comforts of the hotel and the bridge table. “You know exactly what I want, dear girl. Find us something nice.”
Bea spent the next few days happily zigzagging along the coast, inspecting properties, but still found nothing that was quite right. She was up in the hills near Vence when she noticed the thunderclouds stacking ominously over the mountains. The temperature and humidity were soaring, so she decided to stop for a cool drink at a café.
The small village square was deserted, and the only other customer on the café terrace was a young man who was busy writing.
She sipped her cold drink, watching him, wondering what he was writing that kept him so absorbed. He was
almost
good-looking, she conceded. Not too tall, with rumpled curly brown hair that looked as though he had run his hands through it once too often. And he had an interesting bony face and a generous-looking mouth that she thought would have been described in romantic novels as “finely chiseled.” She guessed he was in his early thirties and decided he must be a writer, wondering if he was famous and if she should know him.
She jumped as lightning suddenly forked through the blackened sky, followed by a peal of thunder and the spatter of raindrops. A wind gusted from nowhere, scattering the man’s papers, and she ran to help pick them up before they were soaked. He thanked her in French, but she could tell from his accent he was English.
There was another flash, and the rain began to come down in torrents as they ran together into the café.“Better sit out the storm in here,” he said, smiling at her. “Let me buy you a drink to thank you for saving my priceless manuscript.”
They sat at the small scarred wooden bar, sipping a glass of rosé wine, and he told her his name was Nick Lascelles. Then he asked where she was from.
Bea stared at him blankly. It was such a casual question, so easy. For anyone else. “San Francisco, I guess,” she said finally.
He looked quizzically at her. “You don’t sound too sure.”
“Oh, I am,” she said quickly, embarrassed. “Of course I am.”
“You’re on holiday, I suppose.”
“Sort of. I’m supposed to be working, but it seems more like a holiday.” She told him about Millie, playing endless games of bridge at the Hôtel du Cap and said that Millie wanted to buy a villa and she was supposed to be out looking for one to satisfy her requirements.
“And what are you doing here?” she asked finally.
“I’m researching my book. About crime on the Riviera, from the turn of the century to the present day. Crimes of passion, violence, grand theft, and murder. Solved and unsolved.” He grinned. “You’d be surprised how many there are.”
Thunder rumbled ominously around the hills, and he glanced at his watch, then looked hopefully at her. “The storm will be around for a while. Won’t you join me for lunch?”
The café had filled up, and they squeezed into a little table by the window. Bea watched the rain bouncing from the cobblestones in the square and realized suddenly that she was enjoying herself. Nick Lascelles was nice, he was young and attractive, and he talked nonstop throughout the generous seventy-five-franc meal of the day.
Over the soup he told her that his mother wasFrench and his father English. “From one of those ‘good’ families with an old name and not much money,” he said with a grin. “I was the poorest boy at the ‘rich boys’ school they sent me to in Switzerland. No helicopters whisking me off for weekends on the yacht like most of the other boys; no private planes sent to take me home for the holidays.”
As he ate his omelet, he told her that all that was left of the once-vast family fortunes was the old manor house and a few acres in Gloucestershire that his brother had inherited. And an old run-down vineyard near Bordeaux with the prettiest little château that had been left to him and that he was attempting to update into the twentieth
Bea spent the next few days happily zigzagging along the coast, inspecting properties, but still found nothing that was quite right. She was up in the hills near Vence when she noticed the thunderclouds stacking ominously over the mountains. The temperature and humidity were soaring, so she decided to stop for a cool drink at a café.
The small village square was deserted, and the only other customer on the café terrace was a young man who was busy writing.
She sipped her cold drink, watching him, wondering what he was writing that kept him so absorbed. He was
almost
good-looking, she conceded. Not too tall, with rumpled curly brown hair that looked as though he had run his hands through it once too often. And he had an interesting bony face and a generous-looking mouth that she thought would have been described in romantic novels as “finely chiseled.” She guessed he was in his early thirties and decided he must be a writer, wondering if he was famous and if she should know him.
She jumped as lightning suddenly forked through the blackened sky, followed by a peal of thunder and the spatter of raindrops. A wind gusted from nowhere, scattering the man’s papers, and she ran to help pick them up before they were soaked. He thanked her in French, but she could tell from his accent he was English.
There was another flash, and the rain began to come down in torrents as they ran together into the café.“Better sit out the storm in here,” he said, smiling at her. “Let me buy you a drink to thank you for saving my priceless manuscript.”
They sat at the small scarred wooden bar, sipping a glass of rosé wine, and he told her his name was Nick Lascelles. Then he asked where she was from.
Bea stared at him blankly. It was such a casual question, so easy. For anyone else. “San Francisco, I guess,” she said finally.
He looked quizzically at her. “You don’t sound too sure.”
“Oh, I am,” she said quickly, embarrassed. “Of course I am.”
“You’re on holiday, I suppose.”
“Sort of. I’m supposed to be working, but it seems more like a holiday.” She told him about Millie, playing endless games of bridge at the Hôtel du Cap and said that Millie wanted to buy a villa and she was supposed to be out looking for one to satisfy her requirements.
“And what are you doing here?” she asked finally.
“I’m researching my book. About crime on the Riviera, from the turn of the century to the present day. Crimes of passion, violence, grand theft, and murder. Solved and unsolved.” He grinned. “You’d be surprised how many there are.”
Thunder rumbled ominously around the hills, and he glanced at his watch, then looked hopefully at her. “The storm will be around for a while. Won’t you join me for lunch?”
The café had filled up, and they squeezed into a little table by the window. Bea watched the rain bouncing from the cobblestones in the square and realized suddenly that she was enjoying herself. Nick Lascelles was nice, he was young and attractive, and he talked nonstop throughout the generous seventy-five-franc meal of the day.
Over the soup he told her that his mother wasFrench and his father English. “From one of those ‘good’ families with an old name and not much money,” he said with a grin. “I was the poorest boy at the ‘rich boys’ school they sent me to in Switzerland. No helicopters whisking me off for weekends on the yacht like most of the other boys; no private planes sent to take me home for the holidays.”
As he ate his omelet, he told her that all that was left of the once-vast family fortunes was the old manor house and a few acres in Gloucestershire that his brother had inherited. And an old run-down vineyard near Bordeaux with the prettiest little château that had been left to him and that he was attempting to update into the twentieth
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