There's Something About St. Tropez (32 page)

“Hi there.” Billy announced his arrival loudly from the stairs, waving a big hello, and clutching Little Laureen by the hand.

Belinda grinned at him. He was not wearing the hat. Little Laureen was in the inevitable tutu, but with the boots this time. Belinda sighed and whispered to Sunny, “Whatever are we going to do about that child?”

Sunny shook her head. “I think we just have to wait and see what happens.”

Mac had already gone to deposit the two dogs in the kennel: claws were as forbidden as heels on a boat.

“Sweetie.” Belinda drew Laureen to one side. “I think the cowboy boots have to be left behind, for now. Sailors don't like hard shoes on their smooth decks.”

There was that familiar faraway look on Laureen's face, as though she inhabited some other planet. “Why not?”

“They leave marks.” Belinda gave her a nudge and a quick wink. “It's one of those guy things, y'know what I mean.”

Laureen did not know, and anyhow she didn't want to be here. She wanted to be with Bertrand. There had been no sign of him all day and when she'd knocked on his door he had not answered. She'd stood there wondering where he had gone, then she'd left another note, asking him to meet her at the beach at ten
P.M
. and warning him to be on the lookout for the new guards. She hoped he would make it and that this time they wouldn't be caught.

She slipped off the boots and handed them to Belinda who left them with Renée at the desk as they left.

Gianni Valenti was already at the jetty, looking South of France casual in expensive shorts and a rock-and-roll T-shirt, dark hair still wet from the shower, dark eyes hidden behind dark glasses. He waved hello, holding out a helping hand to the women as they jumped into the large black dinghy, big enough to seat them all. They sped across to the
Blue Picasso
, a spray of crystal foam flaring behind from the superpowerful motors.

“You see, my sailboat is blue,” Valenti called over the din of the motor as they approached. He was looking at Belinda who was shaking spray from her hair. She had been unfortunate enough to be the one nearest the stern, and not only was her hair wet so was her T-shirt, which now clung becomingly to every curve.

“I wonder if Valenti sat her there on purpose,” Sunny whispered to Mac as the dinghy circled so they could admire the sailboat from every angle. “And didn't I tell you men like boats more than mistresses?”

“Not this one.” Mac hugged her. Nevertheless, he had to admit Valenti's boat was beautiful, its dark carbon blue hull sleek as a shark, black sails folded into themselves against the three masts, every white rope neatly coiled, every steel fitment agleam.

Even Sara now saw what Belinda had meant; you'd be afraid to go barefoot on this example of maritime perfection.

Valenti swung the dinghy gently alongside, then leapt out and held out his hand to help them as he had before.

“Valenti, she's a beauty.” Mac stood next to him at the rail. “But she's so big, how can you manage her by yourself?”

Valenti shrugged. “I prefer to be alone but with seventy feet it's necessary to have an assistant. He's here tonight to help out. If you wish, we could go for a sail later, before it gets dark.”

“Terrific.” Sunny beamed. She had decided she liked boats, anyhow, ones like this.

Valenti gave them a tour, showing how the sails worked electronically, explaining the powerful motors that supplemented the sails when the wind let him down.

“That's part of the allure of sailing,” he said. “It's like a woman, when she lets you down you need another in the wings to fall back on.”

Not exactly the sentiments of a gentleman, Mac thought as Valenti showed them into the main saloon. It was smaller than Mac had expected, and deeply paneled in rich glowing wood, with comfortable sofas and chairs and a bar in one corner, gleaming with crystal glasses that, like the lamps, were battened down to accommodate heavy weather.

But it wasn't the bar that took Mac's eye. It was the large Picasso hanging in the space between two portholes, fitted into a recess that had obviously been tailor-made for it.

“I see you're admiring my Picasso.” Valenti patted it lovingly. “Not the Blue Period, you see, though of course the boat was named for it. It's a portrait of his second wife, Jacqueline.”

Mac knew it was a masterpiece but somehow he couldn't get his head around it. He said, “I hate to think what insurance must cost you.”

