Indiscretions (40 page)

New York was not the smartest place to be seen in June, but Olympe thought it would be worth the sacrifice. She swept from the air-conditioned comfort of her limousine into the climate-controlled foyer of the Helmsley Palace Hotel on Madison, glancing around her in appreciation. At least the hotel was a good one; you could always tell by the flowers and the type of people you encountered in
the foyer. She checked in quickly and was wafted to her suite on the tenth floor. Flowers and fruit awaited her, the gift of a respectful management. Picking up the phone she called room service and ordered a large, very cold bottle of Perrier water and a club sandwich. Olympe never ate or drank on planes, even on the Concorde; it only dehydrated one and contributed to the jet lag. Consequently she was starving. Kicking off her shoes, she sank onto the bed, dialed the operator, and asked for an outside line. Holding her address book open at M, she dialed and waited for Fitz McBain. The number was his private line that only he ever answered, and it purred gently, but without response.

Damn. Could he be out of town? Surely not. He’d mentioned to her that he had to be in New York most of June on business and that he planned to be in Europe later in the summer. Olympe hoped she hadn’t gambled wrongly—this was costing her a fortune. She’d take a shower and try again.

Thirty minutes later, fortified by the sandwich and cooled by her shower, she dialed his number again. Fitz answered immediately. If he was surprised to hear from her he didn’t show it, and when she put down the phone five minutes later Olympe had a dinner date with Fitz at Le Cirque for eight-thirty that night.

Fitz sat opposite Olympe at a discreet corner table while waiters did a complicated ballet around them, flourishing bottles for his approval, lighting her cigarettes, and brandishing menus. Olympe beamed her approval at him.

“I called it right, then,” he said. “I thought this would be the perfect place for you.”

“I adore it, Fitz. It’s charming, the service is good, and it’s … intimate.”

Fitz sipped his Scotch on the rocks. He didn’t usually
like to drink whiskey before wine, but Olympe had ordered a Campari, so he had to have something.

“I’ve never thought of it as intimate, Olympe.”

“Of course it’s intimate—for certain people. Look at them.” Olympe gestured with her cigarette to the table-hoppers greeting those they knew, or hoped to know better. “They make it intimate for people like us who are here to have dinner—alone together. They scarcely even know we’re here.”

Fitz laughed at her backhanded logic. “I guess you’re right, though I had supposed that you were one of that sort of people yourself.”

Olympe gave him her most demure smile. “Only when circumstances force me, Fitz. Certainly not otherwise. I can’t think of anything I enjoy more than dinner alone with someone nice, someone I like. Except maybe …” She laughed, gesturing happily with the cigarette that she was using for effect rather than smoking. “Ah, my dear Fitz, I don’t know whether you are used to the direct ways of us Frenchwomen.”

“Certainly not before the appetizer,” murmured Fitz as the waiter appeared with her asparagus and his smoked salmon. He felt good for the first time in weeks, and it reminded him of the other time he’d been with Olympe at Bendor’s party in Barbados. He’d enjoyed himself with her then too; she had the happy knack of making it all so easy for a man to be relaxed; her flirting was straightforward without the games Raymunda played. But she wasn’t Venetia, he remembered with a pang. And it was a good thing she wasn’t! Placing a sliver of salmon on some brown bread, he offered it to Olympe. Instead of taking it in her fingers she leaned forward and took it in her mouth, pressing her pink tongue gently against his fingers.

“Delicious,” she said. “I have to confess, Fitz McBain, that I adore good food. It’s one of my weaknesses.”

Fitz didn’t ask what the others were. “How’s Beny?” he asked instead.

Olympe finished her final asparagus spear before she replied. She wiped her extravagantly red mouth delicately with her napkin. “Beny is well. He’s also in Australia, not a place I’ve ever fancied particularly. All those sheep farmers, darling, drinking all that
beer
. Poor Beny, I’m afraid he’s addicted to beer, you know.” She shuddered delightfully. “I hope you don’t drink beer, Fitz?”

