To Love a Thief. Merline Lovelace
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chairs. A good many of the women, Mackenzie noted, had opted for bottomless as well as topless. Heads tipped back, legs outstretched, hands clasped over their bare middles, they indulged in the serious business of doing nothing.
Sunbathers weren’t the only ones enjoying the golden glow cast over the sea. Yachts and cabin cruisers of every size bobbed in the exclusive marinas sprinkled along the promenade. Bikini-clad nymphs and paunchy boat owners in Zorba the Greek hats lounged on the aft decks, sipping aperitifs. Larger craft drifted at the ends of their anchor chains farther out on the bay.
Halfway down the Promenade des Anglais the marble statue of a large woman in what looked like peasant dress sat perched atop a tall column. Leaning forward, Mackenzie squinted up at the curious figure.
“Who’s that?” she asked the driver through the Plexiglas divider.
“Ahhh, that one.” Jean-Claude kissed his fingertips to the statue. “She is the patron saint of our city. A laundress who saves Nice from the Turks many, many years ago.” He grinned at his passengers via the rearview mirror. “She is fat, no?”
“Well…”
“And ugly. So very ugly.”
Mackenzie had to admit the woman wouldn’t win any beauty contests. With her fleshy jowls, overlapping chins and great, humped nose, she scared off even the pigeons. Jean-Claude seemed to take great pride in her repulsiveness.
“When the Turks come,” he explained, “this laundress climbs to the city wall. She bends over, lifts her skirt, and wiggles her so fat, so bare…Uh… How do you say…?”
“Derriere,” Nick supplied dryly.
“Mais oui! Her derriere. The Turks, they take one look and retreat immediately. The laundress, she becomes our patron saint.”
Laughing, Mackenzie snuggled back against the leather. She wasn’t sure whether to believe the outrageous tale, but the idea that the citizens of Nice would erect a monument to the woman who mooned an invading army gave her a whole different perspective on the city and its people. The Niçois, it appeared, had a lively sense of humor.
She was still chuckling as the limo glided to a stop at their hotel. When the driver handed her out, she couldn’t hold back a gasp at its turn-of-the-century splendor.
“C’est magnifique, oui?” Jean-Claude asked, beaming with proprietary pride.
“And then some.”
A monstrous copper-topped dome crowned the hotel’s corner entrance. Elaborate mansards decorated the wings that swept out to either side. The gleaming white marble structure had to take up a full city block! The interior beckoned through revolving brass-and-glass doors, as plush and Victorian as the exterior.
Leaving the chauffeur and bellman to attend to the luggage, Nick slid a hand under Mackenzie’s elbow and escorted her inside. His touch was light and just casual enough to raise little goose bumps all up and down her arm.
For Pete’s sake! She had to get a grip here.
She was the one who’d argued her way into this mission. She’d insisted the little interlude between her and Nick a few nights ago didn’t mean anything, that they were both professional enough to separate business from pleasure. Still, she couldn’t help remembering his cynical remark that the French didn’t differentiate between the business as sociate and the mistress of a virile and very wealthy executive. As if to prove his point, the hotel manager gave her an admiring once-over before turning to Nick with a look that conveyed approval, deference and just a touch of envy.
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