There's Something About St. Tropez (5 page)

“No one,” he called out. “I guess I was mistaken.”

Her huge sigh of relief made him smile. She held the door for him, waiting while he cleaned the mud off his shoes on the metal boot-scraper. The Chihuahua lurked behind her, growling.

Nate ran his hands through his wet hair then sat back at the kitchen
table. “Some night!” he said, taking a look at the mermaid who, as she dried off, was becoming decidedly more attractive. Beautiful even. Pity about the fiancé. He said, “Tell me, how does the fiancé cope with Tesoro?”

“He doesn't.” It was Sunny's turn to fix the coffee and she waited by the stove for the water to boil. There wasn't even a kettle and she had to use a little tin saucepan, which was almost all there was of the “
batterie de cuisine”
in the “immaculate French kitchen” promised in the brochure.

“Tesoro is jealous of Mac,” she explained. “And besides, she hates Mac's dog. She won't even allow Pirate on the bed when I'm with him.” She poured the almost-hot water onto the coffee grounds then carried the mugs over to the table. “That's the reason we're not married yet. Our dogs have to call a truce first.”

“You can't be serious?”

“Of course I am.”

Nate stared at her, stunned. He poured more brandy. “Okay,” he said, “Tell me all about it, baby.”

Looking at the beautiful Sunny across the table, for the first time in years Nate realized he was actually enjoying himself.

New headlights flickered along the lane and Bertrand quickly ran and hid behind the big wooden gates.

The car overshot the driveway then, gears screeching, was flung violently into reverse. Tires squealed, as the big car jerked backward, narrowly missing the gateposts, finally swung between them, then screamed up the drive and came to an abrupt halt in a spray of gravel.

Bertrand saw it was a beautiful white Bentley convertible, mud-spattered and with a badly dented front bumper. Then a tall woman got out of it, cursing loudly as she ran through the rain into the house.

The front door slammed. Footsteps crossed the hall. Nate and Sunny turned to look. A Sharon Stone look-alike stood in the arched entrance. She was
wearing an expensive but badly creased white linen pants suit and red patent stilettos. Her blond hair was cropped short, her mouth was set in a tight line and her angry icy blue eyes took in the two of them, then the bottle of brandy and the sword on the table.

“I might have known it,” she said, in a contemptuous English accent. “What else could I expect but to find the help boozing in the kitchen while I struggled with that bloody car?”

She tossed the keys to Nate. “You, go get my luggage. And you.” She pointed at Sunny. “Pour me a double, plus put on another pot of coffee, then make sure my room is properly made up. The master bedroom, of course.”

Stunned into silence, they stared back at her.

She stalked angrily toward them, heels clacking on the tiles. Her simmering temper had reached boiling point. “Well? Don't just sit there,” she yelled. “Don't you know who I am?”

“No, I don't know who you are,” Sunny snapped. “And what's more, I'm hoping I never have to find out.”

The blonde's jaw dropped. Her angry eyes met Sunny's for a long moment, then suddenly she sank into a chair, all the stuffing knocked out of her.

“What the hell,” she said wearily. “Just pour the friggin' brandy. I've left my husband. Left him—just like that! Couldn't take any more, even if he is as rich as all those Microsoft guys put together. I've driven all the way from San Remo in Italy in this bloody storm, smacked up the bloody Bentley, and I'm shattered.”

Nate poured brandy into a mug and passed it to her. She took a gulp, gasped and said, “God, it's not even French.” Then she took a proper look at them.

“I made a mistake, didn't I?” she said abruptly. “You're not the help.” Clasping the mug of brandy in both hands, she heaved a sigh. “Typical of me. Jasper—the husband—says I'm always doing things like that. Embarrassing him. I told him if he wanted to be less embarrassed he should have married Laura Bush.”

Sunny and Nate stared silently at her.

“Me?” she continued, taking another generous slurp of the brandy and holding out her mug to Nate for more. “Me? I am who I am. Which is more than can be said for Jasper.” A sudden grin changed her from sullen rich bitch to mischievous girl. “Jasper Lord, hereinafter called ‘the husband.' I can hardly bear to speak his name. Not that it's his real name of course. Oh no, he's really Mikel Markovich, but he's put all that Russian stuff behind
him, hidden too far back for anyone to be interested in delving into his murky past.

