There's Something About St. Tropez by Elizabeth Adler Page B

Ron Perrin’s Citation that had eliminated any airport hassle and delays, was fresh as a daisy.
    It was time to confront Madame Lariot, though he didn’t hold out much hope that she would be at the office address. He had not yet verified the amount stolen from the others but there was no doubt the woman had pulled off a massive scam. He’d bet it was at least half a million bucks and she was anywhere else but in Cannes.
    Pirate ran down the corridor ahead of him, his big goofy underbite making him look the happiest, as well as the ugliest dog in the South of France. Not even a jeweled collar—which Pirate most certainly would have refused to wear—could have redeemed his looks. Fortunately Pirate seemed entirely unaware of any deficiency. Even the lack of an eye and a back leg did not faze him. Mac knew his dog and he knew that Pirate considered himself the norm. It was the other dogs that were different.
    Ragged gray-brown ears perked, Pirate stopped at the top of the stairs to survey the little scene taking place at the bottom.
    Mac was surprised to see Little Laureen without her daddy, and heading for the door. Caroline Cavalaire was with a stringy-looking kid who turned to look when he heard Pirate’s
wuff
. Mac stared at the boy in surprise. He was spattered with mud, his long matted blond hair fell over his eyes and his shorts were held up with what seemed to be the remnants of an old silk tie. Suddenly the boy darted to the bottom of the stairs and picked something up.
    Mac saw it was his glasses, that he now replaced on his nose, but Mac thought he’d also tucked something else under the old army surplus cape.
    Sensing a new game, with a joyous
bark
Pirate bounded toward the boy. Balancing on his single hind leg, he sank his teeth into the cape and shook it vigorously.
    â€œNon, non.”
Bertrand’s voice rose in alarm. He held the cape up over his head but still Pirate bounced up and down after it, like a circus dog.
    â€œSit!” Mac yelled and, tail down, the dog obediently sat.
    â€œOh, mon dieu.”
Caroline fanned her face with her hand. “For a moment there I thought he might bite.”
    â€œPirate never bites,” Mac explained. “He simply wanted to play.” He looked at the dog and said, “Pirate, go apologize for frightening people.”
    Head lowered, tail slowly wagging, Pirate inched on his belly toward Bertrand. When he got there, he rolled onto his back, paws waggling, goofy grin flashing.
    â€œ
Ooh, mais ce chien est un charmeur
. The dog is a charmer,” Caroline said smiling.
    Little Laureen came to take a look. “What happened to him?”
    â€œA road accident,” Mac explained. He did not tell her though how, driving over Malibu Canyon late one night, he had scooped the bloody and battered dog off the blacktop thinking it was dead. And how Pirate had opened an eye and looked gratefully at him. Of course then Mac was sunk. He’d taken off his shirt, wrapped the dog in it and driven all the way to the emergency vet in Santa Monica with the almost-dead dog on his knee. The vet amputated the leg, rescued one of his eyes and saved the dog’s life. And Pirate had been Mac’s best buddy ever since.
    â€œPauvre petite.”
Laureen knelt to stroke Pirate. She glanced at Bertrand, who was edging away up the stairs, hoping not to be noticed.
    â€œSo what about the pancakes?” Laureen called after him, but Bertrand fled.
    â€œHe’s gone to take a shower,” Caroline explained. “But I will ask the chef to prepare you some crepes. You can eat them out in the courtyard, and I’ll tell your papa where you are.”
    She went back to her desk to call the kitchen and Mac took a long look at the little girl, kneeling on the floor next to the dog.
    â€œGlad to hear you’re going to get your pancakes at last,” he said.
    Laureen scrambled ungracefully to her feet, one hand on the silver