There's Something About St. Tropez by Elizabeth Adler Page A

boutiques were washing down their sidewalks prior to setting up their racks of chiffon scarves and bead necklaces, T-shirts and flip-flops.
    The Sénéquier waiters in white shirts and black pants with the usual white apron wrapped around the waist, polished the zinc bar and wiped off tables in anticipation of the rush that was to come. Some took a quick break, edging out into the narrow side street where cars barely made it past, perching on a bit of crumbled sidewalk, snatching a fast cigarette.
    Sunny and Mac chose to sit toward the back of the terrace where it joined the open-fronted café proper, arranging the red chairs and grouping three small café tables in readiness for the “meeting” of what Mac described as “a bunch of international misfits escaping from their real lives.”
    Tesoro settled on Sunny’s lap blinking in the sunlight, while Pirate took a quick sniff of every chair then slunk under the table at Mac’s feet. For a moment, perhaps because they were in foreign territory, there seemed to be a truce between the dogs.
    Sunny wore white shorts and a red T-shirt, her long dark hair was tied back with a red silk scarf and there were large gold hoops in her ears.
    â€œYou belong in St. Tropez,” Mac said admiring her and nuzzling her cheek. She smelled of some old-fashioned perfume, Mitsouko he remembered, spicy and sweet at the same time, and her skin was velvet under his lips.
    â€œYou look pretty good yourself,” Sunny said, thinking that in fact Mac looked exactly like himself in his usual Malibu day attire of shorts, favorite old T-shirt—this one faded after many washings from black to gray—dark hair rumpled, blue eyes narrowed in appreciation. She twirled the pink diamond ring. “Don’t forget you asked me to marry you.”
    â€œAnd
why
would I forget? Hey, maybe we could ask a captain on one of these fancy yachts to do the honors? That’s legal, isn’t it?”
    â€œOnly if you’re at sea.” Sunny knew all the facts about getting married.
    She gazed at the yachts being scrubbed down solicitously by what she noticed were very able-bodied young crew members.
    The white Bentley convertible screeched to a sudden halt in front of the café and Belinda leaned her blond head out. “Hi,” she yelled.
    Heads lifted from newspapers and croissants stopped halfway to mouths as the customers took a look.
    â€œHope we’re not late. I’ll find somewhere to park this and we’ll be right with you.”
    With a casual wave of the hand, she made an illegal left turn, almost colliding with a car coming out of the narrow one-way street. She gave its driver the finger and Sunny caught a glimpse of Sara sitting bolt upright, eyes wide with terror as, with another nonchalant wave, Belinda swerved again, then sped off down the port, only this time, thank God, in the right direction.
    The coffee arrived, steaming hot and darkly rich in thick white cups, along with a basket of croissants and a bowl of water for the dogs, just as the red Hummer sauntered slowly past with Billy still in his cowboy hat at the wheel, and Little Laureen, a blur of orange tulle beside him. After them came the yellow Ducati with Nate Masterson, stunning in skintight Tour de France yellow and black Lycra with a yellow-striped black helmet and large goggles.
    â€œExactly like a bumblebee,” Mac said with a grin.
    It was ten more minutes before all the Misfits finally straggled into the café, grumbling about the lack of parking space in St. Tropez.
    â€œWhat do you care?” Sunny exclaimed. “Take a look at where you are. Look at the view, take in those multimillion-dollar boats, the port, the clear blue sky. Feel the sun warming you, smell the aroma of good French coffee, just taste these croissants . . .”
    Belinda pulled back a red chair and plumped into it. “You should have been a poet, girl,” she said to