There's Something About St. Tropez (29 page)

It was getting late and most everyone had left the courtyard. Waiters dusted up crumbs, put on fresh tablecloths and blew out candles.

“So now, if you're ready, I'll escort you to your room,” he said to Belinda.

She looked up at him, surprised. “That's okay, Sara sleeps with me.” She thought about what she'd said, then added with a grin, “I mean Sara and I room together, so I'm not alone.”

“Nevertheless.” Lev waited while Belinda and Sara collected their bags and Billy collected his daughter and the dog, who was quiet now. As they walked through the dining room he spotted a boy sitting alone at a corner table. Laureen had also seen him. She said something to her father then skipped across the dining room to speak to him.

“She just wants to say good night. Bertrand Olivier is her new friend,” Billy explained, but Lev indicated that he would wait for her.

Talking to Bertrand, Laureen glanced impatiently over her shoulder at them, said something to the boy, then bent to pat Pirate who'd emerged suddenly from under the table. In a flash Tesoro jumped on the dog and there was an almighty scuffle with Little Laureen yelling and Bertrand Olivier bravely plunging in to separate them.

Lev and Billy rushed to lend a hand. “I might have known it,” Lev said, prizing Pirate's ear from Tesoro's jaws. “That Chihuahua is a bundle of trouble.”

Kneeling on the floor with Tesoro's lead clutched in her hand, Little Laureen gave Lev a cold stare. She said a quick good night to Bertrand then trotted off, flat-footed in the ballet slippers, orange tutu wagging like Pirate's tail.

The Misfits dispersed to their various rooms and Lev made a note of the numbers. Later, he would go outside and check their positions and access.

When they got to Belinda's room, Lev went in to inspect it. There wasn't much to see, it was simple, and like most women's rooms, awash in clothes and shoes. There was a largish bathroom and a spacious balcony that faced the garden with a path beneath that led, he guessed to the pool and then to the beach. He would check that out later.

He said good night to Belinda who gave him a cool hand to shake, though he thought she would have enjoyed it more had he kissed it. Sara's hand was as warm as the pink glow on her Madonna face and she pulled it back hurriedly, as though afraid of the contact. Still, she did give him a smile as she closed the door.

Downstairs, the beauteous Renée was no longer on duty. A man had taken her place as night concierge. He had already been primed by the manager as to what Lev's job was and Lev knew from the picture he'd been shown earlier that the night concierge was who he claimed to be.

He walked down the steps and round the corner to the back of the hotel, the parking lot and the staff entrance. A car was parked just inside the low double gates he knew were kept unlocked. He went and checked. It was his man on duty.

Circling the hotel he walked the length of the façade, checking the location of Belinda's room. Mac's was the corner one on the left, and Belinda's was next to it. Balconies jutted out forming a shady walkway beneath, lined with the French doors that led to the bar and the main hall. The doors had been closed for the night. All the balconies adjoined each other, separated by barriers over which bougainvillea grew on a wooden trellis, giving each privacy, though of course conversations could still be overheard.

Lev knew it would be comparatively easy to access any room via those balconies, if you were agile and cunning enough. He decided to check with the night concierge who the guests were in the neighboring rooms, and if they were well-known at the hotel.

He was walking along the path to the beach when he heard something. He stepped into the deeper shadows of the covered walkway, every sense alerted, eyes scanning the gloom.

Little Laureen, still with Tesoro clutched to her chest, came into view. Lev knew she wasn't just taking the dog for a pre-bedtime walk, certainly not at this time of night and without her father around.

Lev's hand on her shoulder sent Laureen skyrocketing upward. She dropped the dog, who howled, then bit Lev's foot.

Lev removed the dog's teeth from his shoe and said, “Hey, kid, where're you goin'?”

Laureen struggled for an explanation. “Just for a walk. With Tesoro.”

Lev didn't have to ask if her father knew about the walk, he already knew the answer. “It's midnight, kid. What d'you think your dad would say about you going ‘walking' alone at this hour of the night?”

Laureen shrugged and said she didn't know. But of course Lev knew she did.

“Who were you meeting?”

Laureen's head shot up. She sensed there was no way out but still she tried to keep her secret. “No one. Really, no one.” She desperately did not want to expose her rendezvous with Bertrand.

“My guess is it's Bertrand Olivier.” It wasn't hard. Lev had seen them whispering to each other before Tesoro got his teeth into Pirate.

“Tell you what, I'll take you back to your room and I promise I won't tell your dad. Then I'll come and tell Bertrand you can't make the midnight rendezvous.” He tipped her chin up with his finger, so she was forced to look at him. “No way. Get it, Laureen.”

He spoke sternly. He did not approve of children sneaking out alone after hours. Anything might happen to them, especially now.

Laureen wondered silently what would happen to Bertrand. “Yes, sir,” she said.

Lev took her hand and with Tesoro on the lead, walked her back into the hotel and up the stairs to her room.

She stood uncertainly outside the door for a second before she unlocked it. Then she said a quick good night and went in.

Lev waited until the door closed. He heard the bolt slide shut, then he walked back downstairs and out to the beach.

As he expected, he found Bertrand farther along in the shadow of a small rock. As the thin beam of Lev's flashlight caught him, the boy jumped up putting his hands protectively over his clumsy glasses.

“Go back to your room, son,” Lev said kindly. “Laureen cannot meet you, and besides, it's dangerous the two of you being out here alone at night.”

He moved the beam off Bertrand's face onto the sand and the oilskin camouflage cape and the ancient pair of binoculars. He shook his head. Kids, he thought, watching Bertrand hurriedly collect his stuff.

“Come on, son, I'll take you back to the hotel,” Lev said. “And next time, arrange your rendezvous in daylight hours. Okay?”

