Indiscretions (6 page)

“Fabrizio Paroli! Do you really mean it?”

He wished Marisa had looked like that when he’d given her the Bulgari ruby necklace at Christmas. “Of course I do. You may have to cut it and patch it here and there, but it will look good in your place.”

“Oh,” gasped India, “I do
love
you, Fabrizio.”

He was aware of heads turning as her distinctive American-accented Italian rang across the room, and he smiled at her. “And I love you,” he said loudly. Let them talk, let them think what they wished. Sometimes he thought he really did love India Haven. She was probably the only truly
nice
female he had ever known in his life. And she was his friend as well as his occasional lover—not so often nowadays as he would have liked, but he was a busy man, and also Marisa was becoming suspicious of his every move. That India was also a little bit in love with him was good too; it stroked his ego to think of her when Marisa was sulking and complaining that he neglected her for the business. If it weren’t for the children he would be tempted to fall in love with India, and when
she looked as adorable as she did tonight he was very definitely tempted. India was sexy and she was fun. But there were the children and he adored them, too, and he never wanted to lose them. Marisa’s family was powerful; he would never stand a chance in a dispute over custody.

“Come on,” he said firmly, thrusting a glass of champagne into her hand. “You should be circulating and chatting up the cream of international society who are here ruining our carpets and pretending to admire the lines of my designs. Tell them a few prices and make them gasp; if it’s expensive enough they’ll have to have it.”

India laughed. It wasn’t entirely true, but there was enough of a grain of truth from which to make a pearl. They were almost all of them people who had to be
told
what was good. “The public are like bad Hollywood agents,” her mother had said bitterly. “They’re basically people of undefined taste who have to be told by others that something is good before they believe it. When they read it in the trades or in the dailies, then they’ll claim they always knew it was good and use it as a model for new and aspiring artists. Be like that, they’ll say, and then you’ll be a star. Copies! That’s all they want. And the reassurance of everyone else knowing it’s good.” And that was the reason for this party, so that it would be printed in the glossies and the dailies and read about from eternal Rome to sunny Beverly Hills, from the palaces of the Middle East to the boulevards of Paris and even, eventually, to the rain-washed streets of London.

India leaned quietly against a pillar of faux-malachite, sipping her champagne, staring somberly at the crowd. If these were your clients, then these were the people you had to deal with. This was the one thing that bothered her about the business. Catering to rich women’s whims was definitely not her strong point. But rich women were the ones who bought what you offered. It might be their
husbands who were paying, but it was the women who must be wooed. A gusty sigh escaped her. It was, after all, damn it, still a man’s world. Rich women wanted to deal with men, they wanted a little extra attention.…

“Is it that bad?”

The sound of the voice close to her ear startled India and the champagne slopped from her glass over the sleeve of the man in the dark suit standing next to her.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Oh, my God, now she’d probably ruined his suit and lost Paroli an important customer. India mopped futilely at the arm with a tiny cocktail napkin. It was very wet. “Oh, dear,” she said. Her apologetic brown eyes lifted from the sleeve and met his equally deep brown ones.

“Snap,” said Aldo Montefiore.

India’s gaze was puzzled; she was still concentrating on the damage she’d inflicted. Who would have thought one glass of champagne could be so wet!

“Our eyes, I mean. They are the same color.”

“Oh. Oh, I see.” India gazed at him with new interest. He didn’t seem in the least bit bothered about his jacket. He was smiling at her, and he was
quite
attractive. Dark hair, faintly curling after a firm brushing and still wet from the shower. He wore it long on the neck, and slightly shaggy. She liked that. And she liked his brown eyes with the curling lashes. And the smile was gentle, tentative even, as though he wasn’t quite sure what her reaction would be. Like her, he wasn’t too tall—five eight or nine maybe. In her high-heeled boots and with her new fluffy hair she seemed almost as tall as he; for once she didn’t have to gaze upward, and for some silly reason that pleased her. Gazing up at a man always gave him a feeling of mastery and her a feeling of being a child with a father. Here was someone with whom she felt equal. And she definitely liked that smile. Oh, goodness, he was talking
and she’d missed what he’d said, she’d been so engrossed in gazing at him.

