The Hotel Riviera Read Online Free PDF Page A

was, and whether she tended bar here, or if she was just the hostess. And here she came now, heading his way.
    â€œBonsoir, 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.
    â€œA 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.
    â€œI’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…”
    â€œI think we’ve already met.” He held out his hand. “I’m Jack Farrar, the guy from the sloop moored opposite the hotel.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œExcuse me? Your cove? I thought the waters were free to everyone.”
    â€œWell, 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.”
    â€œOkay, 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?
    â€œI’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.
    â€œA good choice,” she said, all professionalism.
    â€œYou didn’t give me any.”
    She glanced up. “Didn’t give you any what?”
    â€œChoice. 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.
    â€œYou must be