Indiscretions (44 page)

For once in his life Bill was speechless. He stared at Fitz in silence.

“However,” said Fitz briskly, “I’m not here to save Rory Grant from blackmail, nor to salve his conscience—or yours. I’m here on behalf of Jenny Haven’s daughters. There’s a considerable sum of money owing to them—both the amount stolen by Grant and further monies that they might win in a loss-and-damages claim for negligence by you and Reubin. My own lawyers tell me this
would come to a very considerable sum.” Fitz paused, assessing Kaufmann’s reaction. He was obviously very frightened; his eyes blinked rapidly and his hands gripped the arms of the lovely Charles II chair so tightly his ring would probably leave scratches in the wood.

“It is the wish of the Haven daughters,” Fitz continued, “that their mother’s name should not be dragged unnecessarily through the courts. They will not tolerate any further scandal in connection with her name. Therefore, Kaufmann—and
only
for that reason—I am prepared to talk terms.”

Terms? Did he mean he wanted to make a
deal?
Bill perked up a little.

“Terms?”

“The girls are prepared to let you off far more lightly than either I, or any court, would. And both you and I know that the actual sums involved are far more than they are asking.”

“How much?” croaked Bill.

“One and a half million.”

Bill restrained himself just in time from asking, “Each?” His senses were beginning to clear, his brain was ticking over again. There might be a way out after all.

“One and a half million dollars,” repeated Fitz, “not a great deal to ask. And I say again, Kaufmann, it’s
far less
than a court would award them.” He could tell from the agent’s face that he’d judged the sum nicely; a million and a half was accessible money, he’d get his hands on it somehow.

“I don’t have that kind of money, McBain.” Bill released his grip on the chair arms. “A million and a half cash is hard to come by.”

“Look at it this way,” said Fitz. “It’s five hundred thousand from Rory, five hundred thousand from Stan Reubin’s estate, and five hundred thousand from you personally.
You’re getting off lightly, Kaufmann, much too lightly!”

Five hundred thousand each, thought Bill, juggling facts and figures busily. He knew Rory was good for it, he’d just have to cancel the purchase of the house on Benedict and get an advance from the studios … and then there was Stan’s estate; Jessie would be sure to cut up rough … maybe he’d have to talk to Stan’s partners … yeah, that was it, he’d talk to them, they surely wouldn’t want to have the name of their firm involved in any scandal, it could ruin them just as it could ruin him. They’d pay up. Maybe they’d even go for a mil—they didn’t know the exact sum asked for, and they’d pay whatever was needed. Bill almost smiled in his relief. He could see a way off the hook; not only that, he might even
make
a bit.…

“I’ll see what I can do, Mr. McBain,” he promised.

“Just one more thing,” said Fitz, walking over to the door. “My name is not to be mentioned to anyone. Is that understood?”

He pulled open the door and Bill stared in surprise at the tough, unsmiling young man standing in the hall.

“If it is,” said Fitz, “I shall know.”

Bill had no doubt he would; he’d known about Rory, hadn’t he? “Right.” He hurried through the door, pausing in the hallway. “What about the tape?” he asked. “I get that when I hand over the money, right?”

“Wrong. There are several copies of that tape, all of which will remain in various safe deposits of mine scattered around the world. They belong to me.”

“But then, I’ll never know …” Bill knew he was trapped.

“Exactly. You’ll just have to take my word for it.” Fitz was enjoying himself. “The option would always be open to me to go to the police.”

Bill walked across the hall toward the door. The young
man didn’t move to open it for him, and as Bill’s hand rested on the knob, Fitz’s voice rang again in his ears.

“One more thing.”

Bill turned, beaten.

“You have exactly a week. You will be expected here at noon next Thursday. I shall not be here myself, but Mr. Ronson here will take care of you.”

Bill’s eyes met Ronson’s. They were as cold and gray as flint, and he shuddered.

“I’ll be here,” he promised, stepping hurriedly outside and closing the door behind him.

24

Paris flung the last of her six suitcases into the back of the rented station wagon and slammed the door shut. She might just as well throw them in the sea for all the good they were. She’d driven from Monaco to Antibes, calling at every smart boutique, and hadn’t made a single sale that was worth a damn. Everyone had admired the clothes, but it had been the same story at every shop—if only she’d been there in February or March, but now they were fully stocked. It was just too late in the season.
One or two had bought a couple of outfits where there had been a gap in their stock, and that might just cover her expenses, but she would have to face up to the fact that once again she was almost broke. Not only that, her belief in herself and her talent had taken a second beating. It wasn’t enough just to be a talented designer and a hard worker as well as your own model, you had to be a good businesswoman and you had to have the right contacts; you had to be
luckier
than she was, that was for sure! She hadn’t understood the workings of the retail fashion business, her sights had always been set higher—she was to have been the next Chanel, wasn’t she? So much for that dream; the closest she could expect to get to Chanel would be as a house model in the salon.

Paris pushed her way through the throngs of holiday makers toward the shade of a terrace café and ordered a
citron pressé
. It was still early in the morning and casually dressed tourists, wearing shorts and shirts, relaxed over their morning coffee, reading newspapers and gossiping idly. Paris felt very alone, isolated by her problems from the lazy holiday world of the resort. She debated for a moment whether she should call Vennie, as she had intended, or whether she should turn the car around now and head back for the city. It was deserted this month, restaurants and shops would be closed, everyone in France was on holiday. No, she couldn’t bear to be alone there; she’d call Vennie on the
Fiesta
.

Paris bought some tokens for the phone from the man behind the bar and dialed the operator, waiting impatiently while the phone clicked and hummed, and at last she was through to the
Fiesta
. It took only seconds for them to get Vennie.

