There's Something About St. Tropez (3 page)

Outside, car keys in hand, Sunny breathed deeply, grateful for the fresh air, even though it was cold. An icy wind whistled round the corners sending clouds, puffy as gray cotton wool across the moonless sky. She unlocked the car and quickly piled the luggage into the trunk, then let the dog out.

Tesoro yelped and shivered, had a quick ladylike pee then scurried back into her carrier. Soon, Sunny promised her, they would be at Chez La Violette where all would be luxury and comfort with a warm soft bed for both to sleep on.

Punching the address into the GPS, she headed for the Autoroute du Soleil Est, just as the storm finally broke. Rain streamed across the windshield reducing traffic to a snail's pace. Still, she thought St. Tropez didn't look too far on the map. How long could it take anyway?

Bertrand Olivier walked along the narrow muddy lane. The night was dark as a bat's cave and the rain slashed sideways, but Bertrand liked the storm. He liked the night. He liked to be alone.

He was wearing a camouflage-green hooded oilskin cape. His thick glasses were useless in this kind of rain but the heavy old-fashioned binoculars strung around his neck on a leather strap were fitted with small metal disks that protruded over the lenses like a pair of extra eyelids. They were all he needed to see with.

Headlights glimmered behind him. Caught off guard, he hesitated a second, then dived into the bushes, crouching low, watching and waiting for the vehicle to pass.

 

Sunny drove grimly along the muddy lane. It wasn't supposed to rain in St. Tropez, glamour spot of the world, and this was one of those torrential storms where you might expect to find Noah waiting round the next bend with his Ark.

“And trust me, Noah,” she muttered through gritted teeth, “I'd be glad to see you.”

The drive had taken forever, quite a lot of it on a curving, rural, single-lane highway. She was exhausted and wishing she had stayed in Nice overnight.

A mournful yelp came from the backseat. Tesoro was not used to being confined this long, even in a luxury Vuitton case. Plus to add to Sunny's misery her nose was running and she could swear she'd picked up a cold on the plane. Sniveling, and with Tesoro's yelps as a kind of chorus, she drove on.

The female on the GPS was talking at her again.
And in French
for God's sake. And by now she couldn't even remember her
droite
from her
gauche
.

Wait a minute though! What was that? She stamped on the brakes, sending the car into a mini skid. Was that an illusion? A mirage?
Or had she just seen a man standing in the road?

Her heart thudded in her chest, her palms were clammy with sweat and she was suddenly very much aware that she was alone on this dark lonely French lane leading it seemed to nowhere.

She drove on. Her headlights swept the place where she'd thought she had seen him but there was no one. Heaving a sigh of relief, she thought longingly of the comforts waiting for her at Chez La Violette.

 

Bertrand Olivier stepped from the bushes. He trained his binoculars on the car, watching the red taillights receding in the distance. He could see that the driver was a woman. And that she was alone. He knew the only place she could be going on this road was to Chez La Violette. Bertrand knew it well, both inside and out. And he knew it was empty.

He began to jog toward it.

 

3.
Los Angeles

 

 

It was after five o'clock L.A. time and Mac had been working since six that morning. The unit was shooting at the big hangarlike studio out near Venice Beach. He was taking a break, downing a cup of coffee so hot and so tasteless he marveled that it contained caffeine, at the same time resisting the donuts and cookies whose sugar content might also have fueled his slipping energy level.

He was not the only tired one; the crew were flagging and the director was getting testy, but all were determined to carry on because there was a chance of getting the show wrapped tonight. The writers had come up with an answer to the problems they'd encountered, and now all Mac could think about was getting out of there and making the next flight to Paris. In fact he'd get a flight to anywhere in France if it meant getting closer to Sunny.

Despite his fatigue, he looked good, tall and slightly haggard in a sexy way with dark hair that fell over deep blue eyes that somehow, when he looked straight into the camera, which he always did in the opening and closing shots, seemed to connect directly with the viewers' own eyes, drawing them to him, the Hollywood PI in jeans and the black leather Dolce & Gabbana jacket Sunny had bought him and that had become his trademark look. Now, however, all he wanted to do was close those “magnetic” eyes (as the tabloids called them, making Sunny laugh), catch some sleep and get to France. He lay down on the sofa, eyes closed, thinking of Sunny and of the next shot.

“Reilly, there you are, you old bastard.”

Mac raised his lids slowly and took in the man standing in front of him. He was short, broad-shouldered and muscular from lifting weights. His eyes
were a light molten brown and his thick eyebrows almost met over his sharp nose. Despite being short, he had a commanding air about him, the demeanor of a man who knew power firsthand.

“Ron Perrin,” Mac said. “When did you get out?”

“A few days ago.” Perrin grinned. “Thanks partly to your good words about me to the prison authorities.”

Mac got up and shook Perrin's hand. A year ago he had helped solve Ron's complicated trail of financial dealings, as well as a couple of murders in which Ron had been a suspect. Mac had found the true murderer, and Ron had done time for fraud, even though he claimed it was unintentional. Mac had straightened things out and at the same time, straightened out Perrin's complicated love life.

