The Hotel Riviera(8)

“I know who you are,” Lola said, stiff with embarrassment, “and I want you to know I didn’t mean to spy on you. I was just curious to see who was mooring in my cove.”

“Excuse me? Your cove? I thought the waters were free to everyone.”

“Well, of course they are. But I always think of this as my cove, and I’m not fond of rowdy vacationers having wild parties on their boats and disturbing my guests.”

“Okay, I promise I’m not going to be rowdy. Now, will you shake my hand and call a truce, and tell me who you are?”

Lola pulled herself together. She gave him her best hostess smile as well as her hand; after all, he was her dinner guest. “I’m Lola Laforêt. Welcome to my little auberge. Now, can I get you a drink, some wine, perhaps? We have excellent local wines, and if you prefer rosé, I can recommend the Cuvée Paul Signac.”

She stood, pencil poised over her notepad, looking haughtily down at him, thinking he was too full of himself and too smug about catching her peeking at him, and anyhow, he’d peeked right back, hadn’t he?

“I’ll take a bottle of the artist’s wine,” he said and caught her sharp glance. She probably hadn’t thought a scruffy sailor like himself would know about Signac, a painter who’d frequented Saint-Tropez in its early incarnation as a small fishing port.

“A good choice,” she said, all professionalism.

“You didn’t give me any.”

She glanced up. “Didn’t give you any what?”

“Choice. You recommended only one wine and I took it.”

She glared at him now. “In that case I’ll send Jean-Paul over with the wine list and the menu. He’ll take care of you.” And with that she whisked away.

Well, you blew that one, Jack told himself. Or was it Miss Prickly Taffy Hair Brown Eyes who’d blown it? He thought about her eyes, how her long lashes swept onto her cheeks, the way Bambi’s had in the Disney cartoon, and how very appealing that was. But boy, did she have attitude!

A thin French kid, pale as a bleached moth in black pants and a black Hotel Riviera tee, sporting half a dozen gold hoops in his ear, strolled over with the wine list, the menu, and a basket of rosemary-olive bread that smelled freshly made.

“You must be Jean-Paul,” Jack said, friendly as always.

“Yes, monsieur, that is me,” the French kid said. “Madame said I should take your order.”

“I’ll have a bottle of the Cuvée Paul Signac,” Jack said, glancing down at the hand-lettered umber-colored card that was the menu.

“Right away, monsieur.” Jean-Paul moved as though he had lead in his shoes and Jack wasn’t betting on any fast service around here.

He glanced round at his fellow diners: a flamboyant couple; a pair of young lovebirds; a girl in charge of two well-behaved little boys; a spinster lady of “a certain age”—actually, probably a little older than that—who looked remarkably queen like in her pearls and who flashed him a discreet ladylike smile of welcome; and another guy dining alone, like himself.

There were several empty tables on the terrace and a very empty small dining room in the back. He wondered if the food was bad, then thought it was not busy because it was the end of the season. The French rentrée, when the whole of France returned to work, had already taken place, kids were back in school, students were back in college, and tourists were back in their home countries. Few people were able, as he was, to wander the world at will.

Jean-Paul returned with the wine in a frosty silver bucket. It was remarkably good: cold, fruity, light. Madame Lola Laforêt had good taste in wine as well as décor. He glanced around approvingly. Everything here was in harmony, gentle and appealing. Except for the nervous-looking guy at the table next to him.

The man was downing a good red Domaine Tempier as though it were Coca-Cola and looking as though he couldn’t wait to leave. Jack thought there was something familiar about him. You didn’t easily forget a face like his: that hard impassive look that allowed for no expression. Nor the way he bounced on his toes as he got up, fists clenched, biceps pumped, ready to take on anyone who crossed him; the flashy gold watch, the diamond pinky ring, the expensive loafers and designer sportswear. This was obviously a man-about-town in the south of France. So what the hell he was doing, dining at this little hostelry?

Trouble was, he couldn’t place him. Was it at Les Caves du Roy, where Jack had been with Sugar one night? Actually, he’d escorted Sugar there and left her to her own devices after the first half hour, when he could no longer take the decibel level, and anyhow Sugar had found her own company. Or was it on the terrace of the Carlton in Cannes, where he’d been talking business with a man whose boat he was building and who loved boats as much as he did himself?

Ah, what the hell, the guy had probably just been part of the passing parade at the Café Sénéquier, where everybody in Saint-Tropez ended up at some time or other.

He took another long assessing glance as the man passed him on his way out. He didn’t like the guy, that was for sure. A minute later he heard the familiar Harley roar and the sound of gravel spurting from tires. He might have guessed the Harley was his.

He turned his attention back to the menu, ordered lobster salad with ginger, and the rack of lamb with eggplant tian and sat back to enjoy the wine and the view, hoping for another glimpse of Madame Laforêt—the hostess-without-the-mostest and the eyes like Bambi.