Indiscretions (42 page)

In the first month Fitz McBain had been aboard twice—each time for one night only, bringing with him a party of guests who were to enjoy his hospitality, though not his presence, for the next couple of weeks. Venetia had not seen him alone; in fact, she had seen him only once to speak to, and that was at the dinner table when the guests, merry on champagne, had called for their chef to compliment her on her dinner. Venetia had had to stand
there, blushing, dressed in old shorts and her huge striped apron, feeling hot and illkempt compared with the elegant, leisured guests in their summery, floating silks. Fitz had smiled at her as their glances met, but she had only wanted to escape. Afterward she’d watched from her position outside her galley on the upper deck, feeling like a pantomime Cinderella left behind when the others went to the Prince’s ball, as they trooped laughingly ashore, heading for some party at the Hotel Cervo.

Often the guests would choose to eat in a harborside café in Calvi or a smart restaurant in St. Tropez and then they’d dance the night away at a party or some wild disco. It would all have been such fun if only she’d been sensible enough to fall in love with Morgan—but how could any daughter of Jenny’s be expected to behave sensibly? There was no doubt that Morgan was hurt, but his bitterness was against her, not his father. “I might have guessed,” he’d said cryptically, when she’d told him about her feelings for Fitz, “but I would have thought it would be the other way around—he’s always loved you.”

She’d gazed at him, puzzled, wondering if he’d misunderstood her, but she’d forgotten his remark in her relief that he had finally accepted that she could only be a friend to him. “The biggest cliché of all,” he’d said wryly. “I surely never thought anyone would say it to
me!
”

“It may be cliché,” she’d replied gently, “but I mean it. We’ve been good friends from the beginning, Morgan—it would be nice if we could keep it that way.”

Still, she was relieved that he came rarely to the yacht, feeling oddly shy with him in her new role.

The message that Mr. McBain would be joining the
Fiesta
for a few weeks ran through the crew in minutes. The gleaming yacht was given an extra spit and polish for its master until its brasswork glittered in the sun and the crew, dressed in their crispest white shorts and shirts,
caps gleaming with gold braid, awaited his arrival. The boat was quiet—the week’s complement of new guests was due to arrive late that afternoon, and Venetia, her heart pounding, pondered over what to wear. Showered and cool, with her blond hair freshly washed and left to dry in the sun, she chose a short, white cotton skirt and a big white shirt that she left unbuttoned, just clasping it at the waist with a wide leather belt. With her winter suntan topped up from her weeks in the Mediterranean and her hair brushed in a new shaggy style, she looked like a healthy young animal. It was time, she decided firmly, gazing at herself in the mirror, it was time for a bit of Jenny’s “action.”

The hours ticked by interminably on the strangely quiet boat. He was late, thought Venetia anxiously; perhaps he wasn’t coming after all. Oh, please God, let him come, please … she couldn’t bear it any longer, she
must
see him.

It was six-thirty when they finally arrived. Venetia heard his familiar deep voice and the sound of feminine laughter. Hurrying from her cabin she ran along the deck, almost colliding with them as she turned the corner. A beautiful tawny-blond woman stood with Fitz and a half-dozen other laughing guests who were still straggling on board.

“Venetia.” Leaving Olympe, Fitz took her hand in his. “How are you?” His dark eyes were concerned. “Not too overworked, I hope?”

Venetia felt herself blushing again. Oh, God, would she never outgrow that childish habit? Her hand trembled in his and she pulled it back hastily. “No, no, of course not. It’s what I’m here for.”

“Morgan told me he thought you were doing too much and should have more free time,” said Fitz, “and I agree with him. Let’s discuss it later, shall we? Meanwhile, we
shall be dining out tonight, so there’s no need to consider us.”

Venetia’s heart sank. He was going out, with that gorgeous woman, she supposed.

“Very well,” she said in a small voice.

Olympe watched with interest the quiet exchange between Fitz and the lovely blonde with the fantastic legs. If there was a rival for Fitz’s attentions, then she’d like to know it. Olympe could sense a liaison almost before it happened, and there was something between these two, she was sure of it.

