The Hotel Riviera(7)

“Good evening,” I said, remembering my manners and my smile, though he had neither. “How can I help you?”

He gave me a long look through his dark shades, bringing back a memory of Patrick driving away, and the sunglasses hiding his expression. I folded my arms defensively across my chest.

“I need a room,” he said abruptly.

“Of course. How many nights?” I pretended to check my reservations book though I knew perfectly well we had two rooms free.

“Your best room. Three or four nights, maybe more. I’m not sure.”

“Mistral has the best sea view, I’m sure you’ll like it. All our rooms are named after famous French artistes and writers,” I explained. Not that he cared. I told him the price, and saw the corner of his mouth curve contemptuously and I wondered why, since he obviously thought he was above the Hotel Riviera—he wasn’t at the Carlton in Cannes, instead.

I asked for his passport—Dutch in the name of Jeb Falcon, and his credit card—Amex Platinum—then hooked the key to Mistral from the board behind me and said, “This way, Mr. Falcon, please.”

Finally, he took off the sunglasses. He gave me another long inspection and I stared back, waiting. His eyes were a dull black in the lamplight and I decided I definitely didn’t like him, nor did I like his cold expression. He glanced at his bag on the sofa, then back at me. My lips tightened; if he thought I was going to carry his bag then he was sadly mistaken.

I swear I could feel his eyes burning into my back as he followed me up the creaking wooden stairs, and I quickly showed him his room, handed him the key, and told him curtly that dinner was being served on the terrace, if he wished.

I thought of the sign that said: “Our Welcome Is Bigger Than Our Hotel.” Never before had I failed to make a guest feel “welcome,” but now I stalked back downstairs wishing this guest had gone somewhere else.





Chapter 8




Jack

The dinghy glided alongside the rickety wooden jetty and Jack secured the line around the slab of tree trunk that served as a bollard. He climbed the steps over the rocks and wound his way up a meandering sandy path, passing a small pink house with an old-fashioned front porch. Through the windows he caught a sideways glimpse of an untidy sitting room with squashy sofas upholstered in the local fabrics, and, as he rounded the corner, a bedroom dominated by a massive four-poster, stunningly draped in gold lamé.

“Jesus,” he muttered, wondering about the owner’s taste, as he strode past the oleander hedge and up to the path that led to the front of the hotel. A red and chrome Harley parked outside took his eye, and he paused to admire it. He wondered if it was Miss Voyeur’s, then thought, nah, anyone who was shocked by the sight of a naked man probably drove a sedate little Renault.

The front doors of the hotel stood invitingly open. He walked in and looked around. If the cottage belonged to the owner, and she was also responsible for the décor in here, then he forgave her for the gold lamé bed. Comfortable was the word that sprang to mind, and he was a man who appreciated comfort, on land though not at sea, where he never even thought about it. He could smell lavender and beeswax and flowers; jasmine perhaps, though he was not a man who knew much about flowers. And the aroma of something wonderful wafting from the direction of the kitchen.

Without bothering to ring the bell, he strolled through the pretty hall into the salon and through the French windows onto the terrace, where he stood, hands in the pockets of his shorts, looking around.

He thought this was exactly what the south of France on a summer night was about: the flowery terrace overlooking the bay and the strings of lights looped around the peninsula; the scent of flowers; the hum of conversation and a woman’s laughter; the tinkle of ice in glasses and the pop of a cork as someone opened a bottle of the local pink wine. He decided this just might be perfection; it all depended on the taffy-haired woman. He was curious about her now, wondered what nationality she was, and whether she tended bar here, or if she was just the hostess. And here she came now, heading his way.

“Bonsoir, monsieur,” Lola said, with a deep look from her long-lashed brown eyes that sent a tingle through his spine. She’d pulled back her hair in a ponytail, but the long soft bangs almost touched her lashes, framing her heart-shaped face like a Victorian cameo. Jack realized from her accent she was American, and taller than he’d thought: long legs in wedgie espadrilles that tied in little bows around her skinny ankles, tight white Capris, and a Hotel Riviera tee. No jewelry, save for a gold wedding band. Hah! So she was married.

He realized she hadn’t recognized him, and he grinned back, that lopsided kind of grin that had been known to knock a woman’s socks off. But not this one; she was all hostess/business. “Good evening,” he said.

“A table for two?” Lola asked, peering behind him, as though expecting to see a female companion, though he guessed from her up-and-down look at him she was hoping the woman might be wearing something other than shorts and a T-shirt and old shoes.

“I’m alone,” he said, following her as she threaded her way through the tables and pulled back a chair for him. “Thanks,” he said again.

She was looking at him now, really looking, and he saw, amused, that she was blushing. “Oh,” she said, “Oh, my…”

“I think we’ve already met.” He held out his hand. “I’m Jack Farrar, the guy from the sloop moored opposite the hotel.”