Indiscretions (29 page)

Olympe frowned as she kissed Bendor. He had a can of Banks beer in front of him—his first of the day; he seemed to be addicted to the stuff. She sniffed fastidiously. If Bendor was going to turn out to be a beer drinker it simply wouldn’t work. But wasn’t beer drinking a German tradition? Maybe this was just a holiday indulgence. She wasn’t sure, she wasn’t sure about Bendor at all.

Olympe ignored the babble of conversation around her, sipping her juice and staring out to sea at the enormous yacht cruising slowly past on its way to Carlisle Bay. She’d noticed it several times this week; it was magnificent.

“Beny, what yacht is that?”

“It looks like the
Fiesta
—there aren’t too many of that
size around anymore.” Bendor picked up his binoculars, focusing them on the prow. “Yes, it’s the
Fiesta
, all right. Fitz McBain usually has her in these waters in the winter.”

Olympe’s ears pricked up. “Fitz McBain?” Taking Bendor’s binoculars she scanned the ship. “Beautiful, beautiful,” she murmured, “very,
very
nice. Do you know if he’s on board, Beny?”

“I can find out if you like. Why?”

“I thought we might give a little party tonight, invite our neighbors—and the people over at the Sandy Lane and Glitter Bay. We owe them hospitality. Fitz McBain probably has a house party of his own. Let’s ask them
all!
We can have a delicious Bajan barbecue by the pool, we’ll keep it quite informal. What do you say, everyone—a party tonight?”

Bendor smiled indulgently as his guests cheered the suggestion. She could have anything she wanted when she smiled at him like that.

Fitz was at the controls of his Learjet with Morgan beside him. They were on their final approach, preparing to land, and despite the fact that he was upset with his father, Morgan had to admire the cool expertise with which he brought the plane down onto the runway at Miami’s busy airport. Ever since he was a kid he’d felt there was nothing Fitz couldn’t do, from scuba diving to flying planes. He had no idea how the hell he’d found the time to acquire all those accomplishments, but that was Fitz—if he’d had just half a day free he had used it to learn something. He’d been hungry for knowledge, above and beyond his business acumen, which was instinctive. “Blame it on my lack of education,” he’d told Morgan once, and Morgan could remember being surprised because Fitz had never seemed an uneducated man. Yet it was true, his formal education had been not only brief
but sketchy, and Morgan knew it had irked him. Fitz had set his own educational goals, acquiring knowledge through voracious reading—which he still kept up. At the age of thirty he’d disciplined himself to take the time to learn three languages so that he might conduct his foreign business more familiarly and without having to depend on others to translate for him—you can lose the nuances of a deal if you don’t understand exactly what is being said, he’d explained to Morgan when he’d balked at the extra German, Spanish, and French tuition Fitz had arranged for him in the school holidays. And, he’d added, those nuances might cost you a lot of money—or even the deal.

Despite his lack of formal education his father was a cultured man and his appetite for the arts was wide and intuitive. Fitz never saw a play merely because it was the fashionable play to be seen at; he saw the performances he was curious about. He liked Mozart’s operas, he enjoyed the ballet, and he was passionate about art. It was a fact that he was in the fortunate position of being able to buy what he liked, but he was also known as a generous donor to the American museums, as well as being the anonymous patron of several struggling and talented painters and sculptors.

He was, thought Morgan, unfastening his seat belt, a hard act to follow.

Even on the
Fiesta
Fitz had seemed unable to relax. He’d spent most of today on the phone between New York and various Latin American countries, leaving Raymunda sunbathing sulkily, alone, and Raymunda sulking was not anyone Morgan had wanted to be around! He’d taken himself off to Bridgetown to buy a welcoming present for Venetia, who was expected that evening, and he had arrived back to be informed by his father that instead of next week, he wanted him to leave at once for Rio de Janeiro. Morgan had protested that
he’d squeezed a few days out of his busy globe-trotting schedule to spend with Venetia, but though Fitz had been understanding, he had been adamant. He would have gone himself, he said, but he felt that his presence might put too much weight on their side, indicating exactly how eager they were to have this refinery deal. Sending Morgan as his representative toned things down to the next level, a step up from just sending one of their top executives. And he would bring a fresh viewpoint to the stalled negotiations. Morgan had argued that it was a fine point, but he had known his father was right—as usual.

Miami felt humid and sticky, and Morgan thought longingly of the
Fiesta
as they walked together to the airport control. He had just fifteen minutes to make his flight.

