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

Sunny. Pulling off the small crusty bit at the end of croissant, she bit into it. “Mmmmm, heaven,” she sighed. “Why could I never get a croissant like this when I had a private chef and a houseboy to serve me breakfast? I think I’m learning how to live again.”
    â€œThat’s not a bad idea.” Nate took off his helmet and goggles, then put on a pair of large sunglasses, the kind that changed intensity depending on the light.
    A cautious guy, Mac thought, watching him; the kind of man who thinks out his moves before making them. Unlike Belinda, who was impetuous and probably foolhardy, and was very likely in deep trouble with the dangerous Russian husband.
    Little Laureen had taken the seat next to Sunny. She leaned over to pat Tesoro. Her father sat down next to her and Sara took the final red chair next to him.
    Waiting till last, Mac observed of Sara: never quite sure of herself, always worried that she might not be welcome. He wondered if she had anything to say for herself now that the boyfriend affair was over. Or was she as dull as she seemed?
    They had yet to see Billy without his hat. Mac thought it might be a disguise, it shaded Billy’s eyes and hid the way he really looked, as well as his thoughts.
    Billy called the waiter over. “Decaf everyone?” he asked.
    â€œOh for God’s sake,” Sunny said. “This is
France
. Have the real thing. Enjoy yourself.”
    â€œY’think so?” Billy looked doubtful. “I mean, it’ll be all right?”
    â€œYou can go back on the decaf when you get home,” Belinda said. “Meanwhile, what’s Little Laureen going to have?”
    â€œPancakes, please.” Little Laureen spoke up. “I mean,
Crépes, s’il vous plaît
,” she said to the waiter, who smiled at the odd little girl in her ballet frock and princess tiara and promised to see what he could do.
    Laureen carried her wand today. She placed it carefully on the table, smoothing it with stubby fingers. Sunny noticed her bitten nails. She felt sorry for her.
    The coffee came quickly: cappuccino for Sara; triple espresso for Belinda; café crème for Nate and regular black for Billy. “Tastes better than the local brew,” he admitted, drinking it down fast and signaling for a second cup. “Mind you, they’re a bit short on quantity. I mean, why don’t they give you a nice tall mug?”
    â€œA Venti, like at Starbucks,” Sara agreed, sipping the cappuccino and getting a milky mustache that she seemed unaware of.
    The noisy
blah blah
of police sirens cut through the quiet morning, and Sara gave a panicked little shriek as three police cars, lights flashing, zoomed along the port.
    â€œCops,” Billy said, seeming surprised to find them in St. Tropez.
    â€œ
Les flics,
” Little Laureen corrected him, smoothing her wand.
    â€œMais la petite est correct.”
The waiter smiled benignly at her.
“Les flics
—the cops.” He set the dish of crepes on the table.
“Eh bien, mademoiselle, vouz parlez bien français.”
    â€œMerci, monsieur.”
Laureen stared doubtfully at the crepes. They were wafer thin and sprinkled with lemon juice and sugar. “Are these French pancakes?” she asked in English.
    â€œMais, bien sûr, ma petite. Tu ne les aime pas?”
The waiter looked troubled.
    â€œI’ll try,” Laureen conceded, though there was a worried crease between her brows. She missed the maple syrup.
    â€œWhat’s with the cops?” Belinda asked the waiter.
    â€œAh,
madame
, it’s the robberies. Another took place night before last, the night of the big storm. It was not discovered until now, and this time there has been a murder.”
    Sunny could almost see Mac’s ears perk up. “Oh, no,” she groaned. “You promised!”
    But Mac still couldn’t resist asking the waiter where the crime had taken place and if