Perrin just happened to be married to a famous movie star, the girl-next-door blonde Allie Ray, and they used to live down the beach from Mac's place. Now, though, Allie had given up Hollywood and the “paparazzi” life and her Malibu Colony home, as well as the mansion in Bel Air. While Ron was in jail, she had bought a small vineyard in France, where she lived in a cottage, tending her vines.

Perrin said, “I called your assistant, Roddy. He told me you'd be here, got me a visitor pass. Thought I'd drop by and see you, let you know I'm out.”

“A reformed character,” Mac said.

“Maybe, maybe. I certainly had plenty of time to think things over. I lost a lot of money, had to get rid of a lot of baggage, but y'know I was able to keep the plane. It came in useful. Allie used it regularly, flew in every couple of weeks to see me. I think we're happier now than we've ever been. Or we will be once we're together again.”

Mac hoped Ron was right.

Perrin said, “I knew your show would be finishing about now and Allie wanted me to ask you and Sunny to come join us in France. How about a little vacation at our vineyard in the Dordogne? You know it's not too far from Bordeaux and St. Emilion.” Ron knew all about Mac's penchant for good wine.

“When are you leaving?”

“Any time you're ready. We can fly out of Santa Monica, easy.”

Mac got up and gripped Ron by the shoulders. Looking into his eyes he said, “You don't know it, Ron Perrin, but you are the answer to my prayers.”

Perrin shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Hey, you were the answer to my prayers, kiddo, a short while back. If I can do something to make up for that, just tell me what.”

Mac brought him up-to-date with the story of the St. Tropez villa rental, how he had been delayed, and that Sunny had gone on alone.

“I need to leave tonight,” he said. “If I can catch a ride with you I can be there almost before she has time to miss me.”

Perrin high-fived him. “Consider it done. I'll take you wherever you need to go. Let me know your timing so I can file the flight plan. The Citation is ready when you are, Mr. PI.”

“Tonight,” Mac said. “Soon as I'm through here.”

Now he knew he would see his Sunny again soon, everything was right in his world.

 

4.
St. Tropez, 3 A.M.

 

 

Sunny drove slowly up a small hill. Water flowed down it toward her. It was like climbing a waterfall. The GPS French woman was telling her she had arrived but peering through the deluge all she could see was darkness. Then a high wall. Then a pair of solid wooden gates. Shut of course.

Cursing, Sunny got out of the car. In seconds she was soaked, then the wind hit her, roaring through the treetops with a sound like an express train. Bending double she staggered toward the gates.

A decorative blue and yellow tile set in the wall announced that this was Chez La Violette. Well, thank God for that, at least she was in the right place. She tugged at the handles, twin wrought-iron circles clasped in lions' mouths, relieved when they opened.

She got back in the car and drove on. Storm-tossed trees bent over the driveway. A house loomed ahead. Not a light anywhere.

Lowering the window, Sunny stared at the darkened house. She was hours late but shouldn't the housekeeper at least have left a light on? Nervous, for a second she thought about turning round, driving back to St. Tropez town and finding a hotel, but it was the middle of the night and the storm was still raging, and besides the drive was too difficult, and anyhow she was exhausted. Retrieving the keys from her red bag, she hefted suitcases from the trunk, slung her straw bag over one arm, walked up the shallow steps, unlocked the door and stepped into a dark hallway.

Before she'd even found the switch the place was flooded with light. She blinked, half-blinded. When she looked up she saw a man crouched at the
top of the stairs in a menacing martial arts stance, hands raised high over his head. And in those hands he held a sword.

Sunny did what any sensible woman would do under the circumstances. She turned and ran.

Terrified, she found herself under an arched cloister, skidding on the rain-slicked flagstones. Her heart thundered in her ears. She could hear him pounding after her, gaining on her. She skidded again, grabbed for a stone pillar, and fell.

The man was on her, she was facedown on the ground, hands locked behind her back. She was screaming but there was no one to hear.

“What the fuck were you doing in my house in the middle of the night?” The man's voice was rough with anger.
And
he was speaking in English.

Surprised, Sunny stopped screaming. “What do you mean
your
house? It's
mine
. I rented it.”

“What?”

He seemed to think about what she had just said. Then he dropped the sword with a
clang
, let go of her hands and helped her to her feet.

She stood, shivering with cold and shock.

“Sorry about the sword,” he said. “It's just a toy, part of a dress-up pirate costume. It was all I could find to defend myself with at short notice. I thought you were burglars.”

Still shaking, Sunny took a look at him. It was too dark to make out his features but he was tall, wearing a T-shirt and workout pants, and he sounded American.

He picked up his sword, took her arm and led her back to the brightly lit hall. “You're wounded,” he exclaimed, seeing blood on her hands where she'd thrust them out to stop her fall. “I'm sorry. Let me clean up those cuts, then you can tell me what exactly you meant when you said
you
rented the house.”

From outside, Sunny heard a familiar wail. She'd forgotten all about Tesoro. She ran back to the car, grabbed the dog carrier and, praying she was doing the right thing, followed the stranger into the house.

Hidden in thick rosemary bushes outside the kitchen window, Bertrand Olivier trained his binoculars on the scene in the kitchen. He was surprised
to see a man there. A thrilled shiver ran down his spine when he noticed the sword on the table between them. Could the woman his prisoner?