Indiscretions (33 page)

The bathroom door opened and Fitz stood there, a white towel tied around his middle, his hair still sleek and wet from the shower. His tan had developed a ruddy glow from his days out at sea, and his body was lean and hard-looking. She noticed the scatter of gray among the dark hair on his chest and the deep scar down one arm from some long-ago accident, and then her gaze met his.

Fitz had felt pleased with himself. He’d thought he’d beaten it. He’d gone fishing with Pete, he’d stayed away three days, drunk enough whiskey each night so that he’d slept like a log, and been up again at the break of dawn ready for the next day’s sport. He’d told himself he’d forgotten her, dismissed the episode as nonsense—just something to do with the night and his old romantic dreams of Jenny Haven. And now she was here and it was starting all over again.

“I just thought you might be hungry,” stammered Venetia, setting down the food on a table. “After all, I am supposed to be the chef.”

“Thank you, Venetia.”

“Actually, that’s not absolutely true.…” She moved closer to him, standing with her hands in the pockets of her baggy khaki shorts, like a guilty child. Only she wasn’t a child. Her nipples stood out against the thin vest she wore. “I came to say something else.”

Fitz walked to the table and picked up the bottle of wine.

“Will you have a glass of wine with me, Venetia?”

She took it from him, watching his eyes, searching for a reaction to her presence.

“Would you like something to eat?” he asked politely.

Venetia took a gulp of her wine.

“Fitz,” she said, “Fitz … oh, God, this is awful.” Putting down her glass she ran an agitated hand through her hair and paced toward him. “Fitz, I think I’m in love with you. No. I
am
in love with you. Maybe you think I’m a fool, and that I barely know you … but I
do
know you, I feel I know you as I know myself.” She took a deep breath. “There, I’ve said it.” Tears pricked at her eyelids and she stared downcast at the golden Persian rug that felt like silk beneath her bare feet.

Fitz had meant to tell her to leave, just to be gentle and polite, but then she had looked at him with Jenny’s eyes, and her mouth that was so nearly Jenny’s, and she had said she loved him. It was the culmination of all his dreams. His arms went around her and her head bent beneath the passion of his kiss. He was kissing Jenny and he was kissing Venetia, those golden breasts and delicate pink nipples that rose to his touch, her scented blond hair, the satiny flesh under his lips. His boyhood longing for the unattainable woman on the screen was assuaged in the silken, entwined body of her daughter.

Venetia ran her hands down Fitz’s back, loving him, loving the feel of his flesh and muscle under her fingers. Her mouth felt bruised from his kisses, her breasts sweetly sore from his caress, and as he entered her she
cried out with passion and pleasure, wrapping herself around him, drawing him ever closer, ever closer, until she was climbing to that great height. She heard him cry out, but she was lost in her passion, delirious, confused … of course he must have cried Vennie, not Jenny.

Venetia awoke to the sound of thunder rumbling across the water. A flash of lightning illuminated the darkened room and she saw she was alone. Sliding her legs from the bed, she padded across to the bathroom—he wasn’t there. She found a white toweling robe and knotting it around her she made her way onto the deck. He was standing in the rain, watching the storm.

She watched him for a moment and then walked up behind him, sliding her arm around his waist.

“It’s dangerous to be out in a storm like this,” she whispered.

Fitz turned to meet her eyes. He looked strange, she thought, as though he’d been a million miles away.

“Venetia.” She lifted her face to him and he kissed her on the lips, gently and tenderly. “Thank you.”

They stared into each other’s eyes for a moment, remembering, and then he took her hand and walked her back indoors.

“You must get some sleep,” he said. “It’s late.”

“Can’t I stay with you?”

“We’ll see each other tomorrow. Go on, now, off to bed.”

He left her at the foot of the companion ladder to the upper deck, kissing her fingers, her hand sliding from his as she trailed slowly up the steps. He stayed there until he heard her door close, and then he went back to his place on the deck, watching the storm, listening to the crackle and hiss of the lightning.