“It was my fault,” he repeated gently. “I shouldn’t have startled you like that.”

“Not at all, I’m just sorry about your jacket. Oh, dear, look at it, it’s still so wet. I tell you what—come with me and I’ll get a towel from the kitchen.” India grinned at him, the brave scarlet of her lips as glossy as her sparkling eyes. “I can’t guarantee it’ll be good as new,” she announced, leading the way, “but it will be drier.”

The kitchen was almost as busy as the showroom: relays of waiters picked up trays of hot hors d’oeuvres and harassed chefs maneuvered, grumbling, about the small area.

“Wait here,” cried India, darting through the crush.

Aldo leaned against the wall of the corridor out of the way of passing waiters. He had first spotted her parking the red Fiat on the corner and had followed her along the street to Paroli. If she hadn’t turned into the showroom he would have followed her to wherever she was going, but it was his good fortune that they had both apparently been going to the same place. He still didn’t know who she was, but she obviously knew Fabrizio pretty well, and she knew her way around the showrooms and offices. She must work here. If so, she probably hadn’t been invited to the dinner afterward, and in that case, he decided, remembering the smile, he’d skip the dinner and invite her to dine with him in a restaurant. If he messed up Marisa’s seating arrangements, that was just too bad. The girl appeared from the kitchen clutching a towel. He didn’t even know her name.

“India Haven,” she said, mopping his sleeve. “Take off your jacket and let’s see how wet your shirt is.”

Aldo waved away the cloth impatiently. “Forget the shirt,” he said, “it’ll dry. How can you possibly be called India?”

She stared at him in surprise. “Very simply. I was conceived there. In a houseboat called
Moonrise
on Lake Srīnagar in Kashmir.”

“Why not Moonrise, or Srīnagar, or Kashmir?”

“An eccentricity of my mother’s. My elder sister is named Paris, my younger sister Venetia—an aesthetic variation of Venice. I always say thank God it wasn’t Ganges or Katmandu!”

Aldo threw back his head and laughed. “India Haven, have dinner with me tonight.”

Her hesitation was delightful. He could read the thoughts behind her translucent brown eyes. First interest, then maybe, then firmness. No, she couldn’t.

“But why not?”

“I’m invited to the dinner afterward at Fabrizio’s. I can’t possibly not go.”

“Say no more, Cinderella,” cried Aldo triumphantly. “We are both going to the dinner.”

“Really?” India’s laugh filtered along the corridor. “Then I’ll see you there. I must leave now, though. I promised Marisa that I’d check everything was ready before the guests came. Not that there’s any real need—her staff is more competent than I am.”

“You work for Marisa?”

Aldo’s arm felt firm under her elbow as they walked back along the corridor.

“No. For Fabrizio. I must hurry. I’ll see you there.” India strode off on her high heels along the corridor. “Oh,” she said, turning as she reached the door, “but I don’t know your name.”

“Aldo,” he replied, “Aldo Montefiore.”

Their gaze locked.

“Montefiore,” she murmured, her voice sliding velvety over the syllables, “what a
lovely
name.” She turned on her heel and was gone, and for a moment Aldo stood there, still hearing her voice saying his name, and then
he quickened his pace and followed her through the crowded room.

He found her again outside in the street gazing at the empty space where her tiny red Fiat had been parked. The sign on the wall clearly stated,
NO PARKING
.

“I expect it’s been towed away,” Aldo said sympathetically. Her misfortune was his advantage. It meant he could drive her to the villa … and take her home afterward.

“Oh, damn it!” Angry tears stung India’s eyes. She loved that car. She hated anyone else touching it. God knows what state it would be in; the towing trucks were notoriously “uncareful” with illegally parked automobiles. “Now what shall I do?”

“Let’s go.” Aldo took her arm again and led her across the street to where his black VW Rabbit waited beneath a prominent no-parking sign.

“I don’t believe it!” gasped India.

Aldo shrugged.

“They’re doing the left-hand side first tonight,” he explained. “They’ll be back later for those on the right.”

“Just my luck! Still, if it hadn’t been me it would have been you, and that would have been worse. Imagine having drink spilled all over you by some careless female at a party and then having your car towed away as well.”

