Читать книгу To Love a Thief - Merline Lovelace, Merline Lovelace - Страница 10

Mackenzie and Nick left for the Riviera early the next morning. She’d never flown aboard the Concorde before and firmly squelched memories of its horrible crash outside Paris some years ago. The sleek, needle-nosed jet represented the ultimate in luxury and speed. A three-and-a-half hour transatlantic flight took them into Paris, where a short connecting flight ferried them to the south of France.

Given the five-hour time difference, Mackenzie and Nick stepped out of the Nice airport into a late afternoon drenched with the scent of honeysuckle and bougainvillea. She pushed her Chanel sun glasses up the top of her head and breathed in the perfumed air. With it came a pungent tang that mariners the world over immediately recognized.

The sea was close, so close she could almost taste its salt. She was still savoring the familiar scent when Nick slid a hand under her arm and guided her toward the mile-long limo idling at the curb. Its short, stocky uniformed chauffeur jumped to attention at their approach.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Jensen. I am Jean-Claude Broussard, your driver. Welcome to Nice.”

“Merci. Je suis très heureux d’être de retour.”

The reply earned Nick a look of respect from the chauffeur and a curious glance from Mackenzie. She knew Lightning had been born somewhere in France, but that’s all she or anyone else at OMEGA knew about his life before he was adopted by Paige and Doc Jensen and brought to the States. He’d grown up in California, graduated from Stanford and joined OMEGA not long after a tour in the military. In all the time Mackenzie had worked with him, he’d never used any gestures or slang that would mark him as anything but American.

Yet she’d sensed the change in him almost from the moment the Concorde had touched down in Paris. He seemed more casual, yet somehow more cosmopolitan. As if he were changing his spots to suit his environment. A leopard blending into the dry, brown African veld.

Only this veld wasn’t dry or brown. As the limo rolled out of the airport and sped past the more industrial areas, a landscape filled with brilliant color began to unfold. Red-tile-roofed villas stair-stepped down sheer cliffs. Palm trees waved lacy fronds against the early evening sky. Orange and pink and purple blossoms climbed walls, spilled from flower boxes, twined along wrought iron balconies.

And the Mediterranean! She’d forgotten how beautiful—and changeable—it was. At its deepest, the waters were a dark, unfathomable navy. Here, closer to land, waves of alternating shades of turquoise, lapis and aquamarine teased the shore. Sighing at the sight, Mackenzie used the drive in from the airport to reset her mental clock and run through the data she’d pulled up about Nice.

Native Ligurians had occupied the steep hills above the sea for thousands of years before conquering Greeks established the “modern” city of Nikaia on the site. The Romans followed the Greeks, constructing a forum, extensive baths and an amphitheater. In medieval times, rival armies from Provence, Tuscany, Savoy and Turkey all battled over the city at various times, until the French finally took permanent possession.

The next invasion occurred during the Belle Epoque of the late 1800s, when Nice became a fashionable winter retreat for aristocrats from all over Europe. Queen Victoria visited regularly. So did the Tsar and Tsarina of Russia. The onion-shaped domes of the cathedral they’d built in honor of their oldest son, who died suddenly of an illness while vacationing in Nice, were just visible over the sea of red-tiled roofs.

Along with the rich and titled came the artists and actors. Matisse lived and painted here until his death in 1954. Picasso, Dali, Chagall were all seduced by the dazzling light and shimmering colors of the coast. F. Scott Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda held court at their favorite table in the Negresco. Rudolph Valentino, Maurice Chevalier, Marlene Dietrich, and Gary Cooper, to name just a few, strolled the Promenade des Anglais, named for the English visitors whose wealth brought such prosperity to the little seaside resort.

Nice was just as popular today as it had been at the turn of the century. With neighboring Cannes only a few miles to the east and the principality of Monaco just around the bay to the west, new royalty in the form of rock stars and sports figures now patronized its very exclusive and very expensive boutiques.

No computer-generated report could prepare Mackenzie for the actual impact of the famous resort, however. Lowering the shaded window, she gawked like any tourist as the limo swept down the Promenade des Anglais. Hotels and palaces bordered one side of the broad, palm-lined thoroughfare, the Mediterranean the other.

This was the famous boulevard where aristocrats once paraded beneath straw boaters and lacy parasols. Where the eccentric American dancer, Isadora Duncan, choked to death in 1927, when her long scarf caught under the wheel of her automobile as it sped along the promenade. Where lovers of all ages still strolled hand in hand.

The sun worshippers were out in full force on the pebbled beaches, soaking up the slanting rays in blue-painted wooden beach 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.