The Hotel Riviera(28)

I wasn’t sure I believed this, but why else would she be here? “Thank you for the kind thought,” I said, “but there’s not much anyone can do. I don’t know where Patrick is, and neither do the police.”

“They found the car, though,” she said, catching me by surprise. I didn’t know how police business had become public, but apparently my life was now the subject of local gossip and speculation.

Giselle stirred her tea slowly. Her long delicate hands were the color of fresh cream, the short nails painted dark red. In Pucci-patterned Capris, jeweled thong sandals, and a tight turquoise top that matched her eyes, she was a man’s woman if ever there was one, with her languorous glances and the subdued sexiness French women seem to acquire without any effort at all.

“I’ve known Patrick since we were children,” she said. “We grew up together, you might say.”

I looked interested. I had never met anyone who knew Patrick when he was a child.

“We lived in Marseilles,” Giselle said. “Both our families were in the fishing business. Patrick’s caught the fish; mine bought it to sell on to restaurants, or to process it, to freeze it and ship it throughout France and most of Europe. My family was rich. Patrick’s was not exactly poor, but not in the same league.”

The long silver spoon clinked against the ice in the glass, as she stirred her tea again, a delicate summer sound, the kind you might associate with two women sharing secrets about their lovers on a hot, lazy afternoon.

“Patrick and I went to the same schools, then on to university at Grenoble, though he didn’t stay the course. I went to live in Paris, and Patrick lived anywhere in the world where the living was easy and the women beautiful and the gambling available. From time to time, we would see each other, usually in Paris, and in the summer here at my villa in the hills above Cannes. Patrick would come to stay and we’d ‘hang out together,’ as you would put it.” She eyed me from under her lashes again, the turquoise of her eyes shocking me with their cold gleam. “We were always…good friends…,” she said in a voice like a purr. “Always. And now, ma chère Lola, I am here as your friend.”

“You are?” I said.

She gave me that hard glance again. “Patrick talked to me about his problems, you know. And you too can speak freely to me. I’ll do my best to advise you.”

“Well, thank you,” I said, because she was my guest and Patrick’s “good friend” and I couldn’t exactly tell her to get lost and get out of my life before she even got into it.

“Of course, I lent Patrick money,” Giselle added suddenly. “A lot of money. I don’t know whether you know this, but Patrick was in bad financial trouble. Gambling debts. There were…” She hesitated. “There were ‘threats…’”

“Threats? What kind of threats?” I said, shocked. “Maybe you should tell the police this.”

She shrugged. “The police are already aware of Patrick’s problems. But don’t worry, Lola,” she purred again, “I’m not going after you for the money.” She gave me a long look. “Though legally, of course, I could.” She glanced around. “And I suppose this little parcel of land with the so-called hotel is worth quite a bit.”

Was there a hidden threat behind those words? I wondered as Giselle got to her feet, the iced tea undrunk.

“Were there signed notes for these loans?” I asked, worried now about the security of my beloved hotel.

“There was no need for notes and signatures, between Patrick and me,” she said, smiling a feline little smile, “but trust me, I have other ‘evidence.’”

She took a card from her designer handbag and handed it to me. “Here’s my number,” she said, “call me anytime. Call me if you hear from Patrick.”

I walked with her to the door. She held out her hand and I shook it. It was as cool as if the day were a winter one.

“And of course,” Giselle said, “we still don’t know where Patrick is. Or even if he is,” she added, sending a chill through my heart.

I watched her walk back down the path, stepping light as a panther, her long dark hair swaying in rhythm with her hips. You bastard, Patrick, I thought. Wherever I go in the world, there’ll be women like this, “old friends,” coming to warn me off you—dead or alive.





Chapter 26




I put Giselle Castille out of my mind, and made an effort with my appearance that evening, though it wasn’t because of Jack Farrar’s blue eyes. Or if it was then I wasn’t admitting to it. Anyhow, my freshly washed hair had dried shiny in the sun and I’d put on my best lacy underwear, purely for self-esteem purposes, and nothing at all to do with the Naked Man. I wore an apricot dress that fluttered, charmingly I hoped, around my knees, though looking in the mirror I suspected knees were not my best feature. But then whose knees are? You have to have confidence in these matters, I told myself, gazing upward and sweeping mascara over my lashes. I took another doubtful look. Maybe I should have used black instead of brown.

I turned away, exasperated. This was who I was and it would have to do. I sprayed my neck with Dior’s Tendre Poison, bought because I loved the green glass bottle but now I also loved its light feathery scent. I touched up my chipped nail polish, promising myself a pedicure tomorrow, and slid my too-long feet into the strappy bronze sandals I’d bought in the end-of-season sales which, by the way, are always terrific in Saint-Tropez, after the tourists have departed and the hotels are beginning to close. I tested the three-inch heels cautiously, wondering whether they’d been a mistake, but they were so pretty and reduced to almost a gift that I hadn’t been able to resist.