“Imagine! There probably would have been nothing for it but to retire to the country, to a life of solitude, far from the pressures of city life.”

India laughed as he helped her into the car and closed the door. Yes, she definitely liked Aldo Montefiore.

Morgan McBain was enjoying himself. This evening, which he had expected to be at the least boring or, even
worse, stiffly British and boring, had turned out to be a winner.

His hostess, on whose right he was sitting, had a witty charm that amused him, and the lovely girl on his left was a complete mystery. More so because he kept having this odd feeling that he must have met her before and just couldn’t remember where. Vennie. The lovely Venetia.

“It’s such a pretty name—Venetia—and so unusual.”

Her soft hibiscus-pink mouth parted in a tantalizingly familiar smile and her enormous gray-blue eyes held a glint of amusement.

“It’s my mother’s idea of a romantic joke. I’m named after the city where I was conceived, Venice—either in a suite at the Cipriani or in a gondola, she’s never been quite sure which.”

Morgan’s deep laugh rang through the room. “Whichever, the result was worth it. I just hope for their sake you have no brothers.”

“Two sisters … you’re not going to believe this … Paris and India.”

“And the locations?”

“Oh, India’s is the best, we always think—a houseboat on a lake in Kashmir. And Paris was the Ritz. She says it’s because of being conceived practically next door to Chanel’s atelier that she’s destined to be a great couturier.”

“And is she?”

Venetia shrugged. “It’s difficult, but Paris works hard, and when you have as much talent and dedication as she does, then one day you must succeed. Don’t you agree?”

Morgan decided against telling her that it didn’t always work that way. “And you, Venetia—what’s your talent?”

“Oh, me … I’ve done nothing, just school and then a cooking diploma. I have no talent, really.”

“But the food was delicious and everything looked so
beautiful. That’s a talent, Venetia.” He wanted to add that she was also breathtakingly lovely, but it was too soon.

“And what about you, Morgan McBain, where were you conceived?”

Venetia’s eyes danced with amusement. She liked being here with Morgan, it was almost as if they were having dinner alone; the rest of the table seemed excluded from their private conversation and Morgan McBain’s gaze left her feeling elated. His skin looked so firm and tanned and his shoulders so broad beneath that wonderful dinner jacket. He was the most physical man she had ever met.

“I was conceived and born in a trailer on a drilling site in the flattest, most barren stretch of land in Texas. My father was wildcatting for oil and my mother, who adored him, refused to leave his side when I was on the way, even though conditions were primitive. She died two weeks after I was born. She had worked alongside him, helped him … he always says that without her he never would have made it.”

“Morgan, I’m so sorry.” Venetia was embarrassed that she had asked.

“It was a long time ago. And she was right, my father did make it. He never married again,” he added with a wry grin, “though I’ve had the most glamorous selection of women who just longed to become my momma!”

“Wait a minute.” Venetia didn’t know why she hadn’t put two and two together before. “Of course—
Fitz
McBain! The richest man in the world. Morgan, I’m terribly impressed!”

“Maybe not quite the richest.” Venetia was one of the few girls Morgan had ever met to whom the fact that he was Fitz McBain’s son obviously meant little more than her wide-eyed awe of the moment. Like his father, he was used to the sudden magic of the McBain name acting as a magnet for every available attractive woman in sight.
Some of the most beautiful women in the international society of both Europe and America had tried their best to get either father or son to the altar. And some were still trying.

“You’re not in the least impressed,” he said, taking her hand in his and squeezing it, “and rightly so. I’m just the hardworking son of a successful father. We’re in more than just oil now. Fitz had an urge for real estate, maybe because of those six years living in the trailer in the middle of nowhere. Anyhow, he bought lusher, greener acres in semitropical islands, in the Caribbean; he had an urge for cities so he acquired bits of Park and Madison in New York and plots in downtown Houston and Dallas; he learned to enjoy wines, so then there was a château with a vineyard in France.… You name it, Fitz bought it. And then, because he can’t bear things just to sit there not making money, he built hotels or converted the existing buildings into hotels. And when he’d finished those projects he turned his interest to shipping, tankers, freighters. He’s been working since he was thirteen years old. I was born when he was only twenty, and now he’s forty-four. I’m still wondering what he’ll get up to next.”