingemar to arrange their escape from Miami to Caracas and execute identity transformations that would insulate them from responsibility for the crimes they’d committed only hours before.

Mr. Petterson, Mario said, bowing slightly, and then smiling and offering his strong, bronzed hand. I am Mario LaMay, your host in our beautiful country. Welcome to Venezuela.

Why, thank you…

But before Ingemar could finish reciprocating the greeting, Mario turned his attention to Lisa, bowed more deeply, smiled more warmly, and, after accepting her offered hand, kissed it as if it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. They said you were beautiful, Ms. Johanssen, Mario said, looking deeply into her eyes. They were quite wrong. You are very, very beautiful. I hope someday we shall marry.

Few things rendered Lisa speechless, but Mario’s otherworldly reception was one of them. For starters, his looks recalled to Lisa’s reeling mind the Dos Equis beer commercials featuring the most interesting man in the world. Mario looked to be about forty, with longish salt-and-pepper hair and matching three-day-old stubble. His dress was casual South American, except for expensive-looking Gucci alligator leather loafers—sky blue, no less. On his bronzed wrist he wore a Paul Newman Rolex Daytona watch—one of the most prized timepieces in all of motorsports.

Finally gaining the ability to speak, Lisa smiled back at Mario and said, So do I, then laughed. Lisa was 99 percent sure she was just joking. The two of them proceeded arm in arm out of the exit and walked toward a white Rolls Royce Phantom idling at the curb. Ingemar hustled along behind them like a puppy trying to keep up with its owners.

***

As the chauffer whisked the threesome away from the airport, Mario suggested a toast to the initial success of The Plan, a daring scheme involving murder and the theft of five million dollars, the details of which he’d learned in a phone conversation with Ingemar about a month ago. Although the eastern horizon toward which they sped was coming alive with the pinkish tinge of the new day, both Lisa and Ingemar happily agreed to Mario’s suggestion. After handing them each a fine crystal flute inscribed with the initials ML, Mario withdrew a bottle of Cristal from an ice bucket situated on the front passenger seat of the Rolls.

Bien hecho, he said as he poured the champagne, then extended the rose-colored bottle toward them and offered another respectful nod. Smiling, Mario joined in the toast with a sip from the bottle. Bienvenidos a su vida nueva en nuestra paraiso eterno, he said, returning the bottle to the bucket. Welcome to your new life in our eternal paradise, he translated.

Gracias, Lisa and Ingemar said, almost in unison after sipping the delicious nectar and smiling contentedly. Mario’s impeccable style and charisma quickly drew them both in.

You must be very tired. I suggest you take a rest. We will be at the coast in about two hours. Then we can talk about the arrangements I’ve made. I know you will be very happy.

Reclining in the plush leather seat and closing her eyes, Lisa yielded to Mario’s suggestion as if succumbing to hypnosis. He had to reach forward to keep the champagne flute from falling to the floor as it slipped from her hand. Ingemar too, quickly retreated to unconsciousness, after quaffing the rest of the champagne and reaching over to caress his slumbering niece’s cheek. Ya done good, baby doll, he said softly. Ya done real good… The endearing words were soon replaced with a faint, rhythmic snore.

***

While the Rolls sped toward the brightening horizon and his two newest clients slept, Mario had time to reexamine the dossier he’d prepared after deciding to help in the escape phase of what had been presented to him as a scheme to embezzle golf tournament prize money and kill a golf tournament promoter who’d scarred Lisa both physically and emotionally when she was still a young girl.

Mario’s empathy for Lisa had been the deciding factor in his decision to become involved. The multitalented woman, who was a professional golfer and held a MBA degree from the University of Miami, fascinated him. And, in terms of Mario’s criteria for evaluating whom he wished to help, she was not the principal architect of her need for his assistance. As the dossier explained, she’d been horribly wronged, and the revenge achieved through the murder of her attacker left the world, at least in Mario’s view, a better place than it had been when Hank Detmer was alive.

Then there was the issue of her appearance. The first pictures he’d seen of Lisa showing her competing in a Florida golf tournament, under the assumed name of Marcie Norstrum, caused him to do a literal double take. Except for the hair color, the beautiful lady swinging the golf club could have been Mario’s wife’s twin sister. Like Lisa, Gabriella had fallen victim to one whose cruelty was at least equal to that of the golf tournament clown, Detmer.