“Anyhow, the Russian bastard is rich, he's controlling, he's crazy and he's violent. He'd have me locked up in Bluebeard's castle if he could. Oh, smothered in jewels, of course, and dressed in couture, available to be displayed at appropriate moments. But he picked the wrong woman. And that's why I left.

“Anyhow he wouldn't have come to this place with me. This is definitely not his style.” She glanced doubtfully round the old kitchen. “Actually, I'm not sure it's
my
style. I thought it would be good to get away on my own for a while, away from the grand hotels where they all know me, away from the husband. Thought I'd lay low till all the fuss dies down, y'know what I mean?”

She looked expectantly at them. “So, who are you two anyway, if you're not the help? And what's the sword for?” She grinned mischievously. “
More
fun and games? And what kind of rental villa is this anyway?”

“Rental villa?” Sunny and Nate spoke as one.

“Hey, this is the right place, isn't it? Chez La Violette.”

“You got it,” Nate said. “Only trouble is—apart from the trouble you seem to be in already—that I also rented Chez La Violette. And so did Sunny. By the way, this is Sunny Alvarez, and I am Nate Masterson.”

“I'm Belinda Lord. Oh God, I did make a mistake didn't I? But I have a signed contract.”

Nate gave her a so-what look, and Belinda sighed again. “Looks like we're all in trouble, and anyhow this place is funky. What's with the dust and the mugs for the brandy? And where's the friggin' housekeeper anyway? I'd like to give her a piece of my mind.”

“No housekeeper,” Sunny said. “In fact you'll be lucky if you have a bed. I haven't checked but I'll bet there are no sheets.”

“And I'll bet you're in the master.”

Belinda looked very put out and Nate grinned. “First come first served.”

“But I rented this place for three months,” she objected. “The whole summer season. It cost me a small fortune.”

“A small fortune that's now in Madame Lariot's hands, along with two more months' rent from us.”

Belinda sagged back in the chair. She unbuttoned her crumpled linen jacket and kicked off the stilettos. “Jesus. You got any more of that brandy?”

“How about a cup of coffee instead?” Sunny said. She went to the sink, filled the saucepan again and put it on to boil. “We're getting down on the instant too, but there's part of a ham and cheese baguette left if you're hungry.”

Belinda eyed the sorry-looking bits of sandwich adhering to the wax paper. “I'd rather starve,” she said. And then she burst into tears.

Sunny rushed to her side. She put an arm around Belinda's shaking shoulders. “It's okay, really it is,” she said gently. “You've just had a long night and a terrible drive in the storm.”

“All those tunnels,” Belinda wailed. “And those bridges with sheer hundred-foot drops just waiting for me and that friggin' Bentley. I thought my end had come, but I wasn't prepared to give the husband the satisfaction of disposing of me that easily. And now the husband will come after me, he'll find me, and then who
knows
what will happen. He'll probably have me killed.”

Uneasy, Nate went to the stove and fixed the coffee. He put the mug in front of Belinda and glanced questioningly at Sunny. Sunny shrugged and went back to patting Belinda's back, soothingly.

“You're safe here with us,” she told her. “It's all over, truly it is. Nate and I will look after you, won't we, Nate?”

“Sure,” he said, not sounding at all positive.

Belinda sat up and mopped her eyes. Ignoring Sunny she gave Nate a long gaze and a watery smile. “Thank you so much,” she said. “I always knew I could rely on a handsome American.”

 

Bertrand wished he could hear what was being said but he could catch their voices only when they were raised. He knew he was in danger of being discovered again but he couldn't keep away. He was drawn to that warm, unknowing, intimate circle, framed like a scene in a movie by the kitchen light.

He decided they must be having an important secret meeting, driving through a storm, to their rendezvous, kind of like in the old French movie he'd seen where Jim Morrison and the Doors sang “Riders on the Storm.” He could hear the music now, booming quite clearly in his head . . . “Riders on the storm . . .” It was his favorite.

