Read Online There's Something About St. Tropez by Elizabeth Adler - Free Book Online

softly splashing onto an unseen shore. Sunny’s profile seemed set in stone. He had never seen her like this. Well, perhaps not
never
, but rarely. It did not bode well.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said. “Of course I would never have let you come alone had I known it was going to be like this.”
    â€œYou have
no idea
what it was like.” Her voice was cold, stubborn.
    â€œI admit it. But Sun, baby, you must understand I would never have allowed this to happen if I were here—”
    â€œBut you weren’t here.”
    She wasn’t letting him off the hook and Mac guessed she was right. He gave up apologizing and tried pleading. “Tell me what I can do to make up for it. Just tell me, baby.”
    He glanced sideways at her. Was her mouth a little less set? Her chin ata lower angle? Were her lips curving into that half smile he knew so well? She had no idea how truly bad he felt about having sent her alone to the disaster that was Chez La Violette.
And
in one of the worst storms St. Tropez had seen in a decade.
    â€œJust find me a room with a bathtub,” Sunny said, softening. On quick reflection, she decided
technically
it was not Mac’s fault. How could he have known the rental was a scam? After all, the others had been taken in too. She ventured a look at him. Their eyes met and the car swerved, causing a honking of horns behind.
    â€œSorry,” Mac said again, but this time his grin was matched by Sunny’s. “I’ll make it up to you, though.”
    Sunny heaved a thankful sigh. She said, “Oh, Mac Reilly, you have no idea how glad I am to see you.”
    The Hôtel des Rêves was down a sandy white lane that ended in a clump of tall trees that must have been there for about a hundred years, and a small farm house that had been there even longer. Square-built of rugged stone, painted the color of fresh cream, small square windows deep-set in true old Provençal style, faded green shutters meant to close out the summer heat and the winter wind, and a roof whose old red tiles had turned a brownish pink. All it needed was a chimney on top from which a curl of blue smoke escaped.
    Charm
was the first word that sprang to Sunny’s mind.
Real
was the second. After the nightmare of Chez La Violette, this was like coming home.
    Over the years, the farm had been expanded—wings right and left and rows of French windows open to catch the breeze. Above, cheerful blue-striped awnings sheltered ample balconies, dripping with scarlet geraniums. A swimming pool gleamed, and down a small rocky incline Sunny could see the sparkle of the Mediterranean. The scent of the Gloire de Dijon roses climbing the portico mingled with those of verbena and jasmine and the clean scent of the sea. And to complete the perfect picture, a pair of white peacocks strutted toward them, tails spread like magnificent bridal trains. In back of them waddled a plain old brown peahen, but even she had her own kind of charm.
    Holding hands, Sunny and Mac walked up two broad shallow steps. The wide glass doors stood open and they saw that the original farm house had been completely gutted. Now it was a single large lofty room open to the rafters and to the newer wings. In fact the whole place looked as though it had always been there. As though it belonged.
    The hall was the same warm creamy color as the exterior, with that longrow of French doors leading onto a flagged terrace where grass grew in the cracks. Squashy sofas in coral linen looked so comfortable Sunny wanted to dive right into one and sleep for about a week, and the simple country furniture had achieved the soft luster of age. Large lamps with chocolate linen shades cast gentle pools of light. At one end of the room was a bar with an old-fashioned zinc counter. At the other, floor-to-ceiling shelves held books and DVDs, with tables nearby for card games and chess, backgammon or jigsaw puzzles.
    A small dining room opened onto