“Aren’t you going to introduce your friend, Fitz?” she called.

Anger sparked in Venetia. She wasn’t going to take a backseat just because this woman was here, she was going to fight for what she wanted, just as India had—and Jenny.

“I’m the chef on the
Fiesta
,” she announced loudly, “at your service.” She gave a mocking little bow and received a spontaneous round of applause from the guests crowding the deck. “If you wish anything special cooked, I’m the one to ask. My name is Venetia. Venetia Haven.”

“Haven?” Olympe stared at her with renewed interest. “Any relation to Jenny Haven?”

“Jenny was my mother.”

“Of course, there’s a very strong resemblance, isn’t there, Fitz?” And of course, too, she thought, this must be Paris Haven’s sister … ah, well. Olympe strolled off in search of her cabin, leaving Fitz on deck with Venetia. She couldn’t see this one being much of a rival. Venetia was young and very pretty, but she didn’t know how to play the game. Now, if it were Paris, the beautiful Paris …

“Right, Venetia,” said Fitz briskly, “then we’ll talk tomorrow. By the way, Morgan asked me to tell you that he’ll be here at the weekend.”

With a casual wave of his hand he was gone. Venetia turned angrily, leaping up the stairs two at a time, slamming the door of her cabin.

“Damn him.” She stomped the few feet of floor space impatiently. “Damn him and damn that woman. Who the hell is she? Oh, damn, why did she have to come here?”

She lay unmoving on her bed, hearing their voices drifting from the afterdeck where they had gathered for drinks, and later she heard them leave. Lying there on the narrow bed in her hot little cabin she had plenty of time to think. It was time for action. Flinging off her clothes she turned the shower on cold, flinching as the water struck her warm body. But it left her cool and refreshed as she sat before her mirror carefully applying her makeup. She brushed her hair forward, catching it in her hand and pulling it on top, allowing just a few tendrils to fall around her face. There, that was more sophisticated. A hint of the Bluebell perfume, and she was ready. There’d be no little-girl-lost look tonight, she decided, sliding her arms into the short, blue satin robe that had belonged to Jenny. A glance in the mirror showed that she looked just right for what she wanted—slightly tumbled hair, eyes shadowy and mysterious, long, smooth brown legs, and a glimpse of her nakedness in the casually tied robe. A portrait in seduction, she thought, remembering the last time she’d gone to find Fitz in his cabin, in her baggy old shorts and T-shirt. If it had worked then, then this should surely do the trick. She felt better already. India was right—you didn’t just grin and bear it, you did something about it. Now, all she had to do was wait—again!

They came back earlier than she had expected, tired no doubt from the day’s traveling. Venetia heard them saying good-night and the sound of doors closing, and then the boat was quiet. She allowed fifteen endless minutes to
tick by, then opened her door and peered cautiously along the decks. They gleamed emptily in the moonlight. On bare, silent feet she made her way to the master stateroom. She had made the same journey often before, to spend lonely nights in Fitz’s bed, but this time she would be with Fitz. Venetia hesitated for a moment outside his door, listening, but all seemed quiet. She pushed it open gently and peered into the darkness of the outer room that Fitz used as his study. A glow of light came from beneath the bedroom door, and with her heart beating faster Venetia tiptoed across.

If it hadn’t been that the door had developed a faint squeak due to the salt air, they wouldn’t have noticed her. As it was, Olympe, splendid in black lace French knickers and nothing else, turned her head inquiringly. With Fitz’s arms still around her, she smiled at Venetia.

“Well,” she said in an amused voice, “did you intend joining us, or is this merely to discuss what we would like for breakfast?”

Venetia stood rooted to the spot, her eyes on Olympe’s nakedness, the beautiful breasts that Fitz had been kissing. Oh, God, she wanted to die, just die.…

“Shut up, Olympe.” Fitz pushed her aside roughly, making for the door just as Venetia turned and ran. “Venetia, Vennie, come here!” He grabbed her by the arm as she turned into the corridor. “Come here, you bloody little fool. Whatever possessed you to do such a thing? My God, Vennie, you’re crazy.…”

Vennie raised her arm and hit him, putting all the force of her slender body behind it.

