Indiscretions (31 page)

“I hope you’ll enjoy yourself tonight,” she suggested in a meeker tone.

“I daresay I will.” Fitz concentrated on the reel he had been waxing, releasing the catch and letting it spin out. “Although, of course, I won’t be here. I intend to have a quiet dinner in town. I thought I’d ask ‘little Miss Haven’ to go with me.”

“But you can’t!” gasped Raymunda, furiously. “Everyone will expect you to be here.”

“Raymunda,” said Fitz gently, “no one tells me what to do. Remember that too.”

“Olympe will miss you.” Raymunda threw the words at his departing back, listening angrily to his laughter as he strode off toward his study. Damn it, damn it, oh,
damn it!

Rory loved it. He just
loved
it. Barbados had welcomed him and the cast and crew of
Chelsea’s Game
that morning with steel bands and official presentations, and were giving them the complete island VIP treatment. Especially Rory. There was no doubt he was a big star—even the British guests at the hotel knew who he was, since the program had been taken up by BBC television in the autumn. Bill had been right, it was exactly what he needed. Sometimes L.A. could lay on the pressure in a lot of sneaky ways that you didn’t notice at first, but they caught up with you—you always had to keep your wits about you to make sure nobody was trying to screw you and that your position in the show wasn’t being undermined—by your costar, for instance. He’d fancied that
lately Shelly was getting more lines than she used to, that her role was becoming almost as strong as his, and he’d had to have Bill do battle with the producers and the writers to make sure that didn’t happen. But now all those worries were left behind. You could relax here, in Barbados.

“Hey, Shel,” he said, tucking her arm in his as they climbed out of the limousine and headed toward Rockley’s Resort Rendezvous, “let’s have some fun, you and me. Come on, Dirk, Roger,” he yelled at the director and the writer and other members of the crew straggling behind them across the road. “Shel and I are gonna show this island how the L.A. all-stars have
fun!
”

“Christ,” muttered Dirk, “I hate to think what that means.” Dirk was feeling particularly bitter. It wasn’t until after they’d gone through customs and immigration that Rory had told him that the stash was in
his
luggage. Thank God they’d been waved through without any fuss or he might have ended up in the local jail instead of the local disco. He’d make damn sure that there’d be no repeat of that. If Rory Grant had to bring his coke with him, he’d carry it himself.

Rory was an instant hit at the Rendezvous. Everyone in the place recognized Chelsea, and the girls crowded around, demanding autographs and kisses that, in between shots of island rum, he was happy to provide. Yeah, Rory was having himself a good time, playing the star at last. After an hour, though, he got bored.

“Come on, you guys,” he called, “on to the next one.”

“He’s drunk now as well as stoned,” commented Dirk as they followed him obediently from the club. Hell, he could go home, he supposed, back to the hotel, and get some sleep, but if he did, he wasn’t sure what Rory could get up to. Tomorrow he’d have to put a couple of minders onto him. He didn’t give a damn what Rory did when he was on his own, but when he was here and
working—
then
Dirk wanted to know. He’d have to keep him in check or they’d never get the show in on time and he’d be the one to blame.

Venetia was wearing what to Fitz looked like a shapeless blue cotton dress with a low neckline, a waist that wasn’t because it was too wide, and a full skirt. It looked like a dress meant for someone two sizes bigger, but on her it was charming.

“My sister designed it,” Venetia said with a grin. “It’s a bit avant garde, but I love it. Of course, she’s very influenced by the Japanese since she’s gone to work for Mitsoko—all I’ve got to wear now are kimonos! But she’s really terribly good. Mother always said that Paris had the true talent in the family.”

They were sitting opposite each other at a candlelit table at the Bagatelle Great House, one of the island’s loveliest restaurants, whose thick stone walls dated from colonial times, when it had been a plantation house. The choice had been made on the spur of the moment by Fitz, and it had turned out to be a happy one. Venetia was enchanted by the place and he was intrigued by her enjoyment and her curiosity about her surroundings. She wanted to know everything, from the history of the island and the story of this plantation to the origins of Bajan cooking. Fitz allowed himself to relax in her company; he was beginning to forget even that she was Jenny’s daughter, because though the physical resemblance was strong she was a very different person. Now she’d mentioned her mother and it brought back sharply the memory of Venetia’s stricken face on the television screen.