Glancing up from the dossier from time to time to confirm his transformational attraction to Lisa, Mario allowed his thoughts to wander back to the ill-timed turn-in he’d attempted at Le Mans in the rain-soaked, pitch-black eighth hour of the 24 Hours of Le Mans sports car endurance race in June, 1998.

Mario recalled how his arms and shoulders had ached as he’d wrestled the Porsche 911 GT1 around the drenched and wind-swept road course. The single windscreen wiper, worn to virtual uselessness by the deluge, swept across and back at internals far too slow to be of any actual help in following the track’s 8.43 mile course of fast straightaways, high-speed turns, and twisty esses and chicanes. Nevertheless, as he sped down the first section of the Mulsanne straight at more than 200 miles per hour, Mario was anticipating the successful accomplishment of his mission: completing his first two-hour stint in the cockpit and improving the team’s position from P3 to P2. The pit board display as he rocketed past the pit lane just moments before had read: IN.

That’s when it all went bad. Breaking a millisecond too early for the first Mulsanne chicane, a quick, left-to-right kink designed to slow the cars as they hurtled at full throttle down the 3.8 mile straightaway, caused the Porsche to understeer, rather than respond precisely to Mario’s input. As a result, the car skidded straight ahead, launched over the red and white curb, and dove into a flipping, cartwheeling disaster of a crash, complete with the explosion of the ruptured fuel cells and virtual disintegration of the car itself. Mario’s body was found after the emergency personnel had determined that he must have been consumed in the intensity of the conflagration. He was severely burned, bloodied, broken, and unconscious. His hideously injured body lay within a pile of tires designed to protect out-of-control race cars from direct contact with the steel-girder retaining walls of the track. The morning of that awful day had been the last time he’d seen his beloved Gabriella.

Chapter Two

They arrived at the Puerto de la Cruz marina shortly after dawn. The chauffeur parked the Rolls alongside slip number one, where Mario’s yacht, Rapidisimo, bobbed gently in the water. The boat’s twin Caterpillar diesel engines idled in preparation for the scheduled embarkation for the Isla de Margarita, some twenty-five miles north-northeast off the coast.

Mario lowered the rear windows of the car and the cross ventilation of the fragrant, salt-scented air stirred both Ingemar and Lisa awake. As he had at the airport, Mario offered Ingemar a pleasant but perfunctory Buenos dias, then turned his attention to Lisa. Gazing deeply into her eyes again and reengaging his one-of-a-kind charm, he whispered Buenos dias, mi guapisima, ojala que hoy sea el mejor dia de tu vida… por lo menos, hasta manana. Then he translated. Good morning, my most beautiful. My hope is that today will be the best day of your life… at least until tomorrow.

As before, Mario’s fawning attention rendered Lisa at a loss for any customary response. Whatever the motivation, his doting eloquence was immensely attractive and unlike anything Lisa had experienced before. His tender words and elegant gestures were comforting—a blessed contrast to the nonstop stress and relentless peril that had permeated the months, weeks, and days leading up to yesterday’s culmination of The Plan.

Good morning, Mario, was all she could say. Lisa looked out the open car window at the yacht, the beauty of the harbor, and the brilliant sun climbing into the cloudless blue sky. Then she closed her eyes as relief washed over her anew. I beg your pardon, but I think I must still be dreaming.

If you are my dear, I hope it is a dream that lasts forever.

***

It took over an hour for the chauffeur and the crew to get all of the provisions aboard the Rapidisimo. Two steamer trunks unloaded from the trunk of the Rolls were packed with complete wardrobes for Lisa and Ingemar. The crew consisted of Captain Andre Caron, a Frenchman, and his wife Michelle. They labored to stock the galley, replenish the bar, refresh the three staterooms with fresh linens, and polish the ’68 Hargrave yacht to pristine brilliance in anticipation of being underway for up to one full month.

While the crew was at work, Mario, Lisa, and Ingemar lingered over breakfast in the marina restaurant. The meal, which commenced with super strong Venezuelan coffee, afforded Mario an opportunity to outline phase two of the plan.

So far the news we are getting from Miami is very good, he started off. Detmer’s body was discovered by a hotel maid around nine last night, and the Miami police investigation of the scene extended until approximately midnight. Although the official word is ‘No comment,’ my sources tell me the detectives think he was killed by a hooker when some kinky sex went bad. Their investigation of Detmer turned up some history of his proclivity for, shall we say, unusual sexual behavior. We were told that there are no suspects.

