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

it. “I do nothing. I quit everything that I am.” He took a bite, thinking about what he’d just said, then corrected himself. “That is I quit everything that I
thought
I was; the Wall Street trader working every minute God sends and then some, stashing the purloined loot away like a squirrel stashes its nuts for that long winter hibernation. But I never got to ‘hibernate,’ I just kept on, summer and winter alike. I had no other life, just being the best at what I did, making money. Until one morning—one of those usual three o’clock mornings—getting dressed in my Wall Street pin-striped uniform, catching the latest events on the Asian market, my brain already running ahead to Europe and then . . .” He shrugged and took a gulp of coffee, pulling a face as the brandy hit his throat. “Well, you get the picture. It’s kind of a classic: man sees his whole life run before his eyes like a bad movie, realizes he
has
no life, that money is not the be-all and end-all. That it’s time for some real living.”
    â€œAnd now what?”
    â€œNow?” Nate took another bite. “Now I have to find out what ‘real living’ means. I’m too used to work and solitude to thrust myself onto the world market. I need time to recuperate, figure out who I am, what I am, where I’m going. That’s why I took this villa. It was better than a hotel, lots of space, I could be alone with my thoughts, do what I wanted, whenever I wanted.”
    â€œAnd then I came along.”
    â€œThen you came along.”
    There was a long silence. Then Sunny said, “Tell me some more about you.”
    Nate gave a self-deprecating little shrug. “Oh you know . . . I thought I might try my hand at that novel we all like to imagine we have in us.”
    â€œPerhaps you really have,” Sunny said, but then she realized Nate wasn’t listening. He was staring at the window, eyes narrowed. Tesoro turned to look then gave a sudden throaty growl.
    Nate said, “I think there’s somebody out there.”
    Scared, Sunny scrambled to her feet, but Nate was already heading for the door. It took him a few seconds to get the big old-fashioned iron key to turn, then he ran out into the storm.
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    _______
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    Bertrand Olivier saw him coming and careened from the bushes, skidding across the muddy lawn at the side of the drive, dodging behind trees, finally hiding, panting, in a recess in the old yew hedge near the gates.
    The footsteps had stopped. Bertrand knew the man was still standing there, searching the darkness for him, but he had the advantage of knowing the terrain. He knew this house and its grounds like the back of his own hand.
    The man’s footsteps retreated and Bertrand raced out into the lane before anyone could so much as catch a glimpse of his camouflage cape and the bulky old-fashioned bird-watcher’s binoculars, bouncing on his chest.
    He stopped near the gates though, looking longingly back, tempted to return, even though he knew there was a danger of being caught.
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    Nate had disappeared into the night. Nervous, Sunny paced the kitchen. She inspected the ancient range, all black and steel with massive ovens that she thought had probably, in Violette’s day, been used to cook swans and larks or something equally awful and exotic.
    It was obvious that no housekeeper had been near the place in years. All she found in the cupboards were a few dusty mugs and a couple of plates. There were no supplies, not even a box of cornflakes or dishwashing liquid. Yet the beamed kitchen had a country-style charm, with its low, wide windows and long refectory table, and the tattered blue-check curtain on a wire, hiding the space beneath the sink. Sunny tried to imagine it as it had once been, with a fire in the massive limestone grate, cheerful on a stormy night like this, and then in summer with the windows flung open to the