Fiery hair was a fair indicator of temperament, he suspected, guessing she could be a little terrier if she was put to the test. There was no risk of overdosing on sugar when it came to this woman.
‘So,’ she added, barely pausing for breath, ‘are you going to tell me who you are? I mean, apart from being the only person in here as badly dressed as me?’
There was no denying they were both showing a flagrant disregard for the dress code. As a minimum, patrons were required to wash the sand from their bodies before sitting down to eat—but who questioned royalty? And she was with him.
‘My name is Luca,’ he revealed. ‘And you are?’
‘Before we get to that—’ she gave him one of her cheeky smiles ‘—I want to know how you’ve managed not to be thrown out when you look as if you’ve just stepped out of the sea.’
‘Because that’s exactly what I did.’
‘Okay...’ She drew the word out. ‘My best guess, in that case, is that even if they combined their forces, security and the staff here wouldn’t dream of taking you on.’
‘More compliments?’ he suggested dryly.
Pressing her lips together, she grinned. ‘My mistake. But you still haven’t told me how you get away with it.’
‘Perhaps they like me here, and make an exception?’
‘And perhaps pigs might fly,’ she countered dryly. ‘The maître d’ looks like a regimental sergeant major, and I don’t imagine he lets anyone slip by. You’re either respected or feared,’ she conjectured. ‘So, which is it, Luca?’
Probably a bit of both, he mused. ‘I have been here before,’ he conceded.
‘So are you crew from one of those floating office blocks?’
Following her stare to the line of gleaming superyachts moored up in a row down the quay, he shook his head.
‘Not crew,’ she reflected, ‘yet everyone seems to know you, so are you the local criminal mastermind, or some fabulously wealthy billionaire out slumming it for the day?’
He raised a brow. ‘I imagine I could play either role.’
‘I bet you could,’ she agreed. ‘But not with me.’
‘Has it occurred to you that it might be you that everyone’s staring at?’
‘Me?’ she scoffed. ‘I hardly fit the style brief here. Apart from a few disapproving glances when I first walked in, no one’s looked at me since.’
‘Your fabulous hair might cause comment.’
‘Why, thank you, kind sir,’ she said, dipping into a curtsey.
‘Did I let a compliment slip past me?’ he mocked lightly.
She twisted her mouth before carrying on with her interrogation. ‘It’s definitely not me they’re looking at. Now I’ve had my drink there’s nothing desperate about me to suggest some sort of mystery attached to my coming here, or that might lead anyone to believe I’m seeking sanctuary in this steel and glass temple to excess.’
Sanctuary? ‘Areyou running from something?’
Instead of answering his question she went off on another tangent. ‘The trouble with Saint-Tropez is that it’s so misleading. I’d never been here before, so when I first arrived it was hard to believe the town retained the charm of the original fishing village. There’s such an abundance of megayachts and boys’ toys—the dream cars,’ she explained. ‘But everything coexists happily. Bourgeois French life cheek by jowl with ostentatious wealth.’
‘Don’t you approve?’
‘Of course I do. The contrast is what makes Saint-Tropez so special and fun to visit. But don’t change the subject. We’re talking about you.’
‘Ichanged the subject?’ he challenged.
She shrugged and laughed this off. ‘So, come on—tell me. Are you a celebrity, or a fugitive from the law?’
‘I don’t fall into either category.’
