Fifteen minutes later, the Mercedes slowed to a roll over cobblestone streets and came out between a small row of clothing boutiques on one side and what looked like the Hermes flagship store to my right.

“What town is this?” I asked.

“St. Tropez,” Evan responded.

We glided slowly through throngs of holiday makers gawking at the yachts lined, stern-to, along the quay. They towered like hulking monoliths, glaringly white with gleaming metal and sparkling glass. It was an almost gross, but breathtaking, display of the mega wealthy trying to one up each other. If the port in St. Tropez was anything like the coveted berths in downtown Charleston, these spots alone would pay for the national debt of several small countries. Below almost every name was the word Valletta. I’d have to ask about that. To our right, cafes and restaurants had appropriated some of the street for their tables. Waiters in white shirts and aprons darted around holding trays aloft. I sucked in a joyous breath. I was here.

Dauphine was chattering away to Evan and her father in incomprehensible French. It seemed she was excited. We slowed to a stop in front of a gate arm, guarded by what I assumed was a policeman, complete with an AK-47 slung around his neck. I swallowed. The gate arm rose, and we surged forward down a long private quay with much larger boats than any we’d passed until we stopped next to a gangplank made of teak wood and steel.

I ducked my head to look out the window and gulped at the sight.

No one made a move to get out.

Evan made a quick phone call.

The boat wasn’t exactly like the others, rather it was a shining marine navy on the hull with several white layers stacked above. It wasn’t the biggest of the boats on the private quays, but my apartment in downtown Charleston could probably fit into the square footage of one level twice over. The name of the boat Sirena gleamed silver in the sun.

My view of the yacht partially disappeared behind the torso of a strongly-built man with a bald head and dressed in a white uniform consisting of a short sleeve button down and slacks. The Mr. Clean lookalike wore a name badge that read Paco. He had an earpiece in his ear similar to Evan’s and approached us down the gangplank, looking left and right. Then he spoke to his wrist and approached the passenger side. As he opened Monsieur Pascale’s door, Evan opened the driver’s side door, got out, and immediately opened mine.

I looked up at him.

“Just nip onto the boat, I’ll grab your things.” He looked past me. “Dauphine slip out this side too please. Hurry.”

My pulse rocketed at his all business manner, so different to the affable fellow who’d loaded my luggage.