The Hotel Riviera(23)

“Truth be told, I don’t exactly know why either.” He grinned at me. “There’s just something about you, I guess.”

I backed the car out of the tight parking spot, made a quick U-turn and bounced off down the narrow street, and he lifted his arm in a goodbye wave.





Chapter 22




Jack

“Hey, Jack,” Sugar said, “What’re you up to with that miserable-looking babe?”

“Saving her from a fate worse than anything you could imagine.”

He linked his arm through Sugar’s and they walked toward the Quai Jean-Jaurès followed by Bad Dog, still sniffing for fallen treasures among the market debris. Sugar’s flesh was smooth and warm under his hand, cool and fresh as if she’d just emerged from the sea. Which he knew she had, not too long ago, because he’d swum with her off the boat early that morning.

“You jumping ship?” he asked, over an omelette fines herbes at Le Gorille. Helping women out of their troubles had whetted his appetite and he was suddenly starving, and besides, the damsel in distress had eaten all the croissants.

Sugar’s blue eyes met his. She hitched up her red top and crossed her long brown legs. “Thinking of it,” she said casually.

“No time like the present, Sugar,” he said.

She flashed him a wide white smile. “Great,” she said. “Just want you to know we’ll always be friends.”

He reached across the table for her hand. “Sure,” he said, “and it was great while it lasted.”

“Fun,” Sugar agreed. “It was fun.”

He finished his omelette and called the waiter for the bill. “Come on, I’ll take you back to the boat. You’ll get your stuff and I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

Sugar’s eyes lit up but she was looking beyond him at the two bronzed young gods heading her way. “Thanks,” she said, “but no need. The guys will help me.”

Jack got up and wrapped himself around her in a bear hug, which made Bad Dog prance on his hind legs and bark jealously. “Take care, Sugar,” he said.

“See y’all around,” she called as she headed into the arms of both bronze gods.

He watched them go, Sugar in the middle, their muscular young arms wrapped around her waist. Have a good time, Sugar, he thought, you’re only young once.

And that brought him back to the problem of Lola Laforêt, the Bambi-eyed waif with a missing husband and a possible murder rap hanging over her ginger head. Just what had he gotten himself into? And what was he going to do about it?

He looked at Bad Dog sitting faithfully at his feet, awaiting the next event. No use asking him, Jack thought, patting the dog’s scruffy head. He’d just have to find out for himself.





Chapter 23




Miss N

“Young man!”

Miss Nightingale bore down on Jack, straw hat slammed firmly over her eyes and tied under her chin with a scrap of green ribbon that did not match the green of her safari outfit. Nor did it match her sensible sandals, the sort middle-aged English ladies have always worn on holidays: flat and beige, strapped around the ankle and good for walking on seaside promenades, or in this case, for strolling cobbled marketplaces in the south of France and riding a small Vespa along sandy hill roads.

“Young man,” she called again.

Jack pointed a finger to his chest. “Me?”

“Of course, you.” She was a little out of breath from her dash.

He grinned. “It’s been a while since anyone called me a young man.”

Miss N pushed her glasses back up her aquiline nose. She looked him up and down. “Young enough. Exactly how old are you anyway?”

“Miss Nightingale,” Jack said with a sigh, “are you always this blunt?”

“Blunt?”

“I mean, do you always go around asking total strangers what they do for a living and where they’re from and exactly how old they are? Next thing you’ll want a copy of my bank statement.”

“Your finances are the last thing on my mind. What’s more important is the state of Lola’s head.”

“Who can blame her? It sounds like she might be arrested for the murder of her husband any minute.”

“Let’s not count our chickens before they’re hatched, Mr. Farrar. There’s still no body.”

“There’s no body yet.”

They stood looking at the massive yachts gleaming with brass, and the beautiful bronze people glittering with gold and jewels and very little else.

Jack shoved his hands in the pockets of his ancient shorts. “Saint-Tropez in the summer,” he said. “Good-looking women and men up to no good. Too much money and boats nobody loves. Most of ’em are rentals anyway. Nobody cares who built them, what they can do, only how big and expensive they are. There’s not much ‘love’ out there in the marina.”

Miss Nightingale shoved her hands in her pockets too. She thought he’d called it right. “Is that why you moored your sloop in the Hotel Rivera cove?”

“You mean, was it because I couldn’t afford to join the world-class players here? Or did I just like it better there?”

“That’s exactly what I meant. And I can see there’s no use beating about the bush with you, Mr. Farrar. You’re the kind that calls a spade a spade.”