The Hotel Riviera(43)

I looked around seeing what she saw and suddenly my charming little hotel looked not chic enough, not glossy enough, a little worn at the edges. Yet what it lacked in luxury, I had always thought it made up for in charm.

Giselle obviously didn’t see “charm.” She saw the rather battered antiques, the gaily patterned inexpensive Proven?al fabrics, the chips on the rosewood table, and the flowers drooping in the battered silver urns.

“So, this is the Hotel Riviera,” she said.

“This is it,” I agreed.

“Patrick’s only asset,” she added, settling onto the fake Louis-the-something gilt sofa, covered by me in yellow and blue stripes and a lot of upholstery tacks.

“It was,” I agreed with her again.

“I heard a rumor that Solis bought the property from you, for his wife?”

It was a question, not a statement. I put her straight. “Patrick owed Solis money. He pledged the property, then reneged on the debt. Solis is claiming the hotel. He plans on giving it to his wife.”

“Ah, Evgenia.” She gave me a knowing look from those turquoise eyes. “It’s always cherchez la femme with Patrick.”

That was exactly what Miss Nightingale had said. I wondered if it were true, about Patrick and Evgenia? And if so, how did Giselle know?

She said, “However, Madame Solis will have to fight me for the property. I have here a list of the monies Patrick owes me. I always gave him checks. I have a note of their numbers and the amounts, and all the checks were made out to him, in his name. I believe my claim will predate Monsieur Solis’s. I have been lending Patrick money for many years.”

“Is that what you came to tell me?” My chin was up in the air where Budgie Lampson had told me to keep it. I was haughty, cold, and angry with this rich maneuvering bitch, who wasn’t satisfied just to have had my husband, now she wanted my home too.

“That is all, my dear Lola. Except, maybe, just one other thing.”

“Okay,” I said, a little wearily, because at this point Patrick’s life was just too complicated even to fathom. “What is it?”

“Tell me where Patrick is,” she said, surprising me. “Just tell me where he is, and I will drop my claim. I promise.”

I stared stonily at her. “I have no idea where Patrick is.”

“Oh, yes, you do.” She was on her feet, heading for the door, immaculate in her white linen with the white chiffon scarf over her long dark hair, looking like a suntanned Madonna without the innocence. “I warn you,” she said, “it’s in your best interests to tell me where Patrick is.”

I followed her to the door. “Why is it in my best interests?” I demanded, really angry now.

“Because, my dear Lola, Patrick belongs to me. He always has.”

She left me standing on my doorstep, a stunned look on my face. Of course, I’d known the minute I met her, she had been Patrick’s lover, but he belonged to her? The woman was crazy.

As if to prove my point, Scramble appeared from around the corner. She stopped to survey the scene, then with an almighty squawk, she ran at Giselle, wings flapping in a hen-jet takeoff. Giselle screamed, arms flailing, as she tried to beat her off, but Scramble pecked her arms, her legs, anywhere she could reach.

“Get it off me, get it off me!” Giselle yelled, along with a string of unladylike epithets. I just stood there, arms folded, thinking, Go to it, Scramble. I would have scratched Giselle’s eyes out myself if good manners hadn’t stopped me.

The young guy jumped out of the car. He grabbed Giselle and aimed a kick at Scramble. I grabbed her, clutching her under my arm.

“Get out,” I said firmly. “You are not wanted here.”

Giselle was still yelling as they drove off, but I didn’t care. Still, I’d had the uneasy feeling I hadn’t seen the last of her. She would be back and looking for revenge.



I stalked back into the hotel. It was suddenly quiet, unnervingly quiet.

Clutching Scramble, still squawking, I walked back down the path to my cottage. As I rounded the oleander hedge I saw it.

The sloop was moored in my little cove, just like the first time.





Chapter 40




I stood looking at it, my heart pounding, my mouth dry with anger. Scramble fluttered from my arms, heading back to the terrace and her hibiscus pot.

So he was back, was he. It had been almost a week. Where had he been? Why had he left without saying anything? And especially why had he left without saying anything right after we had made love all night? Maybe I hadn’t behaved in a very ladylike manner, but I was no one-night stand. If he thought he was just going to sail right back into my life as though nothing had happened, then he was wrong. I’d had it with men. All men. And that included Jack Farrar.

I flung myself onto the porch sofa. Head thrown back against the cushions, eyes closed. I willed myself not to care. Life had dealt me one more blow and, coming on top of all the others, I just couldn’t take it.

A while later, I heard Jack’s footsteps on the path. I didn’t open my eyes; I didn’t even move. But the sound of his voice sent a shiver down my spine.

“Lola? Lola, are you all right?”

I could feel him, standing next to me, hear him breathing. I imagined his frown as he stared at me.

“Go away,” I said, finally.