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

sunshine and sea breezes. Perhaps Violette had held informal parties in this kitchen, fueled with wine and song with a crowd of friends gathered around the old upright piano that still stood in the corner near the fireplace, its lid now firmly closed, and covered, like everything else, in decades of dust.
    She looked out the door and saw Nate walking toward her. He threw up his arms and shook his head.
    â€œNo one,” he called out. “I guess I was mistaken.”
    Her huge sigh of relief made him smile. She held the door for him, waiting while he cleaned the mud off his shoes on the metal boot-scraper. The Chihuahua lurked behind her, growling.
    Nate ran his hands through his wet hair then sat back at the kitchentable. “Some night!” he said, taking a look at the mermaid who, as she dried off, was becoming decidedly more attractive. Beautiful even. Pity about the fiancé. He said, “Tell me, how does the fiancé cope with Tesoro?”
    â€œHe doesn’t.” It was Sunny’s turn to fix the coffee and she waited by the stove for the water to boil. There wasn’t even a kettle and she had to use a little tin saucepan, which was almost all there was of the “
batterie de cuisine”
in the “immaculate French kitchen” promised in the brochure.
    â€œTesoro is jealous of Mac,” she explained. “And besides, she hates Mac’s dog. She won’t even allow Pirate on the bed when I’m with him.” She poured the almost-hot water onto the coffee grounds then carried the mugs over to the table. “That’s the reason we’re not married yet. Our dogs have to call a truce first.”
    â€œYou can’t be serious?”
    â€œOf course I am.”
    Nate stared at her, stunned. He poured more brandy. “Okay,” he said, “Tell me all about it, baby.”
    Looking at the beautiful Sunny across the table, for the first time in years Nate realized he was actually enjoying himself.
4 A.M.
    New headlights flickered along the lane and Bertrand quickly ran and hid behind the big wooden gates.
    The car overshot the driveway then, gears screeching, was flung violently into reverse. Tires squealed, as the big car jerked backward, narrowly missing the gateposts, finally swung between them, then screamed up the drive and came to an abrupt halt in a spray of gravel.
    Bertrand saw it was a beautiful white Bentley convertible, mud-spattered and with a badly dented front bumper. Then a tall woman got out of it, cursing loudly as she ran through the rain into the house.
4 A.M.
    The front door slammed. Footsteps crossed the hall. Nate and Sunny turned to look. A Sharon Stone look-alike stood in the arched entrance. She waswearing an expensive but badly creased white linen pants suit and red patent stilettos. Her blond hair was cropped short, her mouth was set in a tight line and her angry icy blue eyes took in the two of them, then the bottle of brandy and the sword on the table.
    â€œI might have known it,” she said, in a contemptuous English accent. “What else could I expect but to find the help boozing in the kitchen while I struggled with that bloody car?”
    She tossed the keys to Nate. “You, go get my luggage. And you.” She pointed at Sunny. “Pour me a double, plus put on another pot of coffee, then make sure my room is properly made up. The master bedroom, of course.”
    Stunned into silence, they stared back at her.
    She stalked angrily toward them, heels clacking on the tiles. Her simmering temper had reached boiling point. “Well? Don’t just sit there,” she yelled. “Don’t you know who I am?”
    â€œNo, I don’t know who you are,” Sunny snapped. “And what’s more, I’m hoping I never have to find out.”
    The blonde’s jaw dropped. Her angry eyes met Sunny’s for a long moment, then suddenly she sank into a chair, all the stuffing knocked out of