The Hotel Riviera(63)

Miss N parked the Mini Cooper with a flourish next to Tom’s turquoise Harley, which she personally kept polished to a showroom shine, treasuring her man’s memories as she did so. I grabbed the plastic bags of groceries from the back and followed her inside.

Little Nell bounded up into Miss N’s arms, the way she always did, like a little rubber ball, but this time Miss N was too excited to give her much time. “Wait there,” she said sternly, dropping her back onto her cushion next to the Aga, and Little Nell tucked her tail under and stared mournfully back at her. “We have to make a phone call,” Miss N explained, and I swear the dog understood.

Miss N did the dialing while I hovered nearby, trying to look casual, but when she said, “Jack, is that you?” my knees went weak at the thought that he was on the other end of the line. I sank into the leather armchair from the old manor, curling up like Little Nell, and gazing in exactly the same beseeching way at Miss N.

“Listen to me, Jack,” Miss N was saying, “where else would a gambler with Italian number plates be? Why, San Remo, of course.” She was grinning like a Cheshire cat, excited and looking most unqueenly, as she imparted this information, then she said, astonished, “What? You’re already in San Remo?” She listened and said, “Ah, I see, the Ducati. Yes, of course.” She glanced at me, listening. “Yes, she’s right here, I’ll put her on,” she said, and handed me the phone.

“Hi, there,” Jack said.

The sound of his voice made me melt all over again. I was behaving like a teenager, I told myself sternly, as I said a hearty, “Hello, Jack, how are you?”

“Missing you,” he said, surprising me.

“Oh yes, well, good. I guess the food isn’t so great when I’m away.”

Miss N glanced at me, brows raised and a look of exasperation on her face. “Sorry,” I said, “it was just a joke.”

“Are you okay, there in England?” Jack said.

“It’s so beautiful, and Miss Nightingale is the perfect host,” I said. “You must come and visit, her cottage is like something from a fairy tale.”

“I will,” he promised. Then sounding serious he said, “Lola, I have some news, but first I want you to tell me if you know a Cosmo March.”

“Cosmo March…but that’s my father. Michael Cosmo March.”

“Yeah, well, Patrick took his name as his alias. He’s been staying here, at the Hotel Rossi in San Remo. He was Mr. Rich Guy with a fancy suite and playing the big shot at the casino. In fact, I missed him by a couple of days. He packed up and left, just like that. And no forwarding address.”

I took a deep breath. “You’re sure it’s him?”

“He fits the description, and besides, who else would know the name Cosmo March?”

“It’s him,” I said, feeling sure now. A tremor of fear rippled down my spine. “We have to track him down, Jack. I have to come back right away. I’ll be on a flight tomorrow. Where shall I meet you?”

“I’m sailing out of San Remo now. Call and let me know your flight, I’ll pick you up.”

“Thank you,” I said, my voice a grateful whisper.

“I told you I missed you, honey,” he said, and I could tell he was smiling.

I put down the phone and said, “I’m sorry, Miss N, but I must go back.”

“Well, of course I shall come with you,” she said. “We can’t let Patrick get away from us now.” And with that, she picked up the phone and called Mary Wormesly to tell her Little Nell would be back, and that she was off on urgent business back to France.





Chapter 60




It was more than just the feeling of “Coming Home” when Jack put his arms around me at Nice Airport the following evening; it was more like I “belonged.” I buried my head in his chest, feeling the muscles in his arms tighten as he held me close, and for a few seconds we clung together. Miss N busied herself discreetly with the luggage while Jack whispered in my ear.

“You look like strawberries and cream, very English,” he said, perhaps because I had my new English pink cashmere sweater tossed around my shoulders and my hair pulled back, preppy style, and neat for once.

“And you look good enough to eat too,” I said, with a goofy grin on my face. Then he went to help Miss N with the luggage, giving her a kiss too, on the cheek, and hefting the bags as though they were feathers.

Miss N gave a pleased little sigh, and said it was so good to have a man around to take care of these things, then we walked together out into the sunshine to find the car. Only it wasn’t a car. Instead we took a taxi to the port where the dinghy was waiting, then sailed home on the sloop, with Bad Dog the mutt taking the place of the aristocratic Little Nell. With his head in Miss N’s lap and the wind in our sails as we headed for Saint-Tropez.

I was almost beginning to like boats.



Jack and I were sitting on the deck of the sloop, looking across the water at the ruin of my hotel. The entire right side where the kitchen had been was a mass of charred beams and twisted steel. What had been left of the roof on that side had been demolished because it was dangerous. The terrace was piled with debris and the rose-colored walls were blackened with smoke. But the bougainvillea struggled bravely on, even though it was the end of November, and the garden still rampaged, wild as ever under the autumn sun.