Sailing to Capri Read Online Free PDF

He called me in Dallas, and I flew to New York to meet him. He thought I might be able to help.”
    I wondered what Montana meant by “personal problems” but decided it was better not to ask. There were some things Bob had not wanted me to know and I respected that. Still, I needed to know who the man sitting opposite me in Bob’s house really was. I was about to ask him again when he beat me to it. He got to his feet, took a wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, removed a business card and handed it to me.
    “Harry Montana,” I read. “Risk Management. Security. Private Investigator.” There was a New York address and one in Dallas, and phone numbers, plus the usual e-mail info.
    I wasn’t surprised by his profession, just puzzled. Bob had used private investigators when he’d needed to dig up information on his business rivals, but from what Montana had said that did not appear to be the case this time.
    “Did you ever wonder about the way Bob died?” he asked.
    “Of course I did. I still do … endlessly. He was driving alone at night on a mountain road he didn’t know well and went over the edge. I should have been there, with him, I should have been the one driving …”
    “And if you had, you would have been dead too.”
    I felt my face go slack with shock. I stared blankly at the stranger. “No, you don’t understand,” I said quickly. “Bob always drove too fast. He expected other cars to get out of his way. I wouldn’t have let him drive that mountain road, but I had the flu. I was in bed at the apartment in Manhattan. I should have been with him.
I should have been there …
”
    “And now you’re drowning under a sea of guilt.”
    The place in my heart that had been numb came suddenly to life and the power of grief swept over me. My shoulders sank and my head drooped as wave after wave of sobs swept through me. The stranger did not move. He sat watching me until it was over; then he said quietly, “Guilt won’t bring him back, Daisy Keane, and you know it. And know this too. We are all ultimately responsible for our own actions. Bob Hardwick did not die because you were not there; he died simply because
he was.
It was the wrong moment, the wrong place, the wrong time.”
    I heard the clock ticking. A log shifted in the grate and fresh flames flickered and were reflected, pink, in the silver coffeepot. Adrift in my misery, I was peripherally aware of the old landscape paintings, the faded coral and greens of the rugs, the brass and leather fender encircling the fireplace, of Rats’s sleepy snort as he turned in front of the fire … all the familiar things and sounds. But it was just me and the stranger now in the sudden deadly silence.
    I jumped at the tap on the door. Mrs. Wainwright came in. Shifting her gaze hastily from my tear-ravaged face, she said, “You’ll not get out of here tonight, Miss Keane. Mr. Stanley tells me all the roads are blocked and the plows won’t be out till tomorrow, providing this blizzard stops, of course.”
    The Hall was set back from the village street in tree-studdedgrounds. Down the long straight driveway and through the driving snow I could just make out the hazy yellow glow of the lamps by the gate. In the parking circle in front of the portico, both cars were already under a lavish white blanket.
    I got up and closed the heavy silk curtains. My heart sank at the thought as I said, “Looks like you’re here for the night, Mr. Montana.”
    He was already on his feet, looking at his watch. “I hate to put you to the trouble …”
    “You have no choice. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”
    “It’s no trouble, sir,” Mrs. Wainwright said, taking charge. “I’ll put Mr. Montana in the Red Room, Miss, if that’s all right with you?”
    I nodded of course, then said to Montana, “We’d better get our cars into the garage before they’re completely buried.”
    He thanked Mrs. Wainwright, thanked me again, looked at his watch. I got the