Indiscretions (30 page)

When Olympe Avallon smiled at a man he felt drawn into some magic circle, where only he existed, where
he
was the star in her firmament.

Fitz was no exception. He was an expert in flirts, he’d been practiced on by the best, but Olympe was a charmer—there was just a hint of laughter in her eyes, as though
she were saying, Look, I know I’m flirting with you, but it’s all such fun, isn’t it?

“Raymunda!” exclaimed Olympe. “
Mais tu est ravissante, chérie
 … what a heavenly dress. I simply adore that color. I
must
introduce you to Beny, he particularly wanted to meet you.” Taking Raymunda’s arm she led her off, turning to smile conspiratorially at Fitz. She’d be back.

A steel band was playing down by the pool and the barbecue fires sent a fragrant drift of woodsmoke and spicy cooking across the crowded patio.

Have I eaten today? wondered Fitz. He didn’t think so.

“You look to me like a very hungry man.” Olympe appeared at his side. “Either that or a bored one.”

Fitz smiled as their eyes met. “A combination of both,” he admitted.

Olympe tucked her arm into his. “I’m sure I can take care of one complaint.” She smiled, leading him toward the tables scattered around the pool. “The food is excellent. I only hope that I can do something about the second.”

Her oblique glance was as inviting as her smile, and in a short black dress that left her shoulders bare, and with her mane of tawny hair, she was dazzling. Fitz was beginning to enjoy himself.

Bendor and Raymunda had lots of friends in common; they had quite a satisfactory chat, she thought, about mutual acquaintances, and he’d invited her—them—to come wind surfing tomorrow and for lunch. She wanted to ask Fitz if they could have Bendor and his friends for dinner tomorrow night on the
Fiesta
, but he’d disappeared. With a pang she remembered Olympe Avallon. Hadn’t she been awfully quick to part the two of them? She couldn’t see Olympe either. Oh, well—Raymunda shrugged—everyone knew that Bendor was crazy about Olympe and that she expected to be the next princess.
Olympe was surely not going to jeopardize that position. No, she was sure there was no need to worry about her.

“Raymunda.” Bendor took her arm. “Have you met Salty Majors? Salty’s from Newport, you know, he’s a sailing fellow.…”

Raymunda sparkled on the receiving end of Salty’s interested smile; she might as well enjoy herself while she could.

Fitz McBain was exactly the kind of man she had in mind as a long-term investment, thought Olympe, sipping her island cocktail as she sat beside him at a small table by the pool. He was
very
attractive—without a doubt the most attractive man here, in a much less obvious way than, for instance, Salty Majors, who was all suntanned macho muscle, sexist macho talk, and minimacho brain—if you ever wanted to be close enough to him to discover that he had a brain to go with his old family millions. Fitz had the glamor of his rough past—you just knew his muscles were earned, not worked at in some gym.

“I hope that we’re going to see more of you, now that you’ve found us?” Her hand rested lightly on his.

Fitz took it, kissing it lightly. “I would have liked that, but I’m here for a rest … your party was an exception to my rule.”

“You have rules?” Olympe raised her brows in amusement.

Fitz threw back his head and laughed. “I sure do—and one of them is to eat at least one meal a day. Why don’t we see what they’re serving at your party?”

Raymunda turned her head as she heard Fitz’s laugh ring out—she hadn’t heard him laugh like that in ages. Peering through the crowd she caught a glimpse of him with Olympe, down by the pool.

“You must be hungry,” she told Salty Majors, slipping
her arm through his. “Why don’t we have a little supper?”

Sitting at a table by the pool with Salty and two other couples who were all houseguests of Bendor, Raymunda cast covert glances to her left where Fitz and Olympe sat, seemingly totally absorbed in each other. They’d been there together for more than half an hour now and Raymunda was just debating what she should do about it without making herself look foolish when the first drops of rain began to fall. A spear of lightning jagged across the sky and hung, purple and fizzling, over the sea. Chairs were pushed back hastily as the guests, laughing, made a dash for the house. Salty put a gentlemanly arm around Raymunda, hurrying her up the steps to the patio. Glancing behind her, Raymunda saw Fitz wrap his jacket around Olympe as she stood, head thrown back, laughing in the downpour. Damn it, this had been a mistake.

“Oh, my God,” said Fitz, “it’s twelve o’clock!”

