"Funny you should ask, because I know the answer."
He grinned. "Of course you do."
Ignoring that he just intimated I'm a know-it-all, I grabbed a second bottle of water from his small cooler before launching into tour guide mode.
"The George V was unimaginatively named for the street it's on, which was named for King George the Fifth in appreciation for the UK's support during World War I."
"That was probably the last thing they were appreciative of. Way I hear it, the French are just about the most ungrateful bunch in Europe."
"Not so. Okay, the Parisians might be, but once you get away from the city and talk to people in the countryside, you get a whole different story. You should visit Normandy sometime. You'll see a whole lot of gratitude there."
"Maybe we'll do that."
I don't know why, but every time Jenks says something about "we" doing something in the future, it makes me happy. I leaned over and smooched his cheek.
He smiled. "Was that for me? Or because I got us into this special hotel you are so in love with?" We were pulling up to the entrance to the tollboth on the autoroute, and he added, "Uh, which lane should I take?" before I could answer his first question.
"Safest thing to do is look for a Euro sign above the booth so you can pay cash, but for this one you just take a ticket from the dispenser and we pay when we get off in Paris."
"What if you lose your ticket somehow?"
"Into the Bastille with you. Or worse, you get to do verbal battle over a talk box with some nasty broad in Paris who has the ability to hold you captive. The worst that can happen is you have to pay the maximum, whatever that is. And you lose twenty minutes arguing with her. Hang onto that chit."
"Don't worry, I will. Okay, so what's the big deal with this George joint of yours? Besides the ridiculously big price?"
"For starters, it's just off the Champs Elysées, near the Arc de Triomphe, and all that good stuff. But I like it because I feel like Marie Antoinette living at Versailles."
"You know she came to a bad end."
"Well, yes, but man oh man, did she have a good time getting there. Speaking of, you didn't by any chance ice down some champagne in this buggy did you?"
"Sorry, I didn't have time to shop. I only have water because it was an option at the rental agency. As it was, I barely made it to Lille, rented this car, and attended a meeting before you arrived."
"You flew in from Dubai this morning? You gotta be pooped, too."
"I was on a company jet and slept most of the way. So, I'm not at all tired."
I leaned forward so he could see my face, pooched out my lips, and cooed, "Ooooh, zat is very good for me, non?"
My attempt at playing the coquette just made him laugh. "You look like Lucille Ball mimicking a Parisian sex kitten."
That made me giggle. "I'll take that as a compliment, I think."
"You should. I like you the way you are, Loocy."
I squeezed his knee. "So, back to why you're here early. "What was the meeting about in Lille? I thought your gig was in Dubai."
"Wontrobski wanted me to meet with security here in France and eventually make suggestions for the new office setup. Besides, it was a good excuse to meet your plane and whisk you off to Paris a day early."
"And what is your take on the Lille operation? I was kind of surprised Baxter Brothers would open an office in France. I'd think Brussels would be the better location."
"Belgium is having problems. It's always been a hotbed of mercenaries, arms dealers, counterfeiters, and the like, but now there're suspected terrorist groups proliferating. I guess BB figured Lille, being right on the Belgian border, was the better choice."
"But close enough to Belgium to warrant having a security expert, namely you, to check things out. Too bad I'm on their S list. I'd love to live and work in France again."
"Hey, they hired you as a courier for this trip and keep throwing work in your direction, so maybe they'll have a change of heart. However, I can't quite see you toeing the company line. Maybe you could be their in-house terror."
"Very funny."
He hit the brakes and slowed. "Hell, looks like an accident or something ahead."
Flashing lights rushed up behind us, a distinctive French nee-eu, nee-eu siren blasted, and a police car passed us and worked its way through stopped traffic before joining what looked like a sea of official vehicles ahead. I crossed my fingers and thought, Please, please, not a cop blockade.
Chapter Eight
It was a blockade all right, one crawling with uniforms and paramilitary equipment.
After an hour in stop-and-go traffic we approached a lineup of flashing lights, official-looking vehicles and armed services types who looked to be singling out some cars for a secondary inspection. They were actually removing the seats in one vehicle while a couple, she in full burja, looked on.