“Okay, sir.”

Bertrand did not speak another word until they reached his room, then like Little Laureen, he said good night quickly, opened the door and hurried inside.

Lev heard the bolt slide shut. He sighed. Sorting out a couple of kids' misdeeds was not exactly what he'd expected to be doing tonight. Still, he was glad that was all it was. For now.

 

39.

 

 

Mac and Sunny lingered over dinner in the rooftop Le Grill, where the ceiling slid open to reveal the stars and the tall windows were draped in silk, roped back to reveal on one side the view of the harbor, and on the other the turreted Casino. The room was grand but soft and elegant, the service impeccable and the food a wonder.

One of the Grill's specialties was the famous Charolais beef and of course Mac ordered his “special” steak as well as the
pommes frites
cooked in duck fat that he swore could possibly be the best thing he ever tasted, and Sunny had a beautiful turbot, with a salad so simple she wondered how it could taste so good.

She looked out of the window at the twinkling panorama and then up at the stars twinkling overhead. “Tell me,” she said. “Why does this seem a million miles away from the fish shack on Pacific Coast Highway, where you sit at those scarred wooden tables, up two or three flights of wooden steps, and gaze out at the view of the Pacific from behind the plastic curtain that's supposed to shelter you from the wind?”

“Each has its own charm,” Mac said. He was very fond of that fish place. Then he said, “You look wonderful tonight.”

Sunny smiled. “Eric Clapton. He wrote that song to his wife.”

Mac said, “Maybe I can't write songs like Clapton, but at least I can quote him.” He smiled at her. He was so in love with her, and so in love with the way she looked tonight, he wanted his eyes to tell her that.

They had gone shopping that afternoon, not a major shopping, just something
for Sunny to wear instead of the pink cotton with the palm tree print. Now she had on a slim slip of a dress with a round neck and bare shoulders. The delicate chiffon fabric fell in soft flat pleats, sashed at the waist with narrow black satin. At the back, the dress was open from neck to waist, fastened only by three tiny delicate cristal buttons, like sparkling dewdrops. With it, she wore high black suede Manolos and diamond earrings. Simple. Perfect.

Mac said, “It's worth taking you shopping, y'know that?”

She flashed him a glance from under those fabulous lashes that sent his “amour” into overdrive. “Thank you, sir.”

Their eyes linked. Mac said, “I don't know if I want dessert now.”

Sunny grinned. “Too bad because I intend to eat everything they put in front of me.”

And she did. And they both drank a glass of a delicious white wine from the Graves area, south of Bordeaux, “mined” from the six hundred thousand bottles in the wine cellar carved from the rock beneath the hotel.

After that, they sipped espresso and tasted delicious
petites gourmandises
, tiny sweet bites that only made them want more. But Sunny's eyes had taken on a faraway look.

“Violette's back,” Mac guessed.

“I feel as though now I know her,” she admitted. “Tomorrow, I'll investigate some more, try to figure out what happened in Paris.”

“Not tonight, though. Please, no more Violette.”

“I promise.” Her smile sealed it.

They said goodbye to the waiters who had looked after them so well, thanked the captain and the maître d' and hand in hand, strolled across the plaza to the Casino, a gilded rococo pleasure palace. They made for the plush private salons, where the betting on chemin de fer, roulette and blackjack was for higher stakes and there were no noisy slots to distract serious gamblers.

Mac stood behind Sunny while she lost money at roulette, scanning the room as he always did. His attention was caught by a woman in the next salon. Her back was toward him but there was something familiar about her. She wore a short blue silk dress and her long blond hair fell smoothly past her shoulders. She looked expensive in an overt way and she was certainly not discreet; Mac could hear her loud laugh from where he stood. She was playing craps and obviously for big stakes because there was an admiring a crowd around her.

In between keeping an eye on Sunny's rapidly mounting losses Mac kept an eye on the woman. He
knew
he knew her from somewhere. Then he saw Gianni Valenti cross the room and tap her on the shoulder. The woman turned her head and gave him a big smile.

“Jesus,” Mac said, surprised.

Sunny glared indignantly at him over her shoulder. “I haven't lost
that
much.”

“It's Gianni Valenti,” Mac said, indicating with his head where to look.

Sunny looked. “Oh. The sailboat guy from the hotel.”

“And guess who's with him.”

Sunny looked again. She sat up straight. “That's
our
girl. Caroline Cavalaire.”

“Our sweet receptionist from the hotel.”

“Looking
dazzling. And
expensive.” She looked closer. “Who knew she had all that hair, it's always tucked up in that businesslike chignon.
And
she's wearing a diamond clip in it instead of a pink carnation.”

“Either she's come into money or someone is taking
very
good care of her.”

Sunny remembered the emerald ring and the Chanel bag, and now she recognized that the dress Caroline wore was a designer label, and that her gold sandals had the distinctive red soles that gave them away as Christian Louboutin.

She said, “I'll bet it's our Mr. Valenti.” She recalled Caroline following him into the dining room, radiating smiles. She shrugged. “Hey, why not? She's young, attractive. If I were a guy I'd probably want to date her, looking like that.”

“The thing is we've never seen her looking ‘like that' before. And if Valenti is so hot for her that he's keeping her in a style to which she's happy to become accustomed, why is she still working as a receptionist at a small family hotel?”

Sunny groaned. “Mac, oh,
Mac
! Don't do this to me, I beg you.
Please
. . . let's not invent another mystery to solve.”

“I don't ‘invent' mysteries. Mysteries just happen, and usually because something ‘mysterious' is going on.”

Sunny placed the last of her chips on black. She watched the wheel spin and come up red. “See, you put me off,” she complained, slipping her arm through Mac's and walking away from the table.