“Do we expect your coach to turn into a pumpkin then?” Olympe pushed back her wet hair and smiled at him mischievously.

“Not only that, I’ll lose my glass slipper! I’ve left someone sitting at the airport—her plane must have arrived half an hour ago. I must leave.”

Olympe took his hand and pressed it warmly, curling her fingers with his.

“Will you come back?” she whispered.

Fitz hesitated. He had been enjoying himself. It was pleasant flirting with Olympe, she was bright and amusing, but he had to consider Raymunda; after all, he was with her.

“I’m afraid not,” he told Olympe, “but thank you for the pleasure of your company.”

“It is,” whispered Olympe, “a pleasure that could be yours—anytime.”

Their eyes met in mutual understanding and Fitz dropped a quick kiss on her cheek.

“I’ll remember that,” he said.

Salty Majors released Raymunda reluctantly.

“You will come tomorrow, won’t you?” He smiled at her, his even white teeth gleaming against his deep tan. He really looked quite a lot like Robert Redford, decided Raymunda.

“If you promise to teach me to wind-surf,” she agreed as they said good-bye. She shrugged off Fitz’s hand furiously as he guided her through the crowd and out of the villa, waiting impatiently next to him while the valet fetched the car.

“Why are we leaving so early?” she complained. “The party was just getting going.”

“You can stay if you wish.”

The valet held open the car door and Fitz slid behind the wheel.

“Well,” he asked impatiently, “are you coming or are you not?”

Raymunda flounced into the car.

“I expect you’re tired.” She sighed. “Maybe Olympe Avallon wore you out.”

Fitz glanced sideways at her as he maneuvered the car down the steep driveway. So that was it, now she was jealous. Well, maybe she had a right to be, but she’d seemed content enough with that guy from Newport who looked as though he’d majored in yachting at college. What he was really tired of, he realized suddenly, were all the games between himself and Raymunda. Life was complicated enough without all this.

He took the road away from the coast, heading toward the airport. The rain still lashed down, though the lightning had reduced to a flickering glare and the rumble of thunder came from a distance now, far out to sea.

Raymunda closed her eyes, pondering her next moves.
There was lunch tomorrow at the Villa Osiris, with swimming and wind surfing … she knew Fitz had been told to rest, but surely he couldn’t object to
that!
And then there was tomorrow night. Her eyes flew open as Fitz pulled the car into the airport.

“What are we doing here?”

“I have to pick up someone—a friend of Morgan’s. I’ll be right back.”

Fitz slammed the car door behind him and Raymunda watched his retreating back, smoldering. They’d left the party to come and pick up some friend of Morgan’s? Damn it, there was enough staff on that yacht. Surely one of them could have done that?

Venetia stared out of the big plate-glass windows into the pouring night. Rivers of water ran along the gutters, and in the glow of the airport lamps and the flickering lightning she could see the ground steaming as it cooled. She’d left London in the fog and she’d arrived in the rain; maybe it was an omen and the elements were trying to tell her something. Perhaps she shouldn’t have come? Morgan seemed to have forgotten her. She glanced again at the big clock. She’d been here for more than an hour and the airport was almost deserted. She’d watched and waited while everyone else was met by laughing friends and swept off to their villas or hotels. What could have happened? Had she arrived on the wrong day? Or maybe they’d got the message wrong.

Fitz strode through the empty hall toward her. She was the only person waiting, but he would have picked her out easily in any crowd. She was taller than Jenny, her hair was a darker blond, and she wore it smooth and straight to her shoulders. She turned at the sound of his footsteps, looking at him with anxious blue eyes, and it was Jenny playing the waif in
Big City Girl
. Dear God,
thought Fitz, I hadn’t expected the resemblance to be quite this strong.

“You must be Venetia,” he said. Her face was London-winter pale and her hand cold in his, but her smile had all the charm of her mother’s. “I’m afraid Morgan couldn’t come. He sent me instead—I’m Fitz McBain.”

She stood, her hand in his, gazing into his dark blue eyes. Of course, she remembered his voice on the phone, deep and with a slight drawl.

“Oh, but I didn’t …” She stopped, confused.

“Didn’t what?”

“Well, oh … I didn’t expect you to look like this … you know, I always imagined you in a city business suit, jetting to important meetings, and …”

Fitz grinned. “And what?”

