Excerpt
The woman paused to check the name on yet another yacht moored along the quay. Taller than the average movie star hopeful, with shoulder-length dark hair and long slim legs showing discreetly below a stylish blue dress, she was striking and classy. And, Patrick suspected, bringing trouble his way. The thought pleased him. Things had been quiet since March, when he'd dealt with a Swedish national who'd attempted to leave without paying six months' rent on one of Chevalier's properties at the top of Le Suquet, just next to the church and with a view to die for. Since then, Patrick had spent his time doing repair work on his boat, Les Trois Soeurs, climbing in the Esterel Mountains, reading, and indulging his desire to take risks at the nearby casino. By May he'd had enough of the quiet life and was looking for a challenge. It appeared his prayers had been answered. Having reached his boat, the lady was scrutinizing its name. The Three Sisters was not the usual type of yacht moored in the old port. A former French gunboat, heavy hulled, she stood out like a French bulldog among a line of poodles, or at least that's what he liked to think. His visitor had decided she'd found what she sought and was looking up at him, Patrick de Courvoisier, seated on the upper deck, reading, or pretending to. Lying across his feet, Oscar, an actual French bulldog, snorted in his sleep as though he knew and disapproved of what was about to happen. Patrick wondered if the dog might be right. But there was something about trouble - a scent as enticing as his favourite dish at Le Pistou on the nearby Rue Félix Faure - that he could not resist. 'Monsieur de Courvoisier?' She observed him quizzically, although it may have been the sun in her eyes. Patrick often made a decision on voice alone. If he agreed to work for someone, he had to be prepared to listen to them pouring out their troubles, pleading, lying, arguing, complaining and sometimes refusing to pay. Her voice reminded him of a cocktail served up in the Irish bar across the road. The cocktail contained, or so he'd been told, Bailey's liqueur, chocolate milk and whipped cream. It was entitled, in the understated way of the Irish, an Orgasm. Patrick stirred himself and answered the luscious voice. 'C'est moi.' Her rendition of his name had suggested French or at least someone whose pronunciation hadn't been learned from a phrasebook or school class. Now he waited as she decided whether he was French, or had simply acquired the name from a French branch of the family. She chose correctly, which impressed and offended Patrick at the same time. 'May I come on board?' she said in lightly accented English. 'Be my guest.'