In a glow of warmth and love Venetia snuggled into her bed, reliving their lovemaking. There was just one disturbing thought in the middle of all the beauty and
happiness. Why, when he’d said, “Thank you,” had it sounded so—so final? Almost like “Good-bye.”

Fitz left before dawn broke, taking the little speedboat and then driving himself to Grantley Adams Airport. His plane was the first to leave that morning—en route for New York.

Venetia read his letter in the bright reality of the sunny morning. It was over, it had never been. He wanted her to forget him, she was young and she was lovely and he’d been carried away. He wanted to thank her, to tell her not to be hurt—that she’d been a beautiful and generous lover, more than he deserved. Would she please forgive him and erase the night from her memory—as he would. When they next met it would be as though it had never happened.

But why? Why, when it had all been so
perfect?
Was it because of Morgan? Locking her cabin door Venetia hurled herself on her bed and began to cry. Oh, God, why did life have to get so complicated? Why? And why hadn’t she met Fitz first?

Morgan was surprised to hear from the pilot of the McBain Learjet that Fitz was back in New York. He’d expected him still to be on the
Fiesta
, taking it easy. He knew that was what Doc Walden had suggested—and suggested with more than a little firmness. It wasn’t that there was anything physically wrong with Fitz, he’d said, but he just didn’t see how any man coming up to forty-five could keep up that kind of pace. It was time to take life more slowly, savor it more, quit breaking his neck over the next deal—and the next. In other words, he’d added with a grin, come down to the level and speed of ordinary mortals. As usual, Fitz was playing it his own way. Funny, though, that he hadn’t called him in Rio. He was so keen on this Brazilian deal. Well, no matter, he’d call him tonight and tell him that everything was
straightened out—the deal would be signed next week when the paperwork was completed.

And now, thought Morgan, I can relax and enjoy being with Venetia.

She wasn’t at the airport to meet him, though he’d half expected her to be, and he felt oddly disappointed.

But she was there at the jetty, perched on a stone bollard, looking suntanned and pretty—just as he’d known she would.

“It’s so
good
to see you here,” he said, hugging her to him. “I can’t tell you how lonely I was without you … so lonely, I’ve got you at least half a dozen presents.”

“Oh, Morgan …”

“Oh, Morgan what? Can’t a guy buy a present or two for the girl he loves?”

She stared at him blankly. This was getting worse and worse—and they’d only just begun.

“By the way,” he said, tucking her arm in his as they sat side by side in the launch, “Miss Haven, you’re off duty for an entire week. Tonight I’m taking you to the nicest, most intimate restaurant on the island. I know how particular you chefs are about food, so I can assure you it will be good—and so will the wine, and the candlelight. The Bagatelle does it properly, you know. And afterward I’m going to take you dancing.”

“The Bagatelle … dancing … Oh, Morgan …” She glanced at him helplessly.

“Is that all you can say? ‘Oh, Morgan’ to a guy who’s traveled thousands of miles just to be with you? Oh, Venetia”—he hugged her close again—“aren’t you as glad to see me as I am to see you?”

Venetia was thankful he didn’t wait for her answer.

“And tomorrow,” he went on exuberantly, “I’m gonna beat you at water skiing.
And
have you ever been deep-sea fishing? No? Then we’ll try our hand at reeling in a barracuda—what do you say to that?”

Despite herself Venetia laughed. “You’re incredible, Morgan. Why aren’t you exhausted and fed up after such a long journey?”

“Because I’m in love,” he said simply.

She had tried to dissuade him from taking her to the Bagatelle, but he had been adamant. It was exactly the kind of place she’d love, he knew it.

Any other time would have been right, but tonight it was unbearable. She must tell him, she just
had
to.

“Morgan.” She put down the fork with which she had been pretending to eat the delicate morsels of flying fish on her plate. “Morgan, I must tell you something.”

“You don’t like the fish,” he teased. “Not up to your standards, perhaps.”

She couldn’t laugh. “No, it’s not that. Morgan, it’s serious.”

He looked at her in surprise. “Okay. What is it, baby, what’s troubling you?”