Valenti laughed. “
Nothing
, my friend. That's
exactly
what it costs me. Let me tell you the story of my beautiful Picasso. Years ago, I used to sail the waters off the Balearic Islands. I'd put in at Mallorca and was hanging out at a waterfront bar in Palma when I got talking to a man who claimed to be an artist. Later, he took me back to his place to show me his paintings. Of course he wanted to sell me one, and of course he was drunk, and of course I knew immediately what his true vocation was. The man was an expert forger; he could do anything, any artist, any period. He was the Rembrandt of forgers. I told him I was on to him but I would keep his secret if he would paint only one canvas for me.”

He waved his hand at the painting in back of him, an outline of a woman's head, the hair mere streaks of blue, the aquiline profile with the eye set, classically Picasso, full-on. “I'm an ardent admirer.” He shrugged. “Of course it's impossible now to afford a Picasso, should one even come onto the market, which is rare.”

“But were the forgeries good enough to fool the experts?”

“Every one of them. And believe me, there were many in the art world who felt like fools when the truth came out. Later, of course, restitution had to be made by those experts who'd authenticated them and the galleries and auction houses who'd sold them on. In fact there are probably collectors today who own the forgeries and still believe they're the real thing.”

Nate wasn't a Picasso fan either, but he knew about the astonishing prices on the art market. “What happened to the forger?”

“He got caught, slammed into jail for passing off his forgeries on the art market as the real thing.”

Billy peered more closely at the work of art. He preferred western paintings himself and those rousing life-size bronze sculptures of men on horse back. Picasso was definitely not his line. “I wouldn't know the difference between the real thing and the fake,” he said.

“Nor would any layman. Only those who have studied Picasso's work, who know it better than their own faces, could tell the difference.”

“Then why does it matter?” Laureen got right to the truth, as she always did. Looking at the painting she guessed she could do a Picasso too, with her new Crayola chalk pens.

She slumped onto the sofa next to Sara, legs sticking out, bare toes wiggling, raspberry tutu akimbo. The boat was okay but she wished Bertrand was there.

“I guess you're right and whether it's authentic or not doesn't really matter,” Mac answered Laureen. “And certainly it saved Mr. Valenti a lot of money.”

“Please—it's Gianni.” Valenti corrected Mac with a smile.

Laureen eyed him suspiciously. He seemed a very smiley person.

“Come see the staterooms.” Valenti was proud of his boat as well as his fake Picasso. There were three cabins, compact, well-fitted, comfortable, and like the saloon all paneled in that rich wood that glowed, Sunny thought even more beautifully than his painting.

Back on deck, Valenti's assistant, a swarthy young Neapolitan, was ready with hors d'oeuvres and the martini fixings, though Valenti made the drinks personally.

“You shake that like a professional,” Belinda teased, watching as he poured the mixture—gin with a hint of dry vermouth James Bond style—into a frosty glass, added a couple of olives and handed it to her.

Valenti's dark glance met hers across the glass. “It's only one of my many accomplishments,” he promised, causing Belinda's eyebrows to raise.

Sara was sitting alone on the ink blue canvas bench that lined the rail.
She was glad she was wearing flip-flops because there was not a single scratch on the fabulously polished teak floors. At least she assumed they were teak. Wasn't that what you usually saw on ships? With a pang, she remembered the ruined cruise and the boyfriend, but then she shrugged it off. After all, look where she was now, sitting on a million-dollar boat sipping martinis with glamorous people she never would have met back in small-town Kansas. Her glance lingered longingly on the shore where the lights of the hotel gleamed into the evening blueness. She wondered where Lev was.

“Mac?” Sunny said. The martini glass was practically freezing her hand off and she took a quick sip.

“Yeah?” Mac wasn't drinking, but he did accept a skewer of lobster, which was in fact excellent.

“Tell me, how can Valenti afford all this? I mean, who exactly is he?”

Mac glanced skeptically at her. “You creating another mystery for me to solve?”

She put a hand to her mouth in pretend shock. “Forget I even mentioned it. And will you just look at Billy Bashford, right up there with Belinda. Do you get the feeling he doesn't want Mr. Show-off Valenti to get close to her?”

