There's Something About St. Tropez (22 page)

He put Sara at a table on the wooden platform overlooking the water, then went to the bar and ordered brandy and a Coke. He set the brandy down in front of her and said, “Okay, drink up. Then tell me what happened.”

Her eyes were swollen into mere slits. “I already had a glass of champagne.”

Billy wondered who she'd been drinking with but he pushed the glass toward her and said, “Just drink it, then talk.”

Sara drank obediently, pulling a face but managing not to cough. She glanced at him again. “I was almost killed,” she said.

“You mean you almost crashed the car?”

“No. I mean shot,” she said.

Billy glanced quickly round to see who might be listening. Was he dealing with a crazy woman?

“They got me at a rest area,” she said, gulping the brandy now. “They came at me with guns—”

“Listen,” Billy stopped her. “Why not think it through, then start at the beginning?”

So Sara did. When she had finished she sat looking at Billy as though he had all the answers. And in some ways he had.

He said, “You were driving Belinda's car. Remember, she told us the husband
would come after her, try to kill her? And I,” he added also remembering, “assured her that would not happen, not with me and Mac Reilly around to protect her. Jesus!” He pushed the Stetson back on his forehead, stunned that Belinda's prediction had almost come true. He knew the thugs had recognized the Bentley and followed Sara intending to find out where Belinda was. And with the guns he had no doubt they had meant business.

He said, “Where's Belinda now?”

“In town. She was going shopping, said she would get a taxi home.”

Billy's first instinct was to call Belinda and warn her but then he realized it would scare her. Instead he got Mac on his cell, told him there was serious trouble involving Belinda, quickly explained what had happened and asked him to meet them back at the Old Port. He said he would need someone to drive Belinda's Bentley back to the hotel so Sunny should come too.

Mac said they would be there right away and Billy drove back to the Old Port parking lot, hovering round until he saw the silver Peugeot with Mac at the wheel.

“I'll take the Bentley,” Mac said. “Sara, you go with Sunny, and we'll all meet back at the hotel.”

Sara's watery glance was grateful as she got into the car. With Mac and Billy around she felt safe.

 

Belinda had intended to take a taxi back home, but Nate had offered her a lift and the stores had promised to deliver their shopping bags, so she accepted. Anyhow, the Ducati was more fun. Her arms were wrapped around Nate's hard body, hands gripped in front, her helmeted head resting against his shoulder. I mean, how intimate could it get? Plus the Lycra had gone and now Nate looked human in regular, if expensive shorts and a shirt. In fact Belinda thought Nate Masterson looked very good indeed.

 

30.

 

 

It had been agreed that all the Misfits should meet at nine o'clock in the courtyard for dinner, when they would discuss the day's events. Meanwhile, Mac waited in the hall for Belinda to return, which she did a half hour later, squealing with laughter as Nate swung the bright yellow motorcycle to a stop in front of the glass doors.

“Hi there,” she called, spotting Mac, and reluctantly letting go of Nate's body, sliding elegantly off the back of the Ducati with a great show of long brown legs. Then she and Nate strolled arm in arm up the steps.

Belinda noticed Mac's solemn face. “What's happened?”

“Let's go to the bar, I'll buy you a drink,” he said.

Belinda and Nate glanced mystified at each other as they followed him. Belinda ordered a Cosmopolitan and Nate said he had never tried one, and nor had Mac, so it was three Cosmos.

They looked expectantly at Mac as the ice was crushed and the bartender added a couple of measures of Grey Goose vodka, a hit of Cointreau, and a measure of cranberry juice, shaken, then poured into chilled martini glasses. A squeeze of lime and the Cosmos were ready.

Belinda was the first to taste. She gave the bartender, whose name was Louis, a thumbs-up. “Very good. In fact almost as good as my own. I'm by way of being a martini expert,” she told the others. “You know, the shaken-not-stirred kind, a hint of vermouth, ice-cold gin and salty olives.”

“I've gotten through a few of those in my time,” Mac agreed.

“Not me.” Nate tasted his Cosmo critically. “The lime cuts the sweetness.
It's good, though I'm more of a bourbon drinker myself. Only when under stress of course.”

“Which in your job was most of the time,” Mac guessed.

“Yours too.”

Nate's answer was more of a question than a statement but Mac merely shrugged.

Belinda settled back on her red leather bar chair. “So, exactly why are we here, enjoying this delightful drink?”

“It's to do with the husband,” Mac said.

Her eyes widened in surprise. “He's shown up?”

“No, but I believe two of his henchmen did. Sara was driving your Bentley. She'd noticed them at the Carlton in Cannes. They followed her in a Mercedes 600, cornered her in a rest area, came at her with guns—”

Belinda's horrified shriek turned the barman's head and he came over to ask if the drink was okay.

“Fine, it's just fine, great . . . thank you . . .” Belinda's anguished eyes met Mac's.

“She's okay,” he said. “Badly shaken up, of course. Fortunately Billy spotted her in town. He said she was driving like a madwoman, almost ran him down she was crying so hard. He rescued her, drove round till she calmed down, revived her with brandy and got the story out of her.”

“Where is she now?” Belinda was already on her feet.

“In your room, lying down. It's okay, Sunny's with her.”

Belinda flopped back into the chair. “Obviously they thought it was me driving the Bentley . . .”