“Remember to pick up Venetia this evening,” he called as he strode off toward the check-in. “Tell her I’ll call.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her. And, Morgan …” Morgan turned inquiringly. “Thanks.”

Father and son grinned at each other, friends.

“You’re welcome.”

Fitz turned away, feeling suddenly tired. The idea of a nice quiet evening on the
Fiesta
with a simple dinner and a little Mozart on the hi-fi was very appealing. He’d get his flight instructions and head right back. He hoped Raymunda wasn’t still sulking.

Raymunda hummed a little song as she sorted through the contents of the wall-length wardrobe that contained her newly purchased selection of resort wear, most of which was still unworn. She was humming because she was happy, and the reason she was happy was that tonight she was going to a party and at last would get a chance to show off some of her new finery. Prince Bendor Grünewald’s invitation to an informal Bajan barbecue at the Villa Osiris had come as a complete and delightful
surprise, and it had been exactly what she needed to cheer her up. She and Fitz had been here on the
Fiesta
for four days and they hadn’t left it once—not even to go to dinner at one of the beautiful restaurants, or to any of the good hotels where there were bound to be people they knew and who Raymunda felt sure were having a lot more fun than she was. She knew Fitz was here for a rest, but she was
bored
. “What’s the use of a yacht this size if you don’t fill it with people?” she’d yelled at him on the third night. “We should be having parties, dinners, cocktails—anything!” What was it Fitz had replied? “Sometimes space is so that you can be alone.” Well, she didn’t want to be alone, she wanted company.

Shrugging on the marigold silk dress she’d pulled from the crowded wardrobe, Raymunda inspected herself in the mirror. Yes, that was perfect. The dress tied on one shoulder and was slit to the thigh—a bit like a toga. It was island-chic. She knew what these parties were like—“informal” simply meant as smart as possible without being grand.

Now, hair up or down? Down, perhaps. And jewelry? The multistranded freshwater pearl bracelet and the matching earrings? Or should she just wear a flower in her hair? Yes, that was it, no earrings; she’d call Masters, the chief steward, and have him get her an orchid, or perhaps a lily, or maybe a gardenia.

A glance at her watch showed it was nine o’clock. Damn, where was Fitz? They’d been asked for nine. Of course she wouldn’t dream of getting to the party before ten-thirty, but still she wished he’d hurry. Brushing her hair, Raymunda imagined herself arriving at the party on Fitz McBain’s arm—every woman in the place would be envious of her. And then, she thought with satisfaction, it would be their turn to reciprocate the hospitality—
she
would give a party on the
Fiesta
. She would be made, socially; no one would turn down an invitation like that.
Fitz brought the Lear into Grantley Adams and taxied thankfully toward the hangars. He should just be in time for Venetia Haven’s flight from London, though Miami control had told him that there might have been some delay because of the fog in Europe. He hoped the delay wasn’t going to be a long one; he was anxious to get back to the peace and quiet of the ship. Sometimes, he thought, it was the silence that he enjoyed most on the
Fiesta
—just the sound of the sea at night. He liked being alone then. Occasionally, when he was unable to sleep, he’d prowl the deck barefoot, breathing in the fresh sea smells and listening to the waves.

Barbados’s tiny airport was exceptionally busy. Flights were unloading from St. Vincent and Trinidad and the islands to the north, but the flight from London was still posted as “delayed” on the information screen—by at least three hours, confirmed the desk clerk; there were headwinds now.

Oh, well, it looked as though it would be a late night after all. He couldn’t send Masters to pick her up—he’d promised Morgan he’d do it himself. Still, he’d probably feel better after dinner.

Raymunda was waiting for him, looking exceptionally glamorous. Fitz felt pleased; she’d obviously emerged from her gloom and sulks and had gone to a lot of trouble to make herself pretty. And she was
very
pretty.

“I like that,” he said, kissing her lightly. “It’s a nice color—like island sunshine.”

Raymunda preened herself for him, pivoting slowly, smoothing her silken skirt over her hips. “Good?” she asked with an enticing smile.

“Very.” Fitz put his arm around her and they walked toward the master stateroom. “I’m sorry I was so busy today,” he said, “but something came up that just had to be taken care of right away. God, I’m tired.”

Raymunda watched anxiously as he peeled off his shirt and jeans and headed toward the shower.

“You’ll feel better after a shower,” she said soothingly. “I’ll bring you a drink—bourbon and water, just the way you like it, two cubes of ice.”

