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she hadn't been in any mood to hit the beach that summer.
    “Wow yourself, girlfriend.” Sash was wearing a tight white dress that emphasized her statuesque height and set off her coffee cream smooth skin. Her ubiquitous four and a half inch heels made her an Amazonian Goddess and as usual, they managed to balance and complement each other perfectly. There could never be any competition between women so completely opposite in physique. They offered something for everyone. Occasionally some wanted everything, but that had only caused a problem once, and it was a long time ago.
    Sasha strode past her husband and his friends, stationed on the terrace with drinks.
    “Roxana is coming by with her girlfriends later,” Tolar shouted, trying to bait Sasha who ignored him and went straight to the car, parked behind two larger wagons.
    “You're driving?” Indie said. “Are you des tonight?” Des was their abbreviation for designated driver.
    “Don't worry about it, the cops are laid back here.”
    Indie slipped in beside her, the dress just barely long enough to cover her ass, giving her a thrill at the secret exposure of inner thigh. “Who's Roxana?”
    “I told you about her, after you, you know-like you. Same thing happened to her- her husband beat her up.” Sasha seemed more uncomfortable than Indie with the subject of violent husbands so Indie left it alone.
    When the two women walked into the buzzy restaurant, there was a brief lull in the room as everyone took a gape before continuing with their dinner. Sasha stood at the hostess stand like Venus de Milo and in moments, a man appeared from within to greet her, taking her wrist in his hand, grazing the backs of his fingers across the side of her buttock as he kissed her cheek. She smiled happily as she received his adoration and Indie knew immediately what had kept her from the meeting in London.
    “Patrice, this is my friend, Indie, I told you about. Indie, this is Patrice, he owns this joint.”
    “Welcome Indie, you just arrived I believe.” He leaned forward for the customary French greeting.
    “Hi Patrice, some joint,” Indie received his kiss kiss without the intimate hand clasp. He was older, maybe late forties, like Sasha liked them, but he was a stunningly well-built and handsome man, rugged, with a finger-tempting swish of blonde hair, tan and supremely at ease with himself. The hazel eyes dancing with delight at the presence of his amour only added to his charm.
    “Busy tonight, do you have a table hidden somewhere for us?” Sasha said, coyly, knowing full well he had the best reserved for her.
    He led them to a window table with candles and flowers on the white linen, laid with designer silverware and painted chargers. As soon as he'd pulled out each chair and settled them, a waiter was at the table bearing a tray with a pair of cocktails.
    “Passion fruit margaritas,” Patrice said as he took the glasses from the silver tray and presented each with a flourish. “I will open the champagne immediately, Mademoiselle.”
    “Thank you Patrice.” Sasha was positively on fire with the glow she was putting out. The whole room could tell in an instant what Indie had already guessed.
    “Okay you, spill,” Indie said as soon as Patrice retreated to his duties as host. “What's going on between you and Olivier Martinez?”
    “That's why we're here, I couldn't wait for you to meet him,” she whispered across the table. “Isn't he divine?”
    “What's he doing calling you Mademoiselle? Does he know you're married?”
    “Of course he knows. Everybody knows everything about everybody on the damn island. He's French, he doesn't care.”
    “Tolar isn't French though. Does he care?”
    “Fuck yes. He's got me tied to the house so tight now. He only let me out tonight 'cause he knows I have to keep an eye on you.”
    “So I'm your cover story?”
Indie's eyes bulged at the stunning plates of hot crab positioned before them. The dinner was Michelin star