"What’s this? Possible profiling in the land of liberté, égalité, and fraternité?" I quipped, mostly to hide my nervousness.
"Private car. She’s allowed to wear it in the car, but otherwise, not in France. I’ve had to bone up on customs and French law."
Probably a good thing, there, what with the illegality of my present situation. Swiping my damp forehead and upper lip, I hoped I didn't fit whatever data they were using to single out the blameworthy like, say, me. What if they pulled us over and discovered that blasted gun? Or, more importantly, why had I put the bottle of Valium out of easy reach? "Crappola."
"What's wrong, Hetta?"
"Uh, gotta go to the bathroom."
"Wanna pull out of the line? They might have some porta potties or something."
"No!" I screeched, causing Jenks to look at me like I was losing it. Which I was. I took a deep breath. "What I mean is, we're almost through and we'll be in the hotel in no time. I can hold it."
"Okay then. Wonder who or what they're looking for?"
Texans smuggling arms into France? But I said, "I have no idea," as innocently as I could manage. If they find the gun will they arrest Jenks, as well as me? I could just hear Jan saying, "And, Miz Hetta, you didn't think that getting the man you love busted for gun runnin' just might put a chink in your relationship?"
We inched forward toward uniformed officers flanked by what looked like riot police, who were giving each car a long look. The flashing lights made them look like alien robots. I attempted more deep Yoga breaths. Rolling down a window, I strained to hear what the gendarmes ahead were asking other drivers, but a dog was barking in the Peugeot next to us, rendering even my legendary hearing useless.
I was shooting the dog dirty looks when I heard Jenks's window whir and a man asking, "Monsieur, is this your car?" in French.
Jenks doesn’t speak French, so I leaned over and answered, "It is a rental, monsieur. We are tourists."
He held out his hand. "Passports, please."
We handed them over—mine was somewhat damp—but before opening them he looked at the covers and sneered, "Américains." He said it like a curse.
"Yes, we are," I said in French. "And we are looking forward to our vacation in your beautiful country, monsieur l’agent."
He looked surprised that I spoke the lingo and knew to address him as officer in French. "You speak excellent French, Mad…" he looked inside my passport, "Mademoiselle, Coffey."
"Merci monsieur l'agent. I studied French in Paris many years ago."
He gave me a roguish smirk. "As a child, of course. Welcome back to France." He handed Jenks the passports and waved us through.
I refrained from letting loose with a "Yee Haw!"
Jenks gave me my passport. "You said you spoke French, but I had no idea you could use it to charm the pants off a police officer."
"Trust me, charming the pants off any Frenchman ain't all that hard. They are natural-born roués."
"I shall refrain from query or comment."
Another thing I love about Jenks Jenkins is his total incuriosity about my louche p
ast.
Most of it's self-storied anyway.
Entering Paris, catching that first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower and a whiff of a boulangerie, made my heart flutter. I rolled down the window and took a deep breath, only to be reminded that Paris also reeks of open urinals, hordes of smokers, and warm mounds of dog crap.
That odiferous overload was quickly forgotten when I entered the hotel George V's lobby and took a journey back in time, before both the revolution—and that nasty old guillotine toppling aristocrats' heads by the numbers in such rude fashion—and when I was last in the hotel.
Marie Antoinette and King Louis XVI, before being relegated to the Bastille, would probably have felt quite at home surrounded by such splendiferous opulence. It makes one want to check one's pompadour in any of the numerous gilt-framed mirrors to see if perhaps one's head has gone missing.
Scads of mirror-finish marble, luscious silk damask, sparkling crystal, and rich trompe l'oeil effects might be considered de trop by some, but I love the dazzle of over-the-top.
The palace at Versailles was exactly what the original builders had in mind in 1928 when they opened this ode to the lavishness of another age. A recent re-do into a Four Seasons hotel had enhanced the glamour and romanticism even more than when I staggered through that lobby so many years ago. On that night, however, I hardly noticed the original tapestries and glittering chandeliers; my champagne-besotted eyes were blinded by the objet d’art waist-steering me to his suite, Jean Luc d'Ormesson.