Looking again into Lisa’s eyes, which had begun to tear as she listened to Mario’s dispassionate account of her hellacious experience, he continued, "My dearest, Lisa. I can only imagine the relief you must now feel. Our God has blessed you in his own and special way.

Now, regarding the money, Mario stated, switching topics. We are hearing nothing. It appears there’s been no link between Detmer’s murder and anything untoward regarding the tournament funding. But, no doubt, the connection will eventually be made—at least by Monday when the prize money payouts begin. We must assume the connection will be made to Lisa’s withdrawal from the tournament and the direction of the five million dollars into the account in Daytona and then on to Zurich.

What about Neil and Sara? Ingemar asked, referring to the lawyer and controller who’d assisted in the execution of The Plan. Has anything about them come up?

No. As of yet, we’ve heard nothing. I assume you provided for them somehow?

We did, Lisa added. Plane tickets to Las Vegas and a hundred grand each.

Very good, Mario responded. Our people will seek them out and help them, how do you say… not become famous?

Revived by the strong coffee, Ingemar looked over to his niece and winked. We’re in good hands, baby doll, he said.

Regarding Lisa with his now customary intense adoration, Mario continued to explain the arrangements he’d made to deal with the consequences of the previous night’s crimes that would almost certainly unfold. So, my sweet Lisa, you are neither Lisa Johanssen nor Marcie Norstrum… forevermore. In a few weeks’ time, you will become a citizen of Venezuela. Spend some time selecting a new name. If I may be so bold, I suggest Gabriella.

"Why Gabriella? Ingemar asked.

Well, that’s a story for another day, Mario said as he looked dreamily into Lisa’s clear blue eyes.

Today, we cruise out to and around Isla Margarita where I was born and am proud to still call my home today.

As the Thursday morning sun continued to climb through the clear azure sky, the Rapidisimo glided back out of slip number one, turned gracefully in the aquamarine saltwater, and powered up in the direction of the open sea.

***

Once aboard the yacht, Mario introduced Lisa and Ingemar to Andre and Michelle and gave the two guests a quick tour of the fabulous vessel. He took obvious pride in pointing out its exquisite features. The main deck furnishings were five-star hotel quality, and the brass railings and richly varnished hardwood floors glistened as the morning sunlight poured through the expansive windows from aft straight through to the bridge. There, Andre directed the Rapidisimo toward Isla Margarita, their destination island. Its mountainous interior was just barely visible on the far horizon.

Ingemar ended his participation on the tour after he was shown the master cabin. This is fabulous, he said as he lay down and stretched out on the satin-quilted, king-size bed. Don’t… let me… sleep… through cocktail hour, he said through a series of yawns. And with that, Ingemar was down for the count.

Let me show you your suite, my dear, Mario whispered, ushering her back out into the richly carpeted hallway. My hope is you will like it.

Cleopatra would have liked it. In anticipation of Lisa’s occupancy, Mario had arranged for the opulence of the queen cabin to be elevated from merely magnificent to palatial. The sidewalls consisted of varnished mahogany and brass-framed mirrors that would have been the envy of the swankiest of Park Avenue penthouses. The bath was spacious, complete with marble flooring, a granite sink and countertops, and a walk-in shower. Mario was silent during Lisa’s wide-eyed examination of her new quarters, except to point out that the faucets on the sink and shower were fourteen carat gold plated. They were on sale, he said with a laugh.

For the third time since she’d met this extraordinary person, the normally self-confident and unflappable Lisa was at a loss for words. Only when they’d returned to the main deck to enjoy the view of the approaching island could Lisa offer a comment. I don’t ever want to leave, she said.

I hope you never do, Mario replied. I suggest you go below, he continued, after a while. I’ve instructed Michelle to have lunch prepared for around one o’clock. Would sea bass be agreeable? Or would you prefer Argentine beef? I understand you are a lover of good steaks.

You choose. At this point I’m too relaxed and relieved to make decisions. All I want to do is take a good long shower, and then maybe check out the sundeck.

Sounds like a perfect plan to me, Mario said as he watched her descend the steps to the hallway leading to her stateroom. Gabriella mia, he thought as Lisa passed from view. The only difference was the hair. His wife’s rich and lustrous brunette had been replaced by Lisa’s silken blond