Indiscretions (32 page)

“I can’t explain why,” whispered Venetia, “but I have the feeling that Rory Grant was more involved in my mother’s financial difficulties than Bill Kaufmann would say. He swore that Grant was a nice guy. I’ve never heard Bill call
anyone
a nice guy before. Oh, it’s all wrong. I know it. I just know it.”

“Venetia, will you let me look into this for you and your sisters? You are entitled to know what happened to your mother’s money.”

“But there is no money.”

“Wait,” he said soothingly. “Let me see, okay? If it’s not there I want to know why. Exactly why. Do I have your permission, Venetia?”

She nodded. “Would you?”

He pulled himself back from her tender eyes.

“Consider it done,” he said, switching on the ignition.

They were silent on the drive back to the harbor. He was too aware of her, thought Fitz, much too aware of Jenny’s daughter, Morgan’s girl.

The
Fiesta
wore her full-dress lights, sparkling across the water like diamonds as they sat in the little speedboat, heading toward her. Venetia was looking at him with those tender blue eyes as he switched off the engine and turned to her. He couldn’t help what happened next; for once in his life Fitz McBain lost control. His arms went around her and his mouth came down on hers in a kiss that was far from tender.

Venetia knew she had been right.
This
is what should happen—the surging, trembling, ecstatic sensation—and she knew she never wanted it to end.

Fitz pulled himself away at last. He should never have done it. It was a mistake. Forcing himself to act he turned away.

“Please forgive that,” he said. “It shouldn’t have happened.”

“But … Fitz, I …”

He held out his hand. “Come on, I’ll help you onto the steps.”

Doesn’t he know how I feel? Venetia wondered. Then how do you tell a man, a man you barely know, that you are in love with him?

She thought Fitz wasn’t going to kiss her again, she was sure of it. And then he did, just her fingers, like before—held for a moment in his as he said good-night.

“You’re very much like your mother, Venetia,” he said as she smiled up at him. “Sleep well—and forget about Rory Grant.”

Rory Grant was a million miles away—a visitor from another planet.

Venetia watched as Fitz walked toward the stern deck, where there was still the sound of voices and music. I’m in love, she thought happily. It is love; when it happens, then you
know
. She brushed a hand across her lips, recalling his mouth on hers. She would die just to feel Fitz’s arms around her again, his mouth on hers just one more time.

It wasn’t a loud ring, just a soft purr, and it was some time before Venetia realized that it was the telephone. Forcing herself from a lengthy dream in which she’d been lying in Fitz’s arms on some soft island beach, shaded by palms and cooled by wafting breezes, she sat up and reached for the receiver.

“Vennie?”

Morgan’s voice jolted her as fully awake as a cold shower.

“Vennie? Are you there?”

“Morgan—it’s you … I thought you were in Rio.”

“I am, sweetheart, and I’m sorry I wasn’t there to meet you. Did my father explain?”

“Yes … yes, he explained.…”

“Good. I hope he’s looking after you all right?”

“Oh … yes …”

“Don’t let him work you too hard—he’s a workaholic, you know, and he thinks everybody else is too. I miss you, Venetia.”

“Yes …” Venetia wound the cord around her finger and released it again nervously. “I miss you too. When are you coming back, Morgan?”

“I’m aiming for next week—and then I’ll be able to spend some time with you. Vennie, I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to that.”

“Oh, Morgan.” Venetia was suddenly only too aware of the dilemma she was in, and it left her tonguetied. What was she to say?

“Are you all right, sweetheart?”

“It’s just that it’s six in the morning—I was asleep.”

Morgan laughed. “Okay, then—go back to sleep. I’ll call you again later in the week. Take care of yourself, Vennie, and don’t let Fitz work you too hard.”

“I’m sure he won’t do that. Take care of yourself, too, Morgan.”

“Speak to you later, then, baby—love you.”

