There's Something About St. Tropez by Elizabeth Adler

him.
    Pirate spotted them, wuffed joyfully, galloped jerkily toward Sunny and flung himself on her.
    â€œBaby,” Sunny whispered. “Oh baby, how did
you
get here?”
    â€œHe came with me, of course.” Mac strolled across the terrace, cool in white jeans and a black T-shirt. He set down his duffel and stopped in front of her, smiling.
    Sunny did not return his smile. Nor did she throw herself into his arms. Instead she stared accusingly at him. “How did
you
get here?”
    â€œWe finished early. I hitched a ride on Ron Perrin’s plane. He still has one you know, despite the jail time.”
    But Sunny wasn’t interested in Ron Perrin right now. “You’ve no idea what I’ve been through.”
    Mac looked warily at her. She was definitely frazzled, not to say upset, and she was wearing her pink fuzzy slippers and a bathrobe. He took in the rest of the group: the athletic-looking guy in the workout pants; the tall, tearstained, good-looking blonde in bare feet and creased white pants suit; the brown-haired skinny waif with the serious eyes; the Texan with the cowboy hat; and the miniature ballerina, complete with tutu.
    â€œJesus,” he said, astonished. “What’s going on here?”
    And then Tesoro bit Pirate and Sunny burst into tears.
9 A.M.
    Sunny’s nerves were jagged with fatigue and too much instant coffee, plus quite a lot of brandy. Everything had suddenly caught up to her: the long flights; the delays; driving through the storm; the scary image of the man on the dark lonely road; and the fright when she was chased by a stranger with a sword with no one there to call for help. Plus trying to cope with the disaster at Chez La Violette,
and
all these strangers with their own problems. She was flat-out exhausted. She knew she looked terrible. And she was mad as hell. Her teary glare said it all. Let the famous PI sort this one out.
She
had had it. Tears ran down her cheeks.
    Billy didn’t like to see a woman cry and the new guy seemed too stunned to do anything about it. He put a protective arm around Sunny’s shoulders.
    â€œNow let me tell ya somethin,’ dude,” he said to Mac. “This young woman’s about had it. She’s exhausted. Can’t y’see she has no time for making small talk over tea and cookies? What she needs is a bed.”
    Sunny turned a grateful glance on him, then looked back at Mac from under her lashes. She wasn’t too exhausted to check out his reaction to the big Texan with his arm around her.
    â€œI’m Billy Bashford, this here’s my daughter, Little Laureen. That’s Nate Masterson, and there’s Belinda Lord and Sara Strange. And you are?”
    â€œMac Reilly.”
    â€œThe fiancé,” Nate said, surprised.
    If Mac was also surprised that Nate knew who he was, he didn’t show it.
    â€œAnd anyways, things are so crazy here at the villa Chez La Violette,” Billy went on, “we’re all wondering where we’re gonna find that bed to lay our weary heads. If it weren’t for Little Laureen, here, I’d be heading for that fancy hotel where Mick Jagger once got hitched to Bianca, the one with the Euro-trash nightclub. But of course that wouldn’t be the correct place to take a little ballet dancer like my daughter Laureen.”
    â€œYou’re right,” Mac said, still worrying about Sunny, who was keeping her distance, alternately mopping her eyes with her fist and glaring angrily at him. He wanted to go put his arms round her but her body language was definitely not encouraging. Besides, he still had no idea what was going on,nor why all these people were here. Bewildered, he took in the dilapidated pool, the rusting garden furniture, the weedy terraces and the muddy lawn. His questioning eyes met Sunny’s.
    She shook her head. “Don’t even ask.”
    Mac nodded again. Whatever had happened he guessed he’d find out