The Charmers (11 page)

Bad move, I thought now, seeing him eyeing it with a condescending frown. I folded my arms over my breasts. I'd also forgotten to put on a bra—well, not forgotten, I'd chosen not to because I hadn't anticipated seeing anyone this morning. I'd decided to visit him only moments ago.

He put down the chamois cloth with which he'd been polishing the car and folded his own arms. “Feeling better, I presume?” he said, brows raised in inquiry.

“I was kind of hoping that
you
were feeling better,” I said honestly. “I couldn't have known—I mean I didn't realize the cops—the Colonel—would think you were…”

“That I was the suspect? And why should he not? I was the man in your home and that's why you'd called them.”

He hitched up his shorts, pale blue this time, I noticed. The man went for pastels. We stared at each other. I thought he was definitely cute. I had no idea what he thought about me in my unlovely tee with my messy red hair and too-short shorts that were meant for nobody's eyes but my own.

To my surprise, he walked the few steps over to where I was standing. He stopped in front of me. I was five-nine in my flip-flops but he was way taller. He bent his head, and put his face close to my uplifted one.

“I don't know whether you realize it, but you are in a frightening situation. You have come close to death two times recently. Shouldn't you be asking yourself why? Who wants you out of the way?” He shrugged. “Seems logical to me.”

“To the Colonel too. He said exactly the same thing, but you see I don't know anyone here, or almost no one. I only ever came to visit my Aunt Jolly and she was hardly the social runabout, though she did give some good dinner parties. She was the old-fashioned sort, liked a proper sit-down dinner, white linen cloth, silver, crystal…”

“Finger bowls.”

I met his eyes. “Not quite that far.”

“So,” he said. “Who was the half-naked young blonde, the one screaming her head off last night?”

“The one that got you arrested?”

He gave me a long look that said not to even mention that.

“The Colonel apologized later,” he said.

“That was Verity. I picked her up on the Paris-to-Nice train. She was running away from her husband. Not only did he cheat on her, he stole all her money.”

“All of it?”

“Well, all she had was a couple of thou, but he took that, and the jewelry. She had nothing, literally the clothes on her back and a tiny duffle with a few photos, her hairbrush, and some underthings. I don't know how far she imagined she could get on that, but fortunately I took her in. I've sent her into town now to pick up some more suitable clothes, at least jeans and a couple of good shirts, a frock or two in case of a party.”

“You are having a party?”

“I'm not, but I heard the gossip that my neighbor on the other side from you is giving a monster bash tomorrow night to which half the monied world around here is invited. Of course, he's Mr. Money himself, so few will turn down an invite to the Villa Mara. You'll have heard of Bruce Bergen?”

“I've heard him called the Boss.”

I nodded. I was still clutching my arms across my unfettered bosom, fearing a jiggle. “That's what everybody—including, I believe, himself—calls him. I see him sometimes, on the café terrace in town, always with a tall glass of lemonade. It's the kind of thing you notice when most everyone else is sipping rosé wine.”

“He's hard to miss, a man that tall, and built like a champion wrestler.”

“He's Russian,” I said, as though that explained it.

I eyed Chad Prescott up and down, considering. “You might care to accompany me,” I said in my most formal voice so he did not think I was coming on to him and asking for a date. “It'll be the party of the year, no expense spared, no celebrity left out.” I spread out my arms, felt my boobs jiggle, wished I had not, and saw him politely avert his eyes. “Of course, it's up to you, you might not like that kind of thing.”

“I don't.”

“Oh.”

We stared at each other.

“For you, I will make an exception,” he said, still looking into my eyes. His were blue. I could see into them so clearly I caught my own reflection. It almost made my heart stop, or at least that's what it felt like, and I have not felt like that in a month of Sundays, as the saying goes. In truth, much longer than that. Well, except when I'd first met him.

“I'd better come with you to protect you,” he said, looking all serious, a furrow creasing his brow, eyes squinching intently. “You do realize somebody means you harm? I know you joked about it when the Colonel suggested bodyguards, but I'm telling you now, that's what you need.”

