There's Something About St. Tropez (28 page)

“How're ya doin'?” Lev and he greeted each other with hugs and shoulder punches. They had been in business together for over twenty years, and friends for longer than that. Lev had once gotten Federico out of a serious situation and Federico would never forget it.

They walked together to the parking lot and Federico's Lancia, which
was compact and businesslike, but with a hot engine that could reach well over the max on any autoroute, and often did. Federico preferred his cars small but Lev was a big guy. The car Federico had picked for him was specifically fitted for speed, safety, cornering, overall handling and acceleration, a silver-gray Alfa Romeo 159, sleek and as fast as if not faster than his own. They both got in the Alfa and Lev pushed buttons and adjusted mirrors, checking out the car while they talked.

Federico said, “I had my boys go over it, they said you'd never be caught in traffic in this. The way they fixed it, it can turn on a dime and weave its way through a friggin' maze.”

“I'll bet it can.” Lev was smiling. Federico's hometown was Nice which, next to Naples, was probably the best place to get anything you wanted fixed, on the quiet. Besides that, Federico knew everybody there was to know in the substrata world of the Riviera.

Federico said, “I have two guys doubling up, staking out the Hôtel des Rêves round the clock, and one following Jasper Lord around. He's still in that kind of palace he bought in San Remo, Italy, but two of his thugs are at the Carlton, in Cannes. They've tried to gentrify themselves a bit but a thug still looks like a thug even in a designer jacket.”

Lev looked at Federico and laughed. “Same goes for all of us, I guess.”

“Waddaya mean?” Federico grinned back. “Anyhow, the thugs are still not onto the Hôtel des Rêves, a bit off the beaten track for them. And for Mrs. Jasper Lord.”

“Belinda,” Lev said.

“Correct. Belinda Lord. Tall, blond, good-looking. Here's a current picture, taken yesterday by my guy, on the beach.”

Lev studied it. “Pretty good,” he said. “Mac Reilly told me she's okay, and also about who she's currently keeping company with. ‘The International Misfits' he called them. Good thing is, so far Belinda has not been alone and running around St. Tropez too much, which makes it harder for Lord to access her.”

“You mean when he finds her.”

Lev gave him a keen look. “
If
he finds her. Our job is to make sure he does not.”

“Right.”

Federico clicked open the glove compartment and took out a smallish parcel, wrapped in a black flannel cloth. He handed it to Lev. “A Glock 29. A bit girly for you, but it's small and fast and easier to conceal when all you're wearing is a pair of bathing shorts and a beach shirt. And here's the permit to go with it. In your name of course.”

Lev hefted the automatic pistol from hand to hand, liking the light weight and overall feel. Federico gave him the box of 9mm ammunition and a shoulder holster, custom-made to fit beneath his shirt, the way Lev preferred.

“So, man.” Lev smiled at his old friend. “I'll be on my way. I remember the St. Tropez traffic is hell in the summertime.”

While he was dodging that traffic on the autoroute heading east, Lev's own words came back to haunt him in the form of a song. “In the summertime . . . In the summertime . . .” No that's not quite right . . . He hummed it to himself, but for the life of him he couldn't remember who sang it, or who had written it. It was just stuck in his mind, alongside the image of Belinda Lord in a white bikini. A woman whom he had pledged to protect with his own life if necessary.

 

38.

 

 

Night had fallen by the time Lev swung the Alfa Romeo through the gates of the Hôtel des Rêves. A half-moon hung in the jeweled dark blue sky and the noise of the crickets in the pine trees stopped the minute his headlights hit them.

A young man, whose name, Marco, was on the badge pinned to his white shirt hurried to help, but Lev told him he preferred to park the car himself, and was instructed to leave it round the back where there was plenty of room.

Mac had primed the manager to Lev's arrival and his job. Now he checked in with a Mademoiselle Renée Cassini, a charming redhead who gave him a welcoming smile that made Lev wonder if all the other guests got the same smile or if she meant it specially for him. Smiling appreciatively back, he hefted his bag himself and followed Marco up the stairs to a small room, directly over the front portico.

“You were lucky to get it,
monsieur
,” Marco said, showing him the facilities and the air-conditioning and thanking him for his tip. Generous, of course. Lev never stiffed the help. “Usually, this time of year, the hotel is full, but we've had a couple of cancellations recently that left this room free.”

“Then I count myself a lucky man.”

When the bellhop had left, Lev switched off the lights, pushed open the green wooden shutters and stood on the balcony in the dark. The clatter of a cocktail shaker came from the direction of the bar, and the high-pitched whine of a tired child from somewhere along the corridor. Not too far away the sea glimmered restlessly, dotted with tiny specks of light, the fishing boats already at work. In the far distance, a cone of yellow light beamed from a light house, and in the garden below the gentle wind rustled playfully in the trees.

Paradise, Lev thought. But as anybody who read the Bible knew, Paradise hid a serpent in its midst.

Ten minutes later, showered and correctly dressed for the Côte d'Azur in white pants and his favorite Tommy Bahama flowered shirt, the Glock, armed and strapped invisibly under his shoulder, he made his way downstairs to the bar. He introduced himself to the bartender, whose name was Louis, and ordered a Coke and lemon. Lev never drank while on duty. There were still a few people around, but most had already made their way to the dining room or were heading into town. Lev had been given a full description of all the “Misfits” and knew they would be dining in the hotel. He finished his drink, chatted to the bartender in perfect French, then said
ciao
and went in search of them.

Belinda Lord was hard to miss: tall and sexy in a floaty white dress that dangled from her bronzed shoulders by two of the skinniest straps ever invented by a designer. Multistrands of translucent Lalique-looking stones were wrapped around her long neck and a thick bangle of what looked to Lev like plastic, but more likely was something far more expensive, surrounded her right wrist.