Fitz grinned. “It has been known,” he admitted. “Don’t forget I grew up in the backlands of Texas. You’re talking to a rough old wildcatter here.”

“Am I really?”

How did she manage to say so much with her eyes? Fitz was fascinated. If Olympe had meant to enchant him with her flirting, she was succeeding.

“What brings you to New York?” he asked as the waiter removed their plates.

“Oh, shopping. And … curiosity.”

“What can a Frenchwoman possibly buy in New York that she can’t find in Paris?”

“Well, maybe just curiosity, then.”

Fitz leaned forward, smiling. “And exactly what are you curious about?”

“Among other things, what the apartment of a rough Texan wildcatter looks like.…”

Olympe was as beautiful naked as she was dressed—a rare event in fashionable women, as Fitz knew. She stood before him with a body that looked as though it were sprung by Rolls-Royce, dazzling him with her nakedness and her wicked, amused eyes. It was those eyes that made him like her so much; they acknowledged that she was being wicked, but wasn’t it fun? And why shouldn’t they be wicked together? And they were, oh, they were. Olympe seduced him as beautifully and efficiently as any woman could, taunting him and then receding, leaving
him trembling on the brink until he could bear it no longer and he grabbed her, thrusting himself into her well-tuned body as she murmured her pleasure to him, matching him in passion. And afterward she lay, propped up on the pillows, smoking a lazy cigarette, smiling at him with that mischievous little-cat smile. She looked elegant, in control, and ready for whatever he might suggest, though how she managed to convey all that, Fitz wasn’t quite sure. But there was no doubt that she was his kind of woman.

“How do you like the Mediterranean at this time of year?” he asked.

The warm, blue-black nights were driving Venetia crazy. They were even worse than the hot sunny days with the warm, soft breezes that tantalized her naked body as she lay sunbathing on the afterdeck of the
Fiesta
. Alone. She should be back in England, she knew she should. Back home she wouldn’t feel so … so physical! With a sigh Vennie sat up in bed. It was not good for her, being here all by herself—she didn’t even have Kate to talk to, and her letters, long though they were, weren’t the same as a good heart-to-heart. And she should have told Morgan that she definitely wasn’t going to marry him, though honestly she had tried. It was just that he refused to accept her refusal. He came to see her every week or so, when he was able. And once he had even come with Fitz.

They’d arrived unexpectedly, but she had known Fitz was on board by the way the crew reacted—there was an energy, a pace to things, when Fitz was around. Morgan had popped his head into her galley to say hello and ask her to have dinner with them, but she had said that as their chef she welcomed the opportunity of working for her salary. She couldn’t face meeting Fitz again with Morgan there. She had stayed away from the salon, and later, after dinner, she’d seen father and son pacing the
deck together, discussing the meeting they were en route to Caracas for. She knew that they were to leave early the next morning and she’d been up at dawn, hoping that Fitz might come to see her, that he still felt as she did.

She had taken a mug of coffee onto the deck and was standing there, watching the sun rise, when Fitz appeared. He was formally dressed in an immaculate beige suit. His thick, dark hair was firmly brushed, still wet from the shower, and he had left the top button of his blue shirt open with the tie loosely knotted. She could smell his aftershave—fresh and citrusy. He hadn’t smiled, just looked at her, a deep look at first, and then he’d turned away and gazed at the shore. “It’s a lovely morning, Venetia,” he’d said noncommittally. She had clutched her mug of coffee, unable to speak. And then he’d turned back to her and said, “How are you, Vennie?” It was the look in his eyes that puzzled her, even now. She’d thought about it endlessly. He had stared at her as though he were seeing her for the first time, checking her against some memory of his own, as if she were some new person. And then she’d blurted it out, letting him see how she felt. “I’ve missed you, Fitz.” His expression had changed; it was as though a mask had come over his face, a polite, smiling, formal mask. “You’re too lonely here,” he’d said, “but I plan on keeping you busy for the next few weeks. I have some friends coming to stay on the
Fiesta
. There’ll be about a dozen or so of them. You’ll be better being occupied—and having some young people around. Morgan will be here some of the time too. I guess that’ll make life a lot happier for you both.” He’d glanced at his watch. “Five-thirty,” he’d said with a frown, “—we must be off. I’m sure Morgan’ll be out to say good-bye to you.” She’d faced him helplessly, still holding her coffee. “Oh, Venetia, one more thing. I haven’t forgotten …” Her heart had stopped, he was going to tell her he hadn’t forgotten that night, he hadn’t
forgotten her after all.… “I haven’t forgotten my promise to look into Jenny’s financial affairs. I’ll let you know as soon as I have any definite information.”