His fingers holding the binoculars trembled, blurring his vision. Impatient, he reminded himself of his role. At night he was the explorer, the adventurer, afraid of nothing, of no one. His mission tonight was to observe, then to analyze those memories in his journal. A scientific record of the frailties of human nature.

For Bertrand, sleep happened when it happened, sometimes in his bed in the early hours of the morning, but more often than not in his “lair,” atop a small hill overlooking the cove, sheltered from the hot sun by a small outcrop of rock where the tiny green lizards had by now come to terms with his
presence, and slithered unafraid around him. They seemed to know that Bertrand would not harm them.

The big red Hummer, gleaming with chrome extras, sloshed through the ever-expanding puddle in front of Chez La Violette's open gates, sped up the drive and came to a stop.

The three people in the kitchen glanced at each other.

“The rental agent,” Sunny guessed. “Come to sort it all out.”

“At five in the morning?” Nate shook his head. “I don't think so.”

The front door closed quietly, footsteps crossed the hall, then a big, broad-shouldered man, cowboy hat jammed onto his head, strode into the kitchen, holding by the hand a pale pudgy girl, maybe eight years old, in a short fluffy pink tutu and a princess tiara.

“Hey, what d'ya know? A reception committee.” He beamed at them. “What did I tell you, Little Laureen?” he said to the child. “They'll love you here in France.”

The three stared at him, stunned into silence.

“Hi, I'm Billy Bashford, from Glitter Ranch, just south of San Antonio, Texas. Used to be called the B.B. and B Ranch, for my wife Betsy and myself, but when Little Laureen came along and turned out to be such a little sparkler, she decided she wanted to call it Glitter Ranch. So Glitter it is. Right, Laureen?”

He pronounced her name “Lore-eeen,” but anyway the child did not respond. Instead she busied herself shaking raindrops out of her tutu.

“Sorry we're so late,” he said, still with that cheerful grin on his square-jawed, freckled face, and still wearing his hat. “My pi lot was diverted to Marseilles because of the weather. Shit, you don't get storms like this where I come from, well except maybe every other year.” He strode over to the table and offered his hand to Nate. “I guess I can tell you don't know much about ranching and cattle though.”

“Right.” Nate shook his hand. “I'm Nate Masterson, from New York.”

“But I do.” Sunny held up the dog to show the child, who seemed traumatized. “This is Tesoro, and I'm Sunny Alvarez. I grew up on a ranch, near Santa Fe.”

“No kiddin'? Then lady, we have something in common besides our beauty.” Billy Bashford laughed heartily at his own joke and Sunny joined in. There was something immediately likable about the new stranger.

Billy took a long look at Belinda, crumpled and tearstained, then with a reverential expression he took her hand in both his and lifted it to his lips. “Let me tell you somethin', ma'am, nothin' is ever as bad as it seems.”

“The name is Belinda Lord. And exactly how would you know that, Mr. Bashford?”

“Because I've been there, ma'am,” he said. They looked at each other for a long minute, but Belinda made no further comment.

“Let me guess,” Nate said wearily. “You've rented Chez La Violette for the month of June.”

“Correct. Thought it'd cheer Little Laureen up, y'know, after her mother passed.” Billy glanced round the suddenly silent table. “Hey, you guys, I didn't mean to spoil your party by tellin' you Betsy's gone. It's been over a year. It's a fact, that's all, and of course it's one Little Laureen here does not want to think about. She doesn't want to go anywhere, doesn't want to do anything, see anyone. That's why I took the villa, brought her to France, to get her out of herself. Right, Little Laureen?”

Laureen stared at Tesoro, then quickly down at her pink ballet shoes.

“We bought the Hummer specially. Red's one of Laureen's favorite colors. Brought my plane over and all her tutus. Laureen's a ballet dancer. Right, Laureen?”

The child stared silently at the floor.

Looking at pudgy Little Laureen, Sunny thought she had never seen a less likely ballerina. Her heart went out to her. She went over and took the girl's limp hand.

“Come, sit by me and Tesoro,” she said gently, leading her to the table. “I'm sorry I don't have a Coke or anything to offer you.”

The child hung her head, silent.

“What do you say, Little Laureen?” her father prompted her.

“Thank you,” Laureen said stiffly.