“Somebody at my back, you mean.”

“Try the front as well,” he said. “Bullets are not choosy.”

I refused to believe he was serious. “I'm just a woman who inherited a beautiful villa, a few hectares of land, a small fortune. I write novels about stuff like this. I mean, it doesn't happen in real life. At least not to people like me.”

He was still giving me that long look that was sending shivers down my spine. “Cute,” Verity had called him. And she was right, but there was more to him than that. This was a man who knew his role in life, who gave of himself. He was not just another member of a summer South of France playboy society. He was the real thing, and I was lucky to have met him, to have been rescued by him, even though it meant he'd spent a night in the local jail.

“I hope the Colonel fed you properly, in the clink,” I said.

“Pizza, half bottle of red. Not bad, these local French jails, when you know the proprietor, so to speak.”

“So to speak,” I agreed.

“Look, I'm serious about you.” He stepped forward and took my gloved hands in both of his, gripping so hard I almost yelled out.

I gasped, half in pain, half in wonder. What could he mean by “serious”?

“There's a danger here, something is wrong, somebody has it in for you.”

“That's what the Colonel said.”

“I believe he's right. Ask yourself, Mirabella, what's wrong? Who wants what you have?”

I loved the way he said my name, pronouncing each syllable so precisely it almost sounded like a woman other than me.

I thought for a second, had no answer, and I told him so. He was still holding my hands in his.

“Then we shall have to find out.”

“Wait I minute.” I snatched my hands away. “I said it before and I'll say it again now. You are the one that wants something from me. You want my land.”

“
My
land,” he said with equal firmness. “Remember I have the letter from Aunt Jolly in which she gave it to me.”

“An old woman like that, she could not think clearly, she did not know what she was doing.”

“I wonder,” he said, looking as though he was thinking hard. “I wonder if she did it to try to keep you out of danger.”

I stared blankly back at him. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Is it true or not true that since you inherited the property there have been attacks on your life?”

I thought about it again. “True,” I admitted. “But that could be a mere coincidence. Somebody made a mistake on the corniche road, and some cat burglar thought I'd have jewels, wanted my pearls.”

“You've seen too many movies. There are no cat burglars anymore. Everything's done by computer, shifting stuff from vaults, from bank accounts. No one's risking life and limb for a pearl necklace now.”

“That's just as well, since the only one I have is fake. I'll wear it to the Boss's party.”

He nodded and turned to walk away. “Hope you'll wear some clothes too,” he called over his shoulder. “I'll pick you up. And Verity, of course.”

“Are we going in the British racing green Jag?” I yelled after him.

He turned, standing there looking very Greek godlike with his floppy blond hair, his lean body, his friggin' pastel shorts, and white polo.

“Of course,” he called back. “Can't let the parking valets down, amongst all the Bentleys and Rolls-Royces, can we?”

 

19

The Boss

Sitting at his usual terrace table, third row back, closest to the building, at his favored seafront café, the Boss added more ice to the tall glass of lemonade. He stirred a lemon segment into it with a long spoon and took a first sip, assessing its acidity. He liked it best when it hit his throat in a sharp rush that a lesser man, or one less experienced in the ways of lemon, might have choked on. It was one of the many small ways he tested himself, though some were tougher, like, for instance, the knife, honed to the thinnest of points that he would hold to his own throat while watching himself in the bathroom mirror. The slightest move, a blink, a tremor, or God forbid, a sneeze would have done him in. He enjoyed that feeling. Danger was a dangerous game: living on the edge, feeling every moment.

He also enjoyed playing that game with other people, real-live people whose death he could enjoy with no danger to himself. Of course when he said “people” he meant girls, young women, teens—older too, though forty or thereabouts was his limit. He preferred the tight body of youth to the overblown tumultuous flesh of the older woman. Like, for instance, the young blonde racing across the street, dodging traffic with a cheeky wave and a big smile as cars screeched around her, making for the very café where he sat, sipping his lemonade.