She’d thanked him, managing to keep her voice from shaking, and then Morgan had appeared on deck, cheerful and matter of fact, and the moment alone had gone.

That was the only time in two months that she had seen Fitz, and yet she was trapped here on the
Fiesta
, like the fly on the end of the slender thread that held her to him.

It had been a little easier when the lovely boat had been filled with people and she had found herself busier than she could have imagined. She’d enjoyed that, and Fitz’s friends had been young and jolly with that American quality of open friendliness that had counted her in as one of them as often as she wished. But now the moment of truth had come. Yesterday the captain had told her that the
Fiesta
was to leave for the Mediterranean for the summer months. There was a message for her from Mr. McBain. He would be delighted if she would remain with the
Fiesta
in her new summer quarters, but of course would understand if she preferred a change. A flight would be arranged for her either to London or to Nice, depending on her decision.

Sitting up in bed, with her arms clasped around her knees, Vennie stared into the soft darkness. Of course she should leave; he’d meant it when he’d said good-bye, that he would forget all about that night, and so must she. But would she?

Slipping out of bed she pulled on a robe and went out on deck. The air was a little cooler now, in the darkest hour of the night. Vennie hesitated just for a moment and then she glided softly along the deck and down the companionway. Everyone except the nightwatch on the bridge was asleep, and she reached the master stateroom without notice. Closing the door behind her she padded
across to the bathroom, and taking the bottle of Fitz’s aftershave, she dabbed a little on her throat and between her breasts—and then a little more lower down, on her belly and thighs. Returning to the bedroom she dropped her robe on the floor and slid between the cool sheets of Fitz’s bed, cradling his pillow close to her, wrapped in the smell of his cologne, pretending he was with her. It wasn’t the first time she’d done it; it made her feel closer to him somehow.…

The bright sunlight of the following morning forced the reality on Venetia that she would have to make a decision, and she knew what it must be. She couldn’t bear to go on living in limbo any longer. Fitz obviously wanted nothing more to do with her. She would go home. But first she must clear things between herself and Morgan, tell him the truth—that there could never be anything between them. It wasn’t fair not to—and neither was it fair of Morgan to refuse to accept that. They must both be free. She couldn’t wait until she saw him—she would write to him instead.

It was India’s letter that brought reprieve—or rather the excuse for a reprieve. The fact that India was to be married—to a wonderful Italian count whose name was Aldo—and that she would live happily ever after in a palazzo overlooking the Mediterranean, brought the first taste of pure happiness Vennie had known in ages. At least
one
of Jenny’s girls was getting it together, she thought, reading again India’s looped, American scrawl. She and Paris were to be bridesmaids. It was all to take place in the village church at Marina di Montefiore.

It was too easy to tell herself that as Marina di Montefiore was in the Mediterranean and she was going to be there anyway, she might as well stay with the
Fiesta
for the summer. After all, why not give it one more chance …

20

Marina di Montefiore had pulled out all the stops for their young count’s wedding. The village was
en fête
, decorated with bunting and streamers, with colored lights strung in the trees and trestle tables set up in the square for the celebration dinner—a gift from Count Aldo and his bride—that would take place that night. Afterward there would be fireworks up at the palazzo and then some serious drinking for the older fishermen and dancing in the square for the younger ones. The local band had put in some hasty practice and were there to serenade the young couple as they left the tiny whitewashed church in a carriage—lavishly decorated with ribbons and flowers, drawn by two matching white donkeys—and made their way back to the palazzo for the reception.