Fitz glanced at her in surprise. What was up with Raymunda? Why had she suddenly changed her tactics?—for tactics they were, he knew her well enough for that. In fact, he thought, soaping himself in the shower, their entire relationship was like a battleground. She marshaled her forces and worked out her tactics against him, and he had his own unassailable defense—work—and his Achilles heel—his liking for feminine companionship and pretty women, not just sex. That was a part of it, of course, but he enjoyed women, he liked being around them. Perhaps their feminine wiles, ruffles, and perfume provided the needed contrast to the stark reality of his business world; he didn’t know. What he did know was that no woman could ever come between him and that true reality—he was quite sure of that.

Raymunda handed him the bourbon as he stepped, dripping, from the shower.

“Here, let me,” she said, taking the big white towel and drying his back. “There, now you must feel better.”

“About fifty percent,” admitted Fitz. “All I need now is dinner.”

“Dinner? But you are forgetting, Fitz, we have no cook.”

“That’s right, I had forgotten. Well, a sandwich, then … or I’m pretty good at omelettes if you prefer. And there must be smoked salmon and stuff in the refrigerator. We’ll do it ourselves until our new cook arrives.”

“No need.” Raymunda smiled. “Fitz, I’ve arranged something else … we’re going to a party.”

“Jesus! What party?” Fitz stood naked, the glass of bourbon in his hand, an angry gleam in his eyes.

“We got a call today from Prince Bendor Grünewald—he’s at the Villa Osiris. He’s giving a Bajan barbecue party tonight. Oh, it’s all completely casual, darling,” she reassured him, seeing his irritation.

“I can see that,” remarked Fitz, eyeing her elegant silk dress. “Damn it, Raymunda, I’m beat. I’ve just done that round trip to Miami and I was on the phone all day—I need a party and a load of strangers to make conversation with like a hole in the head.”

“Damn you, Fitz McBain.” Raymunda’s temper rose. “I’ve been stuck on this damn boat for four days now without seeing a soul—I’m bored out of my mind. You’re on the phone all the time … there’s not even any dinner because you have no cook!”

“And it’s too much to expect you to slice a little brown bread, take a little salmon out of the fridge, perhaps even prepare a little salad, and open a bottle of wine?” Fitz was tempted to tell her he wouldn’t go. He really didn’t want to—he’d warned her when they left that he was coming for a rest—a complete rest, the doctor had advised. But she had a point; maybe he had been neglecting her the past few days, though he hadn’t noticed it. Perhaps it was just that Raymunda had become a little bit boring with her demands, her tempers and tantrums.

“All right,” he said to her sulking back, “I’ll go. But no more parties, Raymunda. I’m here for a rest. There is no one here—especially at Prince Bendor Grünewald’s party—that I want to see.”

“Fitz”—Raymunda turned with a triumphant smile, snaking her arms around his naked back—“you’re so sweet when you want to be. If you weren’t so wet I’d show you how very sweet you are.” She backed away, brushing imaginary droplets from her skirt.

Fitz drained his glass. She could have taken off the dress. She would have, had he made a move—Raymunda knew how to play her game—but he didn’t feel like making
the move. Pretty as Raymunda looked in her marigold silk toga with her silky bronze limbs and black hair, at this moment he would have preferred solitude, or maybe just the company of Mozart.

The colonnaded patio of the Villa Osiris was crowded with guests as Olympe threaded her way through, greeting fresh arrivals, checking who was with whom this year, and who was wearing what. The women were taking full advantage of the warm night and their island suntans to wear the skimpiest dresses, exposing bare shoulders, naked backs, and smooth legs—as much of their bodies as they dared. And if any one of them was wearing a bra, then Olympe would have been very surprised; there were more and harder nipples here at the party than on any daytime beach.

But then, thought Olympe, nudity on the beach had nothing to do with sex—and parties did. She’d bet half the women here were looking for it—and not with their husbands, or at least the men they’d arrived with. Holiday romance, shipboard romance—it was all the same: liberate anyone from their everyday surroundings, even if they were glossy and luxurious, and put them in a lazy holiday atmosphere like this—by the time they’d got a little suntan they felt more glamorous, more exciting, and definitely more sexy. She knew she did … and it wasn’t for Bendor. Ah-ha! Wasn’t that Fitz McBain over by the door? And that must be Raymunda Ortiz—the current paramour. Well, she thought, moving toward them, we’ll just have to see about that, Raymunda.