“You’re right,” she yelled, “I am a bloody little fool. My mother didn’t bring me up to know any better, that’s why I did it. I hate you, Fitz McBain, I hate you.…” Wrenching her arm from his she escaped from his grasp and turned to run, tripping over the slippery satin belt of the seductress’s blue robe—the sort of robe that was
meant to swing open, as it did now, allowing Olympe Avallon’s amused eyes a glimpse of her nakedness as she took off once more.

“Well, darling,” said Olympe, “do we continue where we left off, or should I have a headache?” Olympe could see that at this point withdrawal was the better move. Whatever was going on, Fitz was definitely upset. Could there be more to this situation than had met her experienced eye? How very boring.

“Unless, of course, you want to talk about it?”

Fitz’s voice had a harsh edge to it. “You shouldn’t have said that, Olympe.”

“Oh? Do I have to make excuses to little Miss Haven for being with you?”

“Olympe, I’m sorry. She’s just a kid … I would have given anything for that not to have happened.”

She may be young, thought Olympe, but Venetia certainly hadn’t shown up at Fitz McBain’s cabin, dressed—or rather undressed—like that to play any childish games. Shrugging her negligée over her shoulders she walked to the door.

“You should remember, Fitz, that young girls like that can be dangerous,” she warned. “They take things so seriously. They don’t understand your sort of games—my sort of games. One of you could end up getting hurt.” The door closed softly behind her. Olympe never slammed doors.

The phone rang suddenly and Fitz picked it up impatiently. Who the hell was calling at this time of night?

“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” said the duty officer, “but it’s a Mr. Ronson calling from Los Angeles. He said it was urgent.”

“Very well, put him on.”

Bob Ronson’s voice came on the line. “Good evening, Mr. McBain. I apologize for the late hour, but I thought
it was important that you knew right away. It’s about the special matter you asked me to look into.”

Fitz was all attention. “Right. How’s it going?”

“Pretty good, sir, if you can call it ‘good.’ I have the information you needed, it’s all here. I have it on tape, Mr. McBain. I don’t want to go into details on the phone, but I think it would be worthwhile your hearing this as soon as possible, sir. I could take an evening flight out, if you wish.”

“No,” he replied quickly, “don’t bother, Ronson, I’ll come there. We might have some interesting meetings coming up. Thanks, Bob. You’ve done a good job.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. McBain.” Ronson’s normally businesslike voice sounded pleased; he hadn’t missed that switch from “Ronson” to “Bob.” “Then we’ll expect you tomorrow, sir?”

“Right. I’ll let you know later what time. Good-night, Bob, and thanks again.”

Fitz sat at his desk wondering what it was Ronson had on the tape. Then he placed a call and left a message for his pilot to have the plane ready for a flight to Los Angeles at eight in the morning.

23

Bill fiddled with the knot of his sober blue tie, nervously rebuttoning the jacket of his gray flannel suit as he waited in the hallway of Fitz McBain’s Bel-Air house, wondering why he was here. The phone call had come out of the blue—not McBain himself, but some assistant or secretary: “Mr. McBain will be in Los Angeles on Thursday and would like to meet Mr. Kaufmann to discuss a business matter.”

Perhaps McBain was thinking of getting into the movie business, or more likely cable TV or satellite, but if so, why ask him? There were other, more impressive, names who would have welcomed Fitz McBain’s interest. That was what was making Bill so uneasy. He had the sneaking feeling something was wrong. But, if so, what?

He peered at the tiny painting propped on a gilt easel next to a tape deck, on a table by the sofa. He’d bet his boots that it was a Matisse.…

Fitz stood by the door, watching him, watching Jenny’s ex-agent, ex-friend. Her Judas. Or one of them; one was already dead.

“It’s a Matisse,” he said. Bill jumped back awkwardly. “It was one of my first purchases when I started making money.
Real
money, that is.”