There's Something About St. Tropez Read Online Free PDF Page A

fragmenting with age and the room smelled musty, as though the windows had not been opened in decades. In the rose-marble bathroom, there were rust stains in the black and silver claw-foot tub, and when the faucet was turned cold brown water gushed out. Heart sinking, Sunny realized this certainly wasn’t the way Chez La Violette had looked in the brochure. Something was terribly wrong.
    Putting aside any thoughts of a hot shower, she splashed her face with the rusty water, took a towel from the pile still stacked on the shelves and shook out the dust. Shivering, she dried her hair then ran her fingers through to untangle it.
    She stood for a moment, listening to the rain drumming on the roof and the wind battering at the windows. Yet there was a stillness in Violette’s room. A different kind of silence. Uneasy, Sunny looked at the dog, crouched on the white sheepskin rug emitting mournful little whines, the kind Mac said sounded like a police siren fitted with a suppressor. She bent to stroke her. “It’s okay,” she said, sounding uncertain. “I promise it will be all right, you’ll see.”
    Quite suddenly a warm breeze filtered through the room, like a summerwind, bringing with it a faint flowery scent. It hung in the air for a moment, then it was gone.
    The hair at the back of Sunny’s neck prickled. She flung off her wet clothes, put on the white terry bathrobe and thrust her feet into the comfy old pink furry slippers that she never traveled without. She grabbed the ham and cheese baguette still in its wax-paper wrapper, bought what seemed like aeons ago in Paris airport, then with a doubtful glance around, picked up Tesoro and hurried back to the safety of the kitchen, where Nate Masterson had fresh mugs of hot coffee waiting.
    One thing was certain: she was not sleeping in Violette’s room.
    Â 
    Outside the window, Bertrand Olivier got her in focus. She looked better now. Her hair was a beautiful blue-black and her eyes were amber, almost the color of her dog, who to Bertrand’s delight gave the man another snarl as he placed a fresh cup of the Nescafé instant in front of the woman. Now the man was offering her something from a bottle. Bertrand focused on it. Brandy.
    He guessed the man was suggesting a hot toddy. Wasn’t that supposed to get the blood flowing again, bring color to the cheeks? That’s what his mother had told him, when she indulged. But Bertrand didn’t want to think about his mother right now
    He watched frustrated. He wished they would open a window so he could hear what they were saying. It was a pity the man was here though. His job would have been so much easier if he were not.
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    â€œThat’s better,” Nate said with a grin Sunny felt must have charmed the pants off many a woman. It crossed her mind that, with Mac on the lam, perhaps she should be feeling lucky to be caught in a storm in a mysterious, neglected old villa in France, with a man as attractive as Nate Masterson.
    He held up a large but half-empty bottle of Spanish Soberano brandy. “I found this in the cupboard. It tastes okay. How about a little in your coffee? Take the chill off things.”
    â€œThat’s your best idea yet. And I have the perfect accompaniment.” She unwrapped the travel-worn sandwich. “You hungry?”
    â€œOh boy, am I!”
    Sunny cut the baguette into four chunks and put it, still on its square of greasy paper, on the table between them. What with the coffee, the brandy, the food, it was getting to be almost cozy.
    â€œSo what do you do?” Nate asked. “Out there in the wilds of L.A.?”
    â€œOh, ooh, public relations. You know, getting clients recognition in the media, pushing them and their products, that kind of thing.”
    â€œThat kind of
L.A.
thing.”
    â€œSo what do
you
do anyway?” Sunny wished she didn’t sound so defensive.
    Nate sat back, sandwich in hand, thinking about