Or, as I later dubbed him, Jean Luc d'Rat—I pronounced it "DooRah": not particularly the proper French pronunciation, but it had a nice ring, and a rat is a rat in any language.
That twenty-year-old bittersweet memory hit me like a bolt of lightning, making me sad, mad, nostalgic, and embarrassed at how really stupid I'd been back then. Jan might say nothing has changed.
She might be right, for the Jean Luc DooRah affaire wasn't to be the last time I'd be led down the garden path by a smooth dude, but it was my first real heartbreak. Until then, I thought the word meant you were sad about something, but I did learn one thing; true heartbreak involves physical pain.
My sudden discombobulation at being smack dab at the scene of the crime stopped me short as my chest constricted. I glommed onto Jenks's steady arm, hanging on to remind me that those days of uncertainty were over. Sort of. I made a noise and Jenks asked me if I wanted to sit down while he checked us in.
"No, I'm fine, just tired. All I need is a hot bath, a glass of something cold and bubbly, and a lovely evening with you." I gave his hand a squeeze and got a badly needed hug in return.
In the elevator he asked, "So, Red, you think you're up to eating at the Cinq tonight?" While I knew he was hopeful I'd say no, I also knew he'd brave that touted restaurant to please me.
"No way. Besides, I know you don't like French food. And although I'd bet my last centime the chef here at the Le Cinq could change your mind, I'd much rather order room service and spend our first night in Paris alone. Just us two."
He tried hiding his glee, but wasn't very good at it. I sometimes wonder how he is such an accomplished poker player yet so obviously readable where I'm concerned. Even on the rare occasion when he tries telling me a fib, he gives himself away with an ever-so- slight-and-shy grin and an eye twinkle.
Before I could tease him about his lack of guile, a knock on the door announced our bellhop and luggage. I had been reluctant to let my bag of contraband out of my sight, but there was no way in hell the staff at this hotel was gonna let me tote my own suitcase.
Right behind the bellhop was a room service valet with a tray of canapés and a bottle of chilled champagne. Jenks, champers, and Paris! Such a deal. And throw in a room decorated in extravagant white and gold silks and brocades from a period before the one dubbed The Age of Enlightenment? Let them eat cake.
I know, I know. She never really said it.
Reunions are grand.
And sexy.
And fattening.
Our stay at the grand George V was über lovey-dovey and worth a minimum of two pounds a day.
After three days of rich food, great wine, slow strolls around the City of Love, and all that romantic stuff, I longed for my dog, my boat, and cheese that wasn't white. Jenks wanted bacon and eggs for breakfast. It was time to get the hell out of Paris.
"But where to?" I asked.
"South."
"Won't get any argument here. Where south?"
"Well, we have a couple of days to kill, and then there's the surprise I promised you."
"Jenks, you're killing me here. Give me a little hint, at least."
"Lemme think about that. Meanwhile, where in the South of France would you like to go?"
"Well, Monaco ain't really in France, but it might be fun. Have you been there?" I knew he liked casinos, so why not hit the premier joint in all the world?
"Was there years ago, played a little Baccarat."
This guy never ceases to amaze me. "Baccarat? Did you order a bourbon, shaken not stirred, Agent Bond?"
He shook his head and grinned. "No, and I didn't wear a tux, either. I guess I'm just a Vegas kinda guy."
We discussed other places, then I suggested Gruissan which, this being off-season, might be a good spot to land and spend a couple of days on the beach.
"Where is it?"
"Hold on. I'll put it into the GPS."
We drove south from Paris, making our way through mile after mile of France's picture-perfect countryside, with its meandering rivers, historic architecture, vineyards, and fields I knew would be lush green in the spring. The farther south we traveled, the less the chill in the air.
Gruissan is on the Mediterranean Sea, about five hundred miles from Paris and, via high-speed autoroutes, only an eight-hour drive. With stops for gas, lunch, and the like, we wandered into Gruissan late in the afternoon, and I was stunned to see what had become of the little fishing village I remembered.