“Hello,” called Paris, “Vennie, I’m in Antibes. I thought I’d come to see you.”

“Paris, oh, Paris, you don’t know how glad I am to
hear your voice. Can you come and stay? We’re in St. Tropez. Please come, Paris, I need you.”

Venetia sounded on the point of tears, and Paris frowned. “Is anything wrong? You sound so odd.”

“No. Yes. Oh, everything’s wrong, Paris. I’ll tell you when I see you. How soon can you be here?”

“I’ll be there as soon as possible, Vennie—whatever it is, it’ll be all right. Don’t worry, I’ll be there soon.”

Paris banged down the phone and hurried back toward the car. What could have happened to upset Vennie so much? And what else could go wrong, for God’s sake? Thrusting the car into gear, she threaded her way back through the town and took the coast road west for St. Tropez.

By nature Olympe was adaptable and easygoing. In her view changes were a part of life. Some were good, some bad, and somehow she always managed to shrug off the bad ones. That’s why Fitz’s absence from the
Fiesta
was irritating rather than disturbing. Meanwhile, though he’d flown to L.A. supposedly on “urgent business,” she suspected that Jenny Haven’s youngest daughter was the true cause. It was most annoying, she thought, turning over on her sun lounger to toast her back. Fitz was too old for that child anyway … and he was just right for her. They
understood
each other.

The
Fiesta
was unusually quiet. Most of the others had taken a picnic and gone off for the day in the little fleet of Hobie Cats, tacking around the coast in search of new, unpopulated beaches. Olympe had declined to go with them. She knew they’d probably come back scarred from the lethally sharp sea urchins that clung to the rocks, or burned from too much sun, and she was much too careful of her appearance to risk that. Another five minutes and she’d move into the shade, having achieved her daily permitted quota of fifteen minutes direct sunlight on each
side. It was all very restful—and quite boring with no one to tease, no games to play. Olympe closed her eyes and concentrated on the delicious heat of the sun on her back.

Venetia hovered on deck waiting for Paris, but thinking of Fitz. She had read the short letter he’d left for her a hundred times and it still said the same thing, no matter how hard she tried to read between the lines. He was sorry to have upset her, and he apologized too for his anger. He hoped she would try to understand that it had been a difficult situation for all of them. He had been called away on business and didn’t expect to be back to the
Fiesta
this season. He hoped she would feel able to continue her job there and that she would enjoy the rest of the summer. How could she without him?

There was nothing that implied that he cared for her, no tender regrets, no confessions of secret longings. She remembered laughing ages ago with Kate Lancaster about being the object of a “secret passion”; it had been Morgan they were talking about then, though. How far away it all seemed, and how uncomplicated, when she’d just been playing at being in love. Nobody told you that the real thing hurt! She’d finally made up her mind to return to London in a few weeks and take a job there. She wasn’t cut out for this sort of life; she wanted to immerse herself in hard work, and one day she planned to open her own restaurant.

She wished Paris would get here soon; she needed to talk to someone. If she didn’t she’d go crazy. Venetia paced the deck impatiently, wondering how long it would take to drive from Antibes in the summer traffic. Probably forever. She ran an agitated hand through her shaggy, sun-bleached hair. She must
do something
, she couldn’t just hang about here,
thinking
. Because every time she did, the image of Olympe, beautiful and naked in Fitz’s arms, sneaked its way back into her mind, no matter how
hard she tried to forget it.
And
the memory of her own humiliation. She couldn’t blame Fitz for that, it was her own stupid, naive fault. She’d acted like a child, believing he’d be there all alone waiting for her like the last time. Well, she’d never be that foolish again, she was quite sure of that. If only Olympe Avallon would leave, but she had stayed on. In fact she didn’t seem to be the least bit upset by Fitz’s absence; she was having a wonderful time going to all the parties on the other yachts and villas. And she was so bloody beautiful!

Venetia kept well away from the guests’ quarters and the afterdeck where everybody gathered to sunbathe or for cocktails. She hoped she’d never have to meet Olympe again.

Damn it, she really must keep busy. She wasn’t going to think it through all over again. She’d go and write another letter to Kate while she waited for Paris.

Paris was hot and dusty and tired. The coast road had been one endless traffic jam and the drive grueling. She stood under the shower in the well-equipped bathroom that adjoined the cabin Venetia had arranged for her, enjoying the cooling spray of water and wondering what the hell she was going to do about her sister. Of course Vennie had made a fool of herself, but then, she would hate to remember how many times
she
had made a similar fool of herself.… The shudder that ran through her body was not because of the chill of the water. It seemed that neither of them was destined to have much luck.

Toweling herself dry she slipped on a pair of shorts and a brief bandeau top. Venetia was busy in her galley. Perhaps she’d take a look around this wonderful yacht. Paris hadn’t realized that the
Fiesta
would be so impressive. She explored the spacious interconnecting rooms, the big salon with its deep, comfortable sofas and a Cézanne on the wall, the dining room with a table big enough to seat
at least two dozen. Everything had a solid feel of comfort, yet was simple and unostentatious, unless you considered a Cézanne ostentatious, she thought with a grin. The decks were spotless and a young crewman was polishing brasswork that surely could gleam no brighter. Paris was staggered by the realization of exactly how rich you had to be to afford a yacht like this … rich enough not to care how much anything cost. Strolling the
Fiesta
’s decks only brought home exactly how broke she was.

The sun was still burning down and she made for the shade of the blue awning on the afterdeck. Someone was there before her … a sleek brown body drowsing in the afternoon heat … a body she knew!

“Olympe!”

Olympe’s eyes flew open. “Paris! How wonderful to see you—and what a surprise. I didn’t know you knew Fitz McBain. Ah—wait a minute, I expect you’ve come to see your sister—the mysterious Venetia.”