Venetia blushed. “It’ll only sound rude if I say it.”

“Tell me.”

“You’re younger than I expected.”

Fitz laughed and released her hand. “It’s an illusion. I’m forty-four, almost forty-five—pretty old by your standards. What are you? Seventeen?”

“I’m twenty,” she said indignantly. “Well, I’ll be twenty soon.”

“You must be a very tired twenty-year-old. It was a hell of a long journey. Let’s get you home to bed.” Fitz hefted her one suitcase and looked around in surprise. “Is this all you’ve got?”

“Oh, yes, I don’t need much—just shorts and stuff.”

Every other woman he knew traveled with at least six cases filled with clothes for every possible occasion. Venetia Haven was definitely different. Or maybe it was just that she was so young.

Raymunda sat up straight in her seat. Fitz was with a
girl
. Who the hell was she?

“Venetia, this is Raymunda Ortiz,” said Fitz, holding
the door for her. “Raymunda, this is Venetia Haven, a friend of Morgan’s.”

“Oh, a little friend of Morgan’s.” Raymunda’s stare lost interest and Venetia felt the smile freeze on her face.

Fitz’s jaw set in a grim line as he pulled away from the curb. He hadn’t missed Raymunda’s “little” gesture. She’d looked at Venetia, simple in her blue cotton trousers, sweatshirt, and espadrilles, assessed her, and dismissed her as someone not worthy of her attention.

“Venetia is to be our new chef,” said Fitz, breaking the silence.

Raymunda glanced at him in amazement. They’d left Bendor’s party to go and pick up the
help?
My God, she could kill Fitz, really
kill
him, for that!

“Then no doubt,” she said icily, “Venetia will be able to take care of our dinner party tomorrow night.”

Fitz glared at her. “
Our
dinner party?”

“That’s right, Fitz darling. I invited Beny and his house party to dinner tomorrow night. That’s
Prince
Bendor Grünewald.” She tossed the information over her shoulder to Venetia. “I don’t expect you will have cooked for a prince before. I hope your standards are up to it.”

“I have a cordon bleu diploma,” replied Venetia nervously.

“Raymunda, why wasn’t
I
told about this dinner?” Fitz swung the car around the corner angrily.

“I thought you’d be pleased,” she said sweetly. “After all, Olympe will be there.”

Venetia sat back against the cushions, wondering what was going on between them. Whatever it was, she wished she weren’t here.

The rain had stopped by the time they’d parked at the harbor and stepped into the waiting launch that took them out to the
Fiesta
. Venetia stared across the water at the string of lights decorating the enormous yacht. It
looked gay and festive, unlike the two silent people next to her.

Masters was waiting for them. Fitz introduced Venetia and asked him to take care of her, as Raymunda disappeared without saying good night.

“I’m sure you’ll find your cabin comfortable,” said Fitz gently. “Morgan asked me to tell you that he will call. I’m afraid it’s my fault he wasn’t here to meet you but he should be back next week. You must sleep as long as you can—have a few days’ rest and get used to things. Masters will show you everything tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” Venetia regarded him seriously. “You’re a very kind man, Mr. McBain.”

“That’s not a term that’s usually applied to me,” said Fitz, feeling oddly pleased. “Now off you go to sleep. Pleasant dreams.”

Venetia was so tired she barely noticed the luxurious yacht, or her lovely cabin amidships on the top deck that was close, Masters had told her, to her galley; she’d see it all tomorrow. Casting off her clothes she slid naked into bed. The night was calm now and tropically warm. Her last thought as she drifted into sleep was of Fitz McBain’s deep, dark eyes gazing into hers.

Raymunda returned from the Villa Osiris at four and went to find Fitz. He was sitting on the stern deck in shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, cleaning his fishing gear.

“You don’t know what you missed,” she said, flopping onto the blue-cushioned seat near him.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.” Fitz’s tone was polite.

“Everyone’s coming tonight,” Raymunda informed him, watching for his reaction.

“That’s good. I spoke with Masters and he is taking care of everything for you, Raymunda.”

“Little Miss Haven’s not up to it, then? Why do you
have to be so charitable, Fitz? You need a proper chef for this boat. God knows you can afford one.”

“Raymunda, I can afford whatever I want. And I want Venetia Haven as chef. Remember that, will you?”

Their glances met angrily. Raymunda was the first to look away.