The Hotel Riviera Read Online Free PDF

Jean-Paul,” Jack said, friendly as always.
    â€œYes, monsieur, that is me,” the French kid said. “Madame said I should take your order.”
    â€œI’ll have a bottle of the Cuvée Paul Signac,” Jack said, glancing down at the hand-lettered umber-colored card that was the menu.
    â€œRight 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.

Chapter 9
    Lola
    Why hadn’t I recognized him immediately? Dammit, I’d seen more of him than most people, but somehow he looked different with clothes on. Was I destined always to behave like a blushing teen, when here I was, a mature grown woman? And a married woman, at that, I reminded myself sternly, shaking the cast-iron pan over the heat, browning the rack of lamb before putting it in a hot oven for the prescribed amount of time it would take to cook to perfection.
    That task accomplished, I sent the honeymooners a basket of brownies and fresh almond