Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [101]
“Then no doubt,” she said icily, “Venetia will be able to take care of our dinner party tomorrow night.”
Fitz glared at her. “Our dinner party?”
“That’s right, Fitz darling. I invited Beny and his house party to dinner tomorrow night. That’s Prince Bendor Grünewald.” She tossed the information over her shoulder to Venetia. “I don’t expect you will have cooked for a prince before. I hope your standards are up to it.”
“I have a cordon bleu diploma,” replied Venetia nervously.
“Raymunda, why wasn’t I told about this dinner?” Fitz swung the car around the corner angrily.
“I thought you’d be pleased,” she said sweetly. “After all, Olympe will be there.”
Venetia sat back against the cushions, wondering what was going on between them. Whatever it was, she wished she weren’t here.
The rain had stopped by the time they’d parked at the harbor and stepped into the waiting launch that took them out to the Fiesta. Venetia stared across the water at the string of lights decorating the enormous yacht. It looked gay and festive, unlike the two silent people next to her.
Masters was waiting for them. Fitz introduced Venetia and asked him to take care of her, as Raymunda disappeared without saying good night.
“I’m sure you’ll find your cabin comfortable,” said Fitz gently. “Morgan asked me to tell you that he will call. I’m afraid it’s my fault he wasn’t here to meet you but he should be back next week. You must sleep as long as you can—have a few days’ rest and get used to things. Masters will show you everything tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” Venetia regarded him seriously. “You’re a very kind man, Mr. McBain.”
“That’s not a term that’s usually applied to me,” said Fitz, feeling oddly pleased. “Now off you go to sleep. Pleasant dreams.”
Venetia was so tired she barely noticed the luxurious yacht, or her lovely cabin amidships on the top deck that was close, Masters had told her, to her galley; she’d see it all tomorrow. Casting off her clothes she slid naked into bed. The night was calm now and tropically warm. Her last thought as she drifted into sleep was of Fitz McBain’s deep, dark eyes gazing into hers.
Raymunda returned from the Villa Osiris at four and went to find Fitz. He was sitting on the stern deck in shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, cleaning his fishing gear.
“You don’t know what you missed,” she said, flopping onto the blue-cushioned seat near him.
“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.” Fitz’s tone was polite.
“Everyone’s coming tonight,” Raymunda informed him, watching for his reaction.
“That’s good. I spoke with Masters and he is taking care of everything for you, Raymunda.”
“Little Miss Haven’s not up to it, then? Why do you have to be so charitable, Fitz? You need a proper chef for this boat. God knows you can afford one.”
“Raymunda, I can afford whatever I want. And I want Venetia Haven as chef. Remember that, will you?”
Their glances met angrily. Raymunda was the first to look away.
“I hope you’ll enjoy yourself tonight,” she suggested in a meeker tone.
“I daresay I will.” Fitz concentrated on the reel he had been waxing, releasing the catch and letting it spin out. “Although, of course, I won’t be here. I intend to have a quiet dinner in town. I thought I’d ask ‘little Miss Haven’ to go with me.”
“But you can’t!” gasped Raymunda, furiously. “Everyone will expect you to be here.”
“Raymunda,” said Fitz gently, “no one tells me what to do. Remember that too.”
“Olympe will miss you.” Raymunda threw the words at his departing back, listening angrily to his laughter as he strode off toward his study. Damn it, damn it, oh, damn it!
Rory loved it. He just loved it. Barbados had welcomed him and the cast and crew of Chelsea’s Game that morning with steel bands and official presentations, and were giving them the complete island VIP treatment. Especially Rory. There was no doubt he was a big star—even the British guests at the hotel knew who he was, since the program had been taken up by BBC television in the autumn.