“How are your sisters?” he asked.

“They’re all right now, I think. Paris tried so hard, you know, with her fashion show—she designed everything herself, practically
made
the clothes, too, from what I can gather, and then just because Mitsoko changed the
day of his showing, nobody at all went to Paris’s. She’d sunk all her money into it too. Now she’s had to take a job as a model. She’s incredibly beautiful.”

“
All
her money?” Fitz asked idly. “That must have been a considerable sum.”

Venetia gazed contemplatively at her glass of wine, a glowing ruby in the candlelight. “Only ten thousand dollars. It was all we had, you see—all that mother left us.”

Fitz snapped to attention. “
All
that she left you? But surely, Venetia, your mother was a very rich woman?”

Venetia looked embarrassed; she really shouldn’t be telling him this. But it wasn’t as though he were a complete stranger—he’d met Jenny, and he’d been the kindest and most helpful person to them.

“Apparently Jenny had been foolish with her money. Her lawyer, Stan Reubin, told us that there was nothing left, she’d made bad investments in property and played the commodity markets. He said it didn’t take long to lose a lot of money that way. We didn’t want to believe him at first, but Bill—that’s Bill Kaufmann, who was her agent and manager for as long as I can remember, before I was born even—anyway, Bill implied that she’d been worried about her career and that she’d had a couple of … lovers … who had exploited her. So you see, in the end there was very little left. It wasn’t so much the money that I minded,” she added, “though Paris did, terribly—she
needed
it, you see, to launch her career—but it was the sort of slur on her character that they made, and the fact that though they’d been her friends all those years they never did anything to help her. Don’t you think they should have noticed what was going on?”

Fitz didn’t like to see the sadness that turned her beautiful eyes a grayer shade of blue, and he didn’t like the story he’d just heard. In the context of Jenny’s sudden death it was open to suspicion. He might have Ronson
look into it for him; he had good contacts in Los Angeles, and he’d know what was going on.

“I think they certainly should have known, but it’s foolish to pass judgment without understanding all the circumstances. What about your other sister—India, isn’t it?”

“India will always come out smiling. She didn’t give a damn for the money, only for what had happened to our mother. She was in Rome working for the interior designer Fabrizio Paroli, but when I spoke with her just before I left she was off to the coast near Positano—Fabrizio has put her in charge of a conversion. The Montefiore family want to change their palazzo into a hotel. India seemed very excited at the prospect, but I got the feeling, too, that she was eager to get away from Rome—the paparazzi have been very persistent in their attentions since Jenny died. I think she’s probably quite relieved to be away for a white—and from Fabrizio.”

“Oh?” Fitz raised an eyebrow and Venetia felt herself blushing.

“Jenny always said I talked too much,” she remarked with a laugh, “but quite honestly, I haven’t talked—not like this, anyway—about my mother, I mean, not to anyone. Not even to Morgan.”

He’d been so absorbed in her, he’d forgotten about Morgan.

“Enough sad talk,” he said briskly. “I’m going to order you some dessert and then …” He glanced at his watch. Eleven. Raymunda’s party would still be going strong. “How’d you like to go dancing?”

Her face lit up. “Dancing? I’d love it.”

Why was it, wondered Fitz, that he felt as though he’d just given her something wonderful? She had this endearing ability to make even the smallest kindness or attention seem an act of graciousness. It must be her English good manners. Whatever, he liked it.

The Caribbean Pepperpot was hustling and bustling, getting into its nightly swing, as they arrived. Grabbing Venetia’s hand, Fitz led her through the dimly lit room to a corner table. It was silly, he knew, but he didn’t want to let go of her hand, it felt small in his—and soft.

The waiter brought drinks and the music changed to something softer as colored lights flickered through the room. Taking her hand he bowed over it, barely brushing it with his lips.

“Will you dance with me, Venetia Haven?” he asked.

It was silly, she knew it, but she didn’t want him to let go of her hand—in fact she wanted him to kiss it again. Hand in hand they walked to the tiny dance floor, and as his arms went around her she slid hers around his neck, the way she always did when she danced with Morgan.

