There's Something About St. Tropez (30 page)

“You were losing before I distracted you.”

But Sunny was checking out Valenti and Caroline. They had stepped back from the craps table and were drinking martinis. Head lowered, Valenti was talking to Caroline, almost into her ear as though he wanted no one else to hear what he had to say. Caorline tossed back her long blond hair and looked Valenti in the eyes. Whatever she said to him there was an angry look on her face.

“What d'you think?” Mac said. “Do we go over and say hello?”

“Not on your life. It looks like a lovers' quarrel to me. Maybe it's a good thing she kept the day job after all.”

Mac laughed as Sunny tugged him away. “Where are we going?” he asked, putting Caroline Cavalaire out of his mind.

“Bed, baby,” she replied with that impish smile that always got his “amour” going.

“Why ‘bed'?” he asked. “There are so many other locations.”

“Like where?”

“Did you ever make love in the back of a car?”

“Yes.”

He stopped and looked at her. He hadn't expected that answer. “Who with?”

“With whom.” She corrected him. “And it's none of your business.”

Mac thought about it. He guessed she was right. “I wish I'd never asked,” he said gloomily.

“So do I.”

They were in the elevator. Sunny put her hands behind her back and unhooked the three little cristal buttons that held her black chiffon dress together. She slid it off her shoulders. Her breasts were high and round and pink-nippled. The nipples were erect.

“You ever make love in an elevator?” she asked, smiling.

“Oh my God.” Panicked, Mac hauled her dress up again. Just in time. The elevator pinged and the doors slid open. The waiting couple eyed them suspiciously before they got in and Mac wondered guiltily if they could possibly know.

The elevator stopped at their floor, and with a serene smile, Sunny said
bonsoir
to the couple and stepped past them.

Her dress in back was open to the waist. He heard her laughing as she ran down the corridor. He flung a quick glance at the couple as the elevator doors closed on them. He would never forget the look of astonishment on their faces.

“Naughty,” he said, catching up to Sunny.

“Yeah. Isn't it fun?” she said. And grabbing his hand, she ran with him back to their room.

Mac heaved a happy sigh. What more could any guy want? It was the perfect end to a perfect night. Tomorrow, this vacation would be all business again. But tonight was his and Sunny's.

 

40.

 

 

The next day when they got back to the Hôtel des Rêves around elevenish, Mac was surprised to find Gianni Valenti at the Beach Bar, enjoying a beer. He was alone.

Mac already knew that Caroline was not on duty because he'd just passed Renée at the desk. Now he wondered what had happened the previous night. Had love's young dream fallen through for Caroline? She wouldn't be the first woman to come to grief over a man, as two of his own little band of misfits could prove.

“How about a drink on the
Blue Picasso
this evening?” Valenti called to him. “I make a great martini and we can watch the sunset.” He grinned as he added, “Of course, that's only an excuse. What I really want to do is show off my boat. And please bring Sunny with you.” His dark eyes swept the beach and came to rest on Belinda, bikinied and supine, as were the other Misfits, under the
ombrelles
. “And bring your other friends. It'll be quite a party.”

Curious about him, Mac agreed. “How about six o'clock?”

“I'll be at the jetty with the dinghy at six, and remember the more the merrier.”

From the way Valenti was eyeing Belinda, it looked as though Caroline was definitely out of the picture. Mac felt sure she would not be included in tonight's invitation.

He checked his watch. He had some information for Lev and they had an appointment in fifteen minutes at Le Café, in the place des Lices. Lev had told him it would be quieter there than at the Sénéquier. “More discreet” was what he'd said. Apparently he had forgotten it was market day.

By the time Mac had found a parking spot it was eleven-fifteen and the place des Lices was awash in women tourists in shorts and sunglasses picking over the linen skirts in search of a chic St. Tropez bargain, while local women wearing head scarves and carrying net bags picked over the fruit and veggies in search of perfection.

The delicious smell of chicken sizzling on the open spit came from the nearby rotisserie stand. Mac sniffed it longingly, watching the proprietor shoveling potatoes and slices of onions and red peppers into the vat beneath, where the juices had accumulated. The glistening vegetables crisped gently as the spit turned, browning the chickens. Dinner would not be a problem for many people here tonight.

He spotted Lev from across the street, under the awning on the café terrace, his six-four frame folded into a small cane chair at an even smaller table, keeping his elbows to himself so as not to infringe on his neighbors' territory. His sunglasses were pushed up onto his bald tanned head and a tiny cup of coffee was on the table in front of him.

Amused, Mac thought he had never seen a man more uncomfortable than Lev right now.

Lev saw him coming, nodded, waved down a waiter and ordered Mac a
crème
. The two did not go unnoticed by the vacationing St. Tropez women, who eyed them with charming come-on smiles.

Mac smiled back as he squeezed into the chair. Both men sat facing the street, as did everyone else. On a French café terrace nobody ever looked at each other, they were too busy checking out the passing “show.” People watching was one of the great pleasures of St. Tropez.

“Thanks,” Mac said, tasting the
crème
. As usual in France, the coffee was good. “So?” He glanced at Lev.

“Belinda's covered. No problem. And the husband is sticking to his Italian palazzo, hasn't moved out of there in days.”