Folding his arms across his massive chest, the Boss leaned back in his chair—the extra-large one the café kept specially for him—enjoying the sight. Medium-tall, slender, with long legs shown off to perfection in short white shorts that also showed off her pert butt, and a black tank top with, thank God, no insignia inscribed across it. Instead he could take note of her small high breasts, bouncing attractively as she skipped through the traffic, noticed, of course, by every man in the café, as well as by the irate drivers. She stopped suddenly in the middle of the road. Cars screeched to a halt, windows were lowered, angry shouts made her shake her head and point down at the small sausage dog tangled in its lead around her own ankle.

“Sorry,” she mouthed. “So sorry, oh dear. Oh, gosh darn it, Sossy, get a move on, won't you?” And the dog miraculously untangled itself and shot forward, jerking her off her sneakered feet and onto the sidewalk fronting the café.

The Boss admired her as she stood for a minute, a hand on her hip, dog lead wrapped securely around her wrist, surveying the crowded terrace. There were no free tables, there never were in the early evening, when everyone stopped for an aperitif, though inside the place was empty. He saw her mouth the word
shit,
almost thought he caught a hint of a stamp of her foot, but no, surely not.… Whatever, it was an opportunity sent from heaven.

“Mademoiselle…” He waved, caught her eye. “There's a free chair here, if you don't mind sharing. I'll be leaving soon anyway, then you can have it all to yourself, and your little dog, of course. Looks like a sweetheart,” he added, though he was obviously not referring to the dog.

Verity heaved a sigh of relief. “You are so kind to offer, I mean, you don't know me or anything and sharing is such a … well,
intimate
 … thing, isn't it? Especially with a stranger.”

“My pleasure,” he said as the waiter appeared out of nowhere to adjust the chair, set down napkins, a coaster for her, a bottle of Perrier, chilled glasses. He noticed there was no ring on her finger; not married then, or engaged, a free spirit perhaps. Or there was a divorce. Either way, it was good.

“You can't imagine how grateful I am,” Verity rattled on, exhausted from chasing the dog around the back streets. She had already stuffed it in the car and had simply turned to get something when it took off. “You'd never think a small dog like this could move so fast,” she said, finally managing a smile and remembering her manners. “Thank you so much, Mr.…?”

“Bergen.” He held out a large hand that almost swallowed hers as she took it. “Around here they call me the Boss.”

“Wow. You must really be somebody. I myself go by the name of Verity. I am currently choosing to forget my last name, until a more appropriate time.”

The name Verity rang like a clarion call through his brain. He leaned back in his chair, the cane creaking under his bulk, arms crossed, hands flat against his chest, and eyelids half lowered as he took her in. He was looking at the young woman whose death in the car accident he had ordered, for no good reason other than she was Mirabella Matthews's friend and companion. Her bad luck, his good fortune.

He allowed a small worried frown to cross his face. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry, to intrude … I simply wanted to make your acquaintance.”

She was smiling at him, sipping the icy Perrier, burping softly on the bubbles. The dog nudged her foot and she took a couple of ice cubes, put them in the saucer meant for the waiter's tip, and set it on the ground. The dog licked, took a step back, looked up at her, and growled.

“There's thanks for you,” he said, patting its golden-brown head. It growled again.

“Okay Sossy, I'll get you the real thing,” she said, but with the flick of a hand he beat her to it. A waiter appeared with a bowl of water for the dog who proceeded to splash it lavishly all over Verity's sneakers as he lapped.

“Good dog,” she said happily.

A second waiter appeared bearing a tray with duck pâté, St. Aubin cheese, black and green olives, and chunks of sliced baguette.

“Oh, and lucky us,” Verity said, even more happily. “In fact, just what I felt like.”

“Surprising how I guessed,” he said, laughing.

Looking up at him, she said, “Well, now we've introduced ourselves, can I ask what brings you to the South of France, Mr. Boss?”