“Yes … I love you.…”

Venetia put down the phone and lay back on her pillows, staring at the ceiling. Oh, my God, what was she to do? Her head was full of Fitz, her body remembered the pressure of his as they danced, her mouth still felt his kiss; she’d been lost in a dream of his lovemaking when Morgan had called. She loved Morgan, she was sure she did—in a certain way. But she was suddenly, completely, and passionately in love with his father. Perhaps tonight,
she thought, with a soft smile, perhaps tonight they’d go to some other restaurant to gaze into each other’s eyes in the candlelight, and then they’d dance some more. With a shock she remembered Raymunda. Of course! There could be no more candlelight dinners for two. Fitz was with Raymunda. And she was with Morgan.

Downcast, she wandered into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Standing under its gentle pressure, allowing the spray to soak her hair, she wondered what could be done about Raymunda. It wasn’t up to her, she decided finally; if Fitz wanted to do something about her, then he would. She’d just have to wait and see.

Bob Ronson was a good man, thought Fitz, putting down the phone. You could rely on him to do what you asked—even if it was something a little out of the ordinary. Ronson’s kind of ambition was a good thing only when it was on your side, working for you. Against you, he’d be ruthless and calculating. Ronson would let nothing impede his progress up the ladder of success. And that was exactly the kind of man you needed in a large enterprise—he’d get moved up the ladder, all right, in the McBain Corporation—they could always use a good “hatchet man.” Meanwhile, Ronson had promised to be back within the week with whatever information on the Haven situation he could acquire—there had been plenty of gossip, he’d said, and a few who had cast doubtful glances Reubin and Kaufmann’s way. He’d find out.

Fair enough, thought Fitz. He’d do what he could to straighten out the situation for Venetia and her sisters, and that was all. Last night had been a big mistake. Venetia was lovely, she was very young, and he’d been tempted. But she was Morgan’s girl. He had enough complications with Raymunda, who’d thrown a tantrum last night after her guests had gone, accusing him of being rude to them and of insulting her simply because he’d
wished them all good night and gone off to bed. Olympe had been there, watching the interaction between Raymunda and himself with a little smile. He’d had time to notice that she looked very attractive, dressed in red with a mouth that matched, but he’d had Venetia on his mind … Venetia.…

It seemed as though today was the day for putting the past out of his mind—he would forget about the episode with Venetia, and he had come to the parting of the ways with Raymunda. She was downstairs packing now. He’d never led her to believe that there was a future for them together—it had been an affair of the moment, one that had been fun in the beginning, before she began making demands.

As if on cue Raymunda stalked into his office.

“I might have known I’d find you here,” she said scornfully. “The ‘rest’ doesn’t apply when it comes to work, I suppose—only to parties and having fun and paying
me
a little attention.”

“Raymunda,” said Fitz gently, “I was quite content to spend my time here—alone with you. You could have had all my attention.”

Raymunda paced the floor, elegant in high heels and a white linen suit.

“Of course,” she said, ignoring his remark, “you needn’t worry about me, not that you would have anyway. Salty Majors has been kind enough to say he’ll fly back with me to New York—he has a race at Newport on Saturday and I shall be going with him.”

She flung the statement at him as a challenge and Fitz smiled—she was still playing her games.

“That’s very kind of Salty. Obviously I shall worry about you, Raymunda. I don’t want you to be unhappy. And I never wanted to hurt you … it just didn’t work out, that’s all.”

Raymunda knew he was right. She’d played her final card—and lost.

Fitz took her arm and escorted her onto the deck. The launch was waiting, piled with her baggage, and a young sailor, smart in white shirt and shorts and peaked cap, stood at the wheel. Raymunda hesitated, turning her face to Fitz.

“Couldn’t we try again,” she whispered, “one more time?”

Fitz kissed her gently on each cheek.

“It’s over, baby,” he said, stepping back. “Let’s part friends, Raymunda?”

Raymunda shrugged.

“Friends!” she said, stepping into the launch. “We were
never
friends.”

She was probably right, thought Fitz, watching the launch speed toward the harbor.

Venetia had spent the morning with Masters in Bridgetown being shown the local shops and exploring the markets, admiring baskets of green- and peach-colored exotic fruits, and dazzling vermilion chili peppers, and the silvery displays of strange fish, fresh from the local waters. She’d encountered friendly, beaming faces at all their stops and had managed to thrust her personal dilemma temporarily to the back of her mind. She was here to do a job, and she wasn’t going to let Morgan down—at least not in that way.