A good-looking guy, no doubt Nate Masterson, sat next to her, attentive to her every word. Next to Nate was another young woman, her skin pink from the day's sun, heavy brown hair falling over her eyes in a thick fringe that successfully hid her face, wearing a plain white T-shirt and a thin gold chain necklace. This had to be Sara Strange. And the rugged guy with the look of an outdoorsman, sandy-haired, freckled, was Billy Bashford. With him was his young daughter, known to everyone as Little Laureen. She was holding a Chihuahua that Lev thought looked remarkably like Sunny's little fiend, Tesoro, now looking as though butter wouldn't melt in its snappy little mouth. The tutu threw him a bit though, Mac hadn't told him about that when he'd filled him in on the Misfits.

Sara Strange must have felt his gaze because she looked up suddenly. A blush turned her face even pinker and she said something to Belinda, who lifted her head and met Lev's eyes straight on.

She eyed him up and down. “Well, if it isn't a god in our midst,” she said appreciatively. “Welcome to the South of France, Lev. It is you, isn't it?”

Lev went round the table shaking hands, including Little Laureen's. The dog on Laureen's lap raised its head, lip curled.

“Oh, Tesoro,” Laureen said, hugging the dog closer.

Lev grinned. He knew Tesoro's habits from old.

Belinda patted the chair next to her. “Come, take a seat by me, Lev, then we can talk.”

“Ma'am, the only thing we need to talk about is your security. That's why I'm here, and that's my priority.”

Belinda's mouth turned down comically at the corners. “That put me in my place and no mistake.”

“I didn't mean to be rude. And of course I'm including everyone around this table in whatever we say. Mac told me they've been deputizing as your guards, but now I have two men on round-the-clock patrol and I personally will oversee your safety.”

“You mean you'll make sure the husband can't find me?”

“That would be our aim, ma'am.”

“Oh for God's sake, stop calling me ma'am. It makes me feel about a hundred years old.” Belinda gave him an assessing glance. “And I'll bet I'm not much older than you.”

Lev knew exactly how old Belinda was. He had made it his business to know everything about her. And she was right, she was two years older than he was. “Probably” was all he said though.

Belinda suddenly perked up, scanning the table with a big grin on her face. “Tell you what, guys, now Lev is here to protect us, I vote we all head directly for Les Caves du Roy.”

“What's Les Caves du Roy?” Sara spoke up, suddenly shaken out of the comatose state she'd fallen into since first setting eyes on Lev.

“Only the best nightclub in St. Trop, full of the hippest, hottest and the cutest.
And
they'll be dancing on the tables.”

Sara shrank back in her chair again; she didn't go for the dancing on the tables bit.

But Belinda was revved up now. “Or perhaps we should go to Le VIP Room, it's a little more techno, if you like that kind of thing?” She beamed her question at Lev.

He shook his head. “Ma'am, Belinda, I'm sorry but nightclubs are out. In fact, right now St. Tropez town is a no. We need to keep you tucked away here at the hotel, out of sight.”

“Jesus! You mean I'm still
trapped
here? I can't go out? Even with round-the-clock guards?”

“I'm sorry, ma'am, but that's just the way it is. For now.”

She glared at him. “Oh for God's sake, I asked you not to call me ma'am.”

Lev grinned, remembering the reason and got a reluctant smile in return.
“Listen, all of you,” he said. “Jasper Lord's thugs are still in Cannes, still looking for Belinda. I am determined they will not find her. As you know, Mac is investigating Mr. Lord. Once he finds out what he's up to, we'll take care of him. And we're sure he's up to something, especially since he opted not to come to the South of France himself, and remained behind in Italy.”

“In that friggin' pink palazzo that's cold as hell even on summer nights.” Belinda shivered, remembering those nights when the husband had used violence to make sure she knew he was boss in his own palazzo, and to prevent her from ever escaping.

Lev guessed what she had gone through and respected her for keeping a brave face. He had a particular hatred for men who mistreated women. To him, they were nothing but scum and the world would be better rid of them. But that was not his job; Belinda Lord's safety was. And indirectly, because of Belinda, the safety also of the other people sitting around the table.

He said, “This involves all of you. I won't be keeping you company but I'll always be around. It's my job to stay in the background, but trust me, I'll be there when you need me.”

Belinda stared silently into the cup of rapidly cooling espresso in front of her. “Seems to me I'd be better off taking a sleeping pill than jazzing myself up on espresso,” she said with a sigh and a heavy glance directed at Lev.

Sara took her hand and squeezed it comfortingly. “I'm sure Mr. Orenstein knows what's best, Belinda. And it's so lovely here, we can't complain now, can we?”

Lev thought she sounded like a kindergarten teacher consoling an unhappy three-year-old. He took another look at her: at the drooping shoulders of a woman who'd probably been hiding the fact that she had breasts since adolescence; at the neat profile, pure like a Madonna's; at the worried frown that was probably permanent; and the swing of brown hair that shone like well-polished boots under the white fairy lights threaded through the trees. Sara's gaze left Belinda and her large brown eyes focused on him again.

She said, “Thank you, Mr. Orenstein—”

“Oh, it's
Lev
, for God's sake!” Belinda told her, impatient as ever.

Sara started again. “Thank you,
Lev
. I know you only have Belinda's best interests at heart. We all do, don't we?” She looked at Billy and Nate, who said of course and that they understood their roles in Belinda's safety.

“We'll make sure one of us is always with her, always on the alert,” Nate said.

Lev handed Belinda a small electronic device that he told her connected directly with him. If she was afraid, worried, unsure, she was simply
to press the button and he would be there. If she went to the beach, he or his man would be there.