The Hotel Riviera(45)

But life was to be lived now, for the day, for this very moment, so I ordered Charentais melon with Parma ham, and Jack had the moules marinière.

The place was almost empty, just another couple sipping rosé wine and watching people strolling along the beach. A sweet-faced little white dog came by to say hello, balancing on his hind legs, waving his front paws in a dance for food. So of course I fed him all my Parma ham while I ate the melon, and when there was no more he left me for another. He also left me with a row of flea bites up my left leg—a fine way to say thank you, I said, laughing.

I sat back, savoring the moment. There was the sound of the sea, the beautiful blue and green view of the peninsula where my hotel was tucked away, the warmth of filtered sunlight under the canvas awning, an old Aznavour record playing softly in the background. This moment was pure happiness, I decided.

Then I devoured an entire bowl of wild strawberries while Jack told me stories about Cabo San Lucas in Mexico, about how different it was from our south of France sophistication.

“It’s just a funky little town with some high-decibel discos, a few strip joints, some good hotels, some cheap,” he said. “There’s a couple of places I like to eat, the Mocambo for the best deep-fried whole red snapper you’ll ever eat, and a salsa hot enough to toast your innards. The best bar is known as the Office, out on Medrano Beach: feet in the sand, margaritas the size of beach balls, good food, fishermen getting drunk after a long day on the Sea of Cortez, good-looking women eyeing the fishermen…kinda like that.”

“I’ll have to go there someday.”

“Don’t expect too much, it’s just a little Mexican seaside town, the real Mexico. Except now they’re building grand hotels and big money is coming in.” He sighed regretfully. “It’s a pity that places you discover and really like never stay the same.”

“Yes, it’s a pity,” I agreed, enjoying just looking at him.

Our eyes met; the message between us was clear. Jack took my arm as we walked out and back to the car. It was later than I’d thought, we’d been gone for hours, but it didn’t matter, there were no guests. I was not den mother today. My time was my own.





Chapter 42




We drove slowly back along the beach road, jammed so tight into my little car, I could feel the warmth from his body. I had a sudden longing to run my fingers over the hair on his arms, blond from the sun. A kind of breathless silence hung between us, that flickering tension that is the lead-in to love.

We turned down the shady lane leading to the hotel. Jack parked under the tumble of blue morning glory, and I thought that this would be the first time we would really be alone together, here. The place was completely ours. We could dine alone on my terrace watching the little jeweled lizards and the blue of the sky melt into the blue of the Mediterranean. We could hold hands and breathe the sweet fresh air, flavored with jasmine, and sip rosé wine. If we wished, we could cavort naked in the midnight sea. Tonight, the world was ours.

I unfurled my legs, hauling myself out of the car, remembering how gracefully Giselle had done it, but then she was in a Jag and I was in the Deux Chevaux. Anyhow, she hadn’t had Jack Farrar sitting beside her with sex on his mind, just the way it was on mine.

We strolled toward the terrace, then Jack said he’d left the dog alone on the boat and he’d better go get him. He smiled at me, holding my shoulders the way he did before, tilting my chin until I was looking into his eyes. “And then, we’ll take it from there,” he murmured, brushing my lips with his.

I watched him stride down the path to the wooden jetty, turning at the oleander hedge to gave me a wave. I slipped off my sandals, enjoying the heat of the terra-cotta tiles on my bare feet. I was still smiling as I walked along the terrace toward the kitchen, where somehow I always ended up, guests or no guests, staff or no staff. The glass beads on the door curtain tinkled musically in a sudden gust of wind. Autumn was definitely on its way.

I felt something wet and sticky under my toes and looked down. I knelt and touched it. Blood! I stared around, not knowing where it could be coming from. And then I saw Scramble lying next to the hibiscus pot.

Her throat had been cut. I knelt over her, trying to push the edges of the wound together, but it was too late.

Tears rolled down my face. Scramble was my little love, my odd little pet, the tiny yellow chicken peering fearlessly at me from the palm of my hand. I stroked her feathers, crying softly.





Chapter 43




Jack

Whistling cheerfully, Jack tied the dinghy up at the jetty and strode back up the path. Bad Dog cavorted beside him, prancing on his hind legs like a circus dog, making Jack laugh.

“Better behave yourself tonight, old buddy,” he said, giving him a friendly whack. “No wrecking dinner this time. Or anything else,” he added, remembering the way Lola had looked as she got out of the car, the fall of taffy-colored hair, the way she swept the bangs impatiently out of her eyes; her bare brown knees and the sweet curve of her mouth as she turned her head and smiled at him. A secret little smile that held a promise.

He’d missed Lola more than he’d thought possible on the week’s trip back to the States. His head had been full of worries about his sunken boat, but on that long transatlantic flight, lying back in his seat, eyes closed, she had crept into his mind. He remembered the way she looked and the texture of her soft skin under his hands. He remembered the way her brown eyes had rounded with shock when Solis told her he was giving the hotel to Evgenia, and her pride as she had gotten to her feet and told him her lawyers would see about that.