This is ridiculous, Fitz told himself, holding her closer. She’s just a child—Morgan’s girl. He knew that, but then why was his heart beating faster? And why did he have this overwhelming urge to cover the top of her blond head with kisses? He could feel the delicate bones of her back beneath his hands, and glancing down at her face, he noticed the golden-tipped lashes on her closed eyelids. She seemed lost in some kind of dream, her body relaxed against his. It must be this slow sexy music, he told himself, it was too crazy—too crazy that right now all he wanted in the world was to make love to Venetia. Of course it was only the warm tropical night, and the wine and the music—and his memories of Jenny Haven. He was still in love with Jenny.

The music finished and he led her back to their table. She kept hold of his hand and their eyes met. The touch of his fingers sent little electrical thrills up her arm; she was aware of the faint tremor in them as they curled around her hand, and she wanted more, she wanted his
arms around her again as they danced, she wanted to be close to him, closer.

They danced some more, slowly, endlessly, just holding on to each other. There was no talk now, nothing, just the two of them in this limbo—and her hair, thought Fitz, smelled of summer meadows.

He shouldn’t be thinking of these things! He’d better get her back to the
Fiesta
before he made a fool of himself.

“Time to go,” he said gently.

“Ohhh.” Her small sigh expressed infinite regret, but Fitz couldn’t allow himself to be persuaded. He called the waiter over and paid the bill.

The Caribbean Pepperpot was crowded by the time Rory and his entourage got there. He was up for it, really up. He was just thinking he hadn’t had such a good time in ages, and that’s when it happened.
He saw Jenny Haven
. And then he freaked.

Dirk watched as Rory’s face turned ashen, wondering what the hell was going on. Was the bastard gonna have a heart attack?

Rory grabbed him with a trembling hand. “It’s her, Dirk, oh my God, it’s
her!
Oh, God, what am I gonna do, what am I gonna do? It’s Jenny, Dirk. You see her, don’t you … or am I the only one? She’s a ghost, she’s gonna
haunt
me, for Chrissakes.”

“Shut up, Rory,” snapped Dirk, “you’re making an ass of yourself. Jenny’s dead. Don’t you know who that is? Or were you too busy to go to Jenny’s funeral? That’s Venetia Haven. Jenny’s daughter.”

“Her daughter?” Rory laughed, a high false sound that contrasted with the gay music and the happy faces in the crowded entrance. Christ, he hadn’t known she looked exactly like Jenny. “Oh, sure, sure it is.” He pulled himself together, shrugging on his jacket, running his hand
through his hair. Delighted shrieks accompanied the gesture; he had been recognized.

“I’ll just say hi,” he said nonchalantly to Dirk, “for old times’ sake, y’know … for Jenny.”

“Sure,” said Dirk, “sure, Rory, for old times’ sake.”

Fitz felt Venetia stiffen as the good-looking young man approached them. Was it someone she knew?

“Hi, Venetia,” said Rory, holding out his hand. “I’m an old friend of your mother’s.”

“I know who you are.” Venetia ignored his outstretched hand, and feeling like a fool, Rory shifted it to his head, stroking back his hair, casually.

Fitz glanced at her sharply. Something was wrong; her tone was icy and her voice trembled just a little.

“I just wanted to say, you know … like I’m sorry about poor Jenny, it must have been an awful shock to you.”

“It was. To all three of us. Good night, Mr. Grant.”

Venetia swept past him, leaving him standing there. Shit, thought Rory angrily, tough little bitch—just like her mother.

“Come on, you guys,” he called, “let’s get this show on the road. Chelsea’s gonna take over this place.” Grabbing Shelly by the hand he pulled her onto the dance floor to the delighted applause of the watching crowd.

Fitz sat silently in the car next to Venetia, waiting for her to speak. She wasn’t crying, she was just sitting there, but he could feel her trembling.

“I’m sorry,” she said at last, “but I didn’t expect it … I mean, to meet Rory Grant like that.”

“You know him?” Fitz had had the impression that they were seeing each other for the first time.

“No. I just knew
of
him. He was my mother’s lover. Her last lover. Apparently she lavished all her love and attention, and her money, on him. Jenny made him a
star. Bill Kaufmann told me that, Fitz. And then he left her.”

Fitz thought of what she’d told him earlier, how the other two had abandoned Jenny. And now this one. Something was very wrong with this whole situation, very wrong.