Billy was leaning on the rail like a third wheel while Valenti monopolized Belinda's attention. Mac wondered if Sunny was right and Billy was starting to like Belinda in more ways than one.

Meanwhile, Nate, ever the loner, had wandered to the stern and stood, gazing out to sea, his face unreadable. Was he also keen on beautiful sexy Belinda?

“That woman is a catalyst,” Sunny whispered. “You watch her, she changes every man she meets. You'll see, soon Gianni Valenti will be giving up expensive boats.”

“And taking on an expensive mistress,” Mac said, making her laugh.

Little Laureen had found a pair of binoculars and was scanning the shore, mouth pursed, a frown between her eyes. As she looked at the big villas, each with its own boat moored at private docks, something had just occurred to her.

“You looking for Tesoro?” Sunny called.

Laureen lowered the binoculars. “I was hoping to see Bertrand,” she answered honestly.

“He's probably getting changed for dinner.” Too late Sunny realized what a ridiculous statement that was. “Come sit here.” She sat down and patted the bench next to her. “I'm glad Bertrand has become your friend,” she said.

Laureen nodded. Then, surprising herself, she blurted, “His mother got married.”

Sunny instantly recognized this as a great confidence. She held back her astonishment since, as far as she knew, Bertrand had never even left the hotel and his mother had yet to put in an appearance. “She did?” she replied quietly.

“She doesn't want Bertrand anymore,” Laureen said.

Sunny's heart lurched.
Oh my God
, she said to herself,
oh my God
. . .
poor child
. But to Laureen she said only “I'm sure that's temporary, you know, just for now, until she works things out, her new husband, a new home . . .”

“No,” Laureen said flatly. “It's for good. She has other children now. New ones. She doesn't want Bertrand. He's being sent away to school until he's eighteen, then she'll think about what to do with him.” She looked anxiously at Sunny. “Bertrand hasn't told anyone else, just me. I don't know why I told you, it just came out that's all.”

“It's because you're worried about your friend,” Sunny reassured her. “But I promise I won't tell anyone.”

“You'll tell Mac.” Laureen already knew the ways of women.

Sunny bit her lip. “Okay, but
only
Mac.”

“I promised to help Bertrand,” Laureen said. “I have a plan.”

Sunny waited for her to tell, but this time Laureen was silent.

Then, “It will all work out for the best,” Laureen said, sounding too grown-up for an eight-year-old. She added, “My mommy used to say that when I was upset about something.”

“And you know what, Little Laureen,” Sunny said. “I believe your mommy was right.” In her heart though, she wasn't so sure and, judging from her bleak expression, nor was Laureen.

Mac strolled over to where Valenti stood at the rail, chatting up Belinda. He took a closer look at his man. He was older than he'd first appeared, with his youthfully brushed back dark hair curling into the nape of his neck. Now Mac saw the deep lines etched around his dark eyes, sailor's eyes with that penetrating gaze earned, no doubt, from eternally scanning the horizon. The same lines ran from nose to mouth, offset by a deep tan, gained, Mac was certain, more from the tug of the wind at sea than from sunbathing on a Riviera beach. Valenti was tall and he was certainly in good shape, not an ounce of body fat, yet Mac estimated him to be in his late fifties. In fact Valenti looked the epitome of the rich Riviera bachelor on the make. Which brought Mac's train of thought immediately back to Caroline.

He went and stood at the rail next to Valenti—somehow he could not bring himself to call him Gianni—gazing at the shoreline. “The Hôtel des Rêves is quite a find,” he said casually.

Valenti agreed. “I've been using it for years as a sort of in port pied-à-terre. It's convenient.”

Mac said, “It was surely convenient for all of us when we found out, too late, that we had all rented the villa Chez La Violette in a very simple but effective scam.”

Valenti's sharp gaze shifted from the shore to Mac. “Of course you found out who did it?”

“In fact, no. Not yet, though I have my own ideas about that.”

Valenti frowned. Surprised, Mac thought he seemed overly concerned about the scamming of people who, after all, were merely passing strangers.

He said, “We were saved from having to sleep on the beach by Caroline Cavalaire, the receptionist at the hotel. By some miracle she found us all rooms.”