“No, but they certainly thought they could find out from Sara where you were, since she was driving your car.”

“God, oh God . . .
Sara
, of all people.”

“Belinda, what does the husband look like?”

“Jasper Lord—or Mikel Markovich is a more fitting name, the one he was given at birth by his mother in Belorussia fifty-five years ago.” She took another sip of the Cosmo. “Mikel is right out of a James Bond movie, tailor-made by central casting to play the villain . . . massive like a bear, bald head like a fire hydrant, dark Ray-Bans, Italian suit, diamond pinky ring, the gold and diamond Rolex—he even wears a black South Sea pearl stickpin in his tie!” She threw them a dark glance from under lowered lids. “Trust me, you couldn't miss him if you tried.”

“And
you
didn't try,” Nate said.

Belinda lowered her eyes. “I had my reasons.”

Mac didn't know what was going down with Nate but this certainly wasn't the time to be getting at Belinda for marrying a Russian mobster, because that was certainly what Mikel/Jasper Lord was. There were dozens of them here on the Riviera, spending lavishly and most with a glamorous woman, often a beautiful Russian, on their arm.

“I didn't know what he was when I met him,” Belinda said suddenly. “I was . . . different then, naïve.”

It was difficult to imagine Belinda ever being naïve but Mac knew everybody had their story. He said, “We're all meeting for dinner tonight, nine o'clock in the courtyard. They're preparing a quiet table for us near the fountain so our conversation can be private.”

Belinda gave him that long glance from beneath half-lowered lids again. “You think of everything, don't you Mac Reilly, even about not being overheard, though surely there's no one here who could have any interest in us. Or in Mikel?”

“Or in Chez La Violette,” Nate added.

Mac had noticed Nate was looking different, smart almost, in a casual sort of way. He said, “Chez La Violette is on our agenda too.”

Nate groaned as he finished his drink. “Jesus, a business meeting. I thought I'd left all that behind.”

Mac shrugged. “You can leave it behind if you like. There's no need to attend if you don't want to, but if you're interested in getting your money back, or in what happens to Belinda, then I advise you to be there.”

Nate glanced at Belinda and said, “I'll be there. Want me to see you to your room?”

“Thanks.” Belinda drained the glass then got ready to leave. “And thanks to
you
, Mac. God only knows what might have happened to Sara.”

“Don't thank me. Sara got herself out of trouble and it was Billy who took care of her.”

“Then I'll thank Billy later,” Belinda said, with a farewell wave.

Mac noticed that Nate took her arm as they walked away, bending his head to her to catch what she said. Well, well, so Masterson was smitten with Belinda now, was he? At least he'd switched his attention from Sunny.

Back in their room, Sunny was waiting. Both dogs were on the bed with her, Pirate at the bottom, head on his paws, his one eye warily on the Chihuahua, who was curled into a tight ball on the pillow with Sunny fitting in between them any way she could.

“How's Sara?” Mac asked.

“Calmed down, no more tears, but now she's worried Belinda will blame herself for what happened.”

“And she's right, Belinda does. Or if she doesn't, I do. Sara should never have gone to Cannes in that car.” Mac shrugged regretfully. “Nothing she can do about it now. Those guys are on the lookout and Belinda is a wanted woman.”

“What if they catch up to her?”

“Exactly.” Mac's worried frown was not lost on Sunny. “Roddy called earlier,” he said. “He told me the villa is still owned by Joel Krendler. He also owns a private plane. A Citation. I'm gonna call Alain Hassain at Interpol, tell him what's going on, ask if he can help.”

Sunny sat up and took notice. Inspector Hassain had appeared on Mac's TV show several times in connection with international crimes. Now Mac gave him the Krendler/scam information, then said there was another problem, this one to do with Jasper Lord a.k.a. Mikel Markovich. He told Hassain that Lord's wife had left him and it looked as though he was ready to kill her if she didn't go back. “And maybe he'll kill her if she does,” he added grimly. Then he said Lord was probably a mobster in his early days and he needed to know exactly what he was involved in now.

When Mac got off the phone Sunny was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at him.

“I don't trust Krendler,” he told her. “Ron Perrin told me not a lot is known about his personal life, though he's rumored to have been an actor in his youth.”

“Hey, remember the theatrical makeup?” Sunny said. “The eye shadow that made him look like Camille in what's no doubt one of his favorite operas? I think our Krendler's a bit of a fake.”

“He's not faking his money. The guy is seriously wealthy, though Perrin told me he's sure he must be hiding a lot of it, probably in Switzerland where, by the way, he flies quite often. To Zurich, a financial capital of the world. Perrin says he believes he owns a chalet in one of the cantons, on the far side of a mountain, which he very likely also owns.”

“So, what does this have to do with our rental scam?”

Sunny was baffled and so was Mac. “I wish I knew,” he said.

He took Reynaud's guest list from the nightstand. There were many famous names, French movie actors, American singers, international socialites. And amongst them was the name Gianni Valenti.

“Our new friend Valenti gets about.” He folded up the list and replaced it on the table. “I wonder how he knows François Reynaud.”

“They're both boat fanatics,” Sunny said.

“True.” Tired, he looked at her. She looked back at him.

“What say you and I go for a walk on the beach?”

“Just us?” She was already on her feet, smiling.

“And the dogs of course.”

 

31.