“He knows he wouldn't be welcome here,” Mac said. “Not just by his wife, but officially.”

Lev raised his brows in a question.

“I spoke with my contact at Interpol,” Mac said. “Jasper Lord is thought to be trading Russian arms. To Iran.”

“Hmmm.” Lev thought about it. “Possible terrorist connections?”

“Not proven, but enough that if he showed his face here they'd keep a pretty strict eye on him. Not that he's dumb enough to make a move personally. A mobster always hands that off to underlings. By the way, do you know if he's an art collector?”

“The only thing that guy collects is women.”

“What's his mode of transportation?”

“Bulletproof Mercedes Maybach 62S, plus a golf cart that he uses on the grounds of the palazzo—looks like a mini open-air version of the Merc though obviously it's not bulletproof. I guess he just takes his chances on the local golf course, and anyhow he's always surrounded by his guys. Besides, it's a private club and he's richer than everybody else. They make sure he's looked after and no doubt he feels safe. Plus of course he owns the usual billionaire's plane, a Citation, seats ten. And his favorite, a Bell 429 helicopter that he pilots himself. It's a single-pilot design. It just shows what an asshole he is, he ordered it in bright red. You can see it coming a mile away. Anyone who wanted could identify it and shoot him out of the sky, easy.”

“Pure ego,” Mac said. “So? Why no yacht?”

“Too much officialdom in ports. Besides, he comes from a landlocked country, hates the sea. His palazzo is way up in the hills. He's an urban guy at heart though, more usually to be found in cities. He owns apartments in Manhattan's Upper East Side and London's Belgravia. The palazzo is rented by the way.”

“If he's hanging out in San Remo there has to be a reason.”

“It's not a woman. In fact rumor has it Belinda was really the one he liked most, her looks, her feistiness, her willingness to stand up to him.”

“Until his control and violence got too much for her,” Mac said. “No amount of Dior dresses and Cartier necklaces is worth it. And now he wants her back. A man like that, driven by his ego and his mercenary head and never by emotion, he'll find a way to get her.”

“Even,” Lev said quietly, “if he has to kill her.”

 

41.

 

 

At the Hôtel des Rêves, Pirate slunk down the stairs and into the hall behind Sunny. His woebegone brown eyes indicated that he was not a happy dog. Sunny carried Tesoro, who never seemed to walk anywhere much on those short legs, but now she bent to pet Pirate.

“Poor baby,” she murmured, seeing one ear lift in response. “Poor darling, Daddy's neglecting you, isn't he? He left you yesterday, and again this morning? Well, I'll tell you what, my sweet boy, you and I are going off on a little adventure together.”

Pirate's other ear perked up, obviously wondering if this meant a walk.

“We'll leave Tesoro with Little Laureen, and it'll be just you and me. How about that, Pirate, baby?”

The dog wagged his tail hopefully.

“First, though, I have to ask Caroline a question.” Sunny checked the reception desk and saw that Renée was on duty, not Caroline. She wondered about last night and what had happened with Gianni Valenti.

The dog waited patiently while she asked Renée her question, which was were there any bicycles for rent.

“Mais bien sûr, madame
. But not for rent, they are free. We have a few outside in the parking lot for those who would like to use them.” Renée gave Sunny her big smile and said, “We are a family hotel,
madame
, we think of everything.”

Next, Sunny headed for the beach where she found the Misfits lazily contemplating lunch at one of the umbrellaed tables at the Beach Bar. They asked her to join them.

“Not for me, thanks,” she replied. “Pirate and I have some exploring of our own to do. I was wondering, Little Laureen, if you would look after Tesoro for me.”

“Of course.” Laureen's face actually lit up. She had not seen or heard from Bertrand since Lev had sent them both packing. She had left a note under his door, but Bertrand had not responded and now she was worried. She wondered if he was at his lair, and how she could escape her father and go find him. It would not be easy, even with the pretext of taking Tesoro for a walk.

Sunny waved goodbye and with Pirate on the leash, wobbled on her borrowed bicycle out of the parking lot then onto the road that ran in front of the hotel. She made a right with Pirate limping along next to her, tongue lolling, ears flopping, smiling his goofy “smile.”

The villa was closer than Sunny remembered from that stormy nightmare drive, though she did cast a wary glance into the bushes at the side of the road where she'd thought she'd seen a man. Of course he'd only been the product of her overworked imagination, as was her impression that Chez La Violette was a house that had kept its secrets, and that perhaps Violette herself had never quite let go of it. And yet when she'd returned there with Mac she had gotten that same uneasy feeling. Then of course there was the question of the lamp that went on by itself in Violette's boudoir, and the overwhelming scent of flowers that she'd bet were violets.
And
that mysteriously open piano lid.

Dismounting, she propped the bike against the wall next to the blue and yellow tile with the curlicued name
Chez La Violette
. This time the gates opened easily. She let Pirate off the lead and he trotted in wide circles, snuffling in the long grass, following her to the front door.

Nervous again, Sunny dithered on the steps: she was doing exactly what Mac had always warned her against, going into an unknown situation, alone. But this wasn't François Reynaud's house, where a murder had been committed. This was just Violette's place.

Still, when she opened the door, she noticed that, like last time when she'd come here with Mac, Pirate did not bound ahead. Instead, he stuck right there, at her heels.