The launch from the
Fiesta
was just tying up as Masters and Venetia arrived at the harbor laden with their purchases. Raymunda stepped out, pausing to throw instructions over her shoulder to the young crewman who was busily unloading her bags. As she stalked toward the car her icy glance swept them just once, and then, with a tilt of her chin, she strode on.

They stared after her in surprise.

“Never did think she was a lady,” commented Masters. “It looks as though we’re well rid of her.”

Rid of her? Venetia followed him to the launch. Raymunda’s baggage was piled on the harborside and she watched as it was carried across to the car where Raymunda sat, staring straight in front of her. He’d done it, then! Fitz had done it! He’d finished with Raymunda—sent her away. Because of
her
. She climbed into the launch with shaking knees. He’d be waiting for her now—oh, life was wonderful after all!

Masters piloted the launch back to the
Fiesta
, helped Venetia unload her parcels, and sent the boat back to wait for the other crewman.

In her trim galley Venetia packed away her supplies. The previous chef had left a sheaf of notes and she had planned to read them and to begin to familiarize herself with the equipment, but she was too hot and excited. She would take another shower, put on fresh clothes, and make herself look pretty for Fitz.

Fitz couldn’t concentrate. He’d run his eye over the same paragraph three times and he still didn’t know what it was about. Angrily, he tossed the book aside. Why didn’t he admit to himself that he was waiting to see her, hanging around like some schoolboy with a crush, just to see her smile at him? He was crazy—he’d better do something about it now before it was too late and he became even crazier. Picking up the ship-to-shore phone he placed a call to Pete’s Island Sport Fishing. He’d go off for a couple of days with his old friend Pete, go after some marlin or barracuda—that’d keep him busy and out of mischief. Morgan would be with her next week and life would get back to normal.

Fitz had been gone three days, three whole days, and Venetia felt that each one was a loss. She tried to rationalize the shock when she’d discovered he had gone without
even seeing her, but ultimately it always came back to the same thing. Perhaps Fitz was upset about Raymunda’s departure. Maybe he hadn’t told her it was over, maybe she had told him, and maybe he hadn’t even thought about Venetia at all. The permutations were endless, and as she sunbathed on deck or busied herself in the galley, practicing her cooking on the crew, the idea gnawed at her that he didn’t care about her at all—it had just been a friendly kiss on his part, he’d thought her pretty and young, it was the wine and the dancing. Oh, God, then what was she to do?

He finally returned late in the evening of the third day. It was ten o’clock and the temperature had soared up into the nineties and stayed there all day. Now the air was heavy with humidity, silent and still with the promise of a storm to come.

Lying on her bed, Venetia heard the launch. She sat up quickly, pushing back her hair, and ran outside. From her vantage point on the top deck she saw Fitz talking with Masters and then he walked away toward his quarters—without even a glance in the direction of her cabin.

She went back inside and sat on her bed, considering what to do. He
must
care. A man didn’t kiss a girl that way unless he cared. He was avoiding her because of Morgan—and he was quite right. Only, she wasn’t going to be noble. There
was
something she could do.…

Hastily, before she could change her mind, she slipped on a pair of baggy khaki shorts and a loose white tank top, brushed her hair with rapid, impatient strokes, and hurried out on deck. She hesitated for a minute, came back, dabbed a generous amount of Bluebell behind her ears and between her breasts, and made again for the door.

She stopped by the galley to pick up a plate of cold chicken, a basket of French bread, and a bottle of chilled white wine. It would provide a good excuse if anyone saw
her going into Fitz’s cabin. As she walked down the corridor she could hear music, but the big salon was dark and empty. Knocking lightly on the door of his bedroom, she waited. There was no reply, and she pushed it open cautiously. The lamps were lit and Vivaldi drifted, delicate and melodic, from the speakers. Fitz never turned on the noisy air-conditioning when he listened to music, and he had left his windows open to the sultry night air. Venetia could hear the shower running in the bathroom as she hovered uncertainly, clutching the basket and the chicken and wine. Maybe this was the wrong thing to do. Well-brought-up girls didn’t pursue a man like this. She wondered what Jenny would have advised her to do. “Always take your chances on love”—that’s what she had said to them once. Well, wasn’t that exactly what she was doing now?