Now was the moment. “I’m leaving the
Fiesta
, Morgan. I’m going back to London.”

He was stunned. “But why? Aren’t you happy here?”

“It’s just that I feel I’m here … well, under false pretenses.”

Morgan took her hand in his, holding it across the table. “But why, Vennie? You’re as good a chef as anyone—certainly good enough for the
Fiesta
. Has my father been giving you trouble—is that it?”

“No. Oh, no. Not at all.” Venetia felt the blush burn her cheeks as she avoided Morgan’s eyes. She couldn’t do it, she couldn’t tell him about Fitz. She’d meant to—but it was too hard, too hurtful. He was so sweet, so very nice. “It’s just that there’s really no cooking for me to do. No one is there.”

“Then just enjoy yourself, sweetheart. Swim, sunbathe, take it easy. It’s better than London at this time of the
year, isn’t it? And besides, it gives me a chance to see you.”

“Morgan. That’s another thing. I’m not sure that you should be seeing me—I mean, I’m not sure that I’m the right girl for you. I don’t want to take up your time, Morgan, when you could be with someone else.”

“Hey, wait a minute now. This
is
serious.” His grip tightened on her nervous hand. “What’s happened? I thought things were pretty good between you and me. Why have a couple of weeks on the
Fiesta
made you feel differently?”

Venetia said nothing, staring at the glass of wine, the same ruby-red wine she’d drunk with Fitz.

“Is it me, sweetheart? Have I made you feel insecure? Unwanted? I didn’t mean to … I just wanted you to take your time, to get used to me and my globe-trotting life-style. That’s what you’d have to put up with if you married me.”

Venetia put up her hand to stop him. She knew what he was going to say—and a month ago she would have been thrilled and excited to hear it. A month ago, though, she was just a child.

“Morgan. Don’t. Please don’t.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks and she brushed them away hurriedly.

“Hey, there, Vennie, come on now.”

Morgan was so sweet, so kind and thoughtful—and so handsome. Any girl would be lucky to be loved by him. Any girl but
her
.

“Maybe I’m rushing it a bit. I didn’t mean to, Vennie, I wanted to give you time, you’re so young.”

Venetia grabbed desperately at the straw. “Yes, that’s one of the reasons. I feel too young for marriage, Morgan. Too young for the responsibility. That’s why I should leave the
Fiesta
, leave
you
. I don’t want to lead
you on. I mean, I may
never
marry … you see, Morgan,
never
.”

Morgan sat back in his chair. Of all things she might say, he hadn’t expected this. She seemed overwrought and confused. Had he pushed too hard, rushed her?

“Take it easy, sweetheart,” he said soothingly. “Look, don’t run away from me, Vennie. I promise I won’t push, I won’t bother you. I’ll even leave tomorrow, if you like. Let you be alone for a while to think things out. And where better than on the
Fiesta?
Don’t leave, Vennie. If you do, then I’ll feel I’ve lost you forever. Please.”

She really should go, she knew it.

“Please, Vennie, stay.”

“Vennie.” She remembered Fitz calling her name in passion. He had loved her that night, she was sure of it, and if she left the
Fiesta
she would never see him again, it would be the end. If she stayed, Fitz would return to the yacht, he couldn’t stay away forever, and then he’d be forced to meet her again and there was the slightest chance that he might change his mind.

“All right, Morgan, I’ll stay.” His face showed his relief. “But …”

“I know, I know,” he said, “But. I agree to that ‘but’ for the time being. Deal?”

They shook hands solemnly across the table. “Deal,” she said. Judas, she thought.

16

The George V was the best hotel in Paris, as far as Stan was concerned. There were those who preferred the Lancaster, but it was a bit stiff for his taste. The George V was always abustle, things were going on—you felt there was a bit of action, like the Sherry Netherland in New York, his home away from home. In fact, thought Stan, if it weren’t for Jessie, he’d be very happy, yes
very
happy, living at the Sherry. Great location, comfort, room service, luxury, familiar L.A. faces passing through the bar every evening, promising a spot of fast action—what more could a guy ask?