The center of Old Town is a ring of streets called a circulade, encircling the tower ruins of a castle constructed at the end of the tenth century as a fortress to guard the nearby city of Narbonne against sea raids by pirates and Berber incursions. Built on a steep, rocky hill, the castle crowned the fortified village, which was back then surrounded by salt marshes and, therefore, commanded an unobstructed view for spotting marauders. Now the swamp has been drained and a "new" town has evolved that caters to tourists from around the world. Hotels, vacation homes, and condos abound, but the town still holds its charm. Legend has it some villagers are descended from the seven families who settled Gruissan in the thirteenth century.
I pictured them heating up cauldrons of oil to repel us barbaric Americans.
We zeroed in on a chic hotel room with a glass-enclosed balcony overlooking the marina, but then I remembered that just out of town, at the plage, was a colony of quaint beach cottages on stilts directly on the Med. So, the next morning we drove around admiring the more than thirteen hundred houses until we found one for rent. It was tiny but available, and by noon we had rented it for three days.
A trip to a nearby super-store with an outdoor launderette in the parking lot, and we were caught up on clean clothes, eats, and wine in time for a late afternoon stroll on the beach. For early November the weather was amazingly nice, especially on the Med, where the winds can be fierce this time of year.
There were a few other walkers out, and just for fun I greeted each one with a hearty, "Allô! or "Bonjour!" taking delight when the French cringed or frowned, Germans looked away, and Brits smiled and nodded politely. One couple obviously had mixed reactions; she responded with an American-sounding, "Hello," while he glowered.
The sullen man with a mop of beautifully-cut blonde hair, piercing green eyes, and buff bod could have just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren advertisement. I was pretty sure disapproval of my bumptious greeting and the woman's response in kind, had plenty to do with his crappy attitude. Some days are just better than others.
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As we continued walking, I mulled over the couple. The friendly woman was, well, on the frumpy side. Not that she was totally unattractive, but, compared with her GQ friend, a definite BEFORE. He was decked out in a cable knit sweater with a jaunty cravat and looked tres French. The woman, wearing baggy sweats, had hair that hadn't seen a stylist in perhaps ever that was held off her face by a headband probably left over from long ago high school days. She looked like an all-American soccer mom who was dashing to the grocery store after dropping off the kids. Under her sweats, my discerning eye detected an extra twenty pounds, and her overall look suggested she had a few years on her companion. Not older, like she could'a been his mother older, but they were still an odd pair.
Even though they were walking arm-in-arm, one might wonder if they were just friends, but when I looked back over my shoulder, they were sharing a kiss.
I know I'm opinionated and judgmental, but when I see such an improbable couple it makes me ponder. Probably like people do when they see tall, lanky Jenks and short, chunky Hetta together?
"Four out of ten," I said to Jenks.
"Four out of ten what?"
"Ten people. Four friendlies."
"Maybe they think you're going to try selling them something. One thing for sure, some of those people seemed intimidated that you spoke to them."
"It's a gift, bringing out the worst in people. I do the same thing in Florida and other places where Yankees hang out."
He laughed. "You do remember that I'm a Yankee, right?"
"Yep, but you're a recovering Yankee."
Chapter Nine
Jenks and I shared a laugh at my quip about him being a recovering Yankee as we strolled farther down Gruissan's sandy beach. Judging by a disapproving sniff from a passing elderly Frenchman walking an equally-grizzled standard poodle, we were much too foreign in our loudness.
The man—short, a little round, and probably in his eighties—had a snappy spring in his step. Under his beret, gray hair curled out in all directions and at least a week's worth of white stubble bewhiskered his deeply lined face. Dressed in a tan knit sweater under an unbuttoned, rumpled canvas jacket and corduroy trousers—all of them maybe a size too large—he was saved from looking like a bum by a bright red silk cravat and natty, highly shined ankle length slip-on leather boots. His pants were a bit too short, revealing red-checked argyle socks. He and his pooch personified everyone's archetypical image of: Frenchman, walking dog.
Just Pardon My French (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 8) Page 4
