Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [102]
“Hey, Shel,” he said, tucking her arm in his as they climbed out of the limousine and headed toward Rockley’s Resort Rendezvous, “let’s have some fun, you and me. Come on, Dirk, Roger,” he yelled at the director and the writer and other members of the crew straggling behind them across the road. “Shel and I are gonna show this island how the L.A. all-stars have fun!”
“Christ,” muttered Dirk, “I hate to think what that means.” Dirk was feeling particularly bitter. It wasn’t until after they’d gone through customs and immigration that Rory had told him that the stash was in his luggage. Thank God they’d been waved through without any fuss or he might have ended up in the local jail instead of the local disco. He’d make damn sure that there’d be no repeat of that. If Rory Grant had to bring his coke with him, he’d carry it himself.
Rory was an instant hit at the Rendezvous. Everyone in the place recognized Chelsea, and the girls crowded around, demanding autographs and kisses that, in between shots of island rum, he was happy to provide. Yeah, Rory was having himself a good time, playing the star at last. After an hour, though, he got bored.
“Come on, you guys,” he called, “on to the next one.”
“He’s drunk now as well as stoned,” commented Dirk as they followed him obediently from the club. Hell, he could go home, he supposed, back to the hotel, and get some sleep, but if he did, he wasn’t sure what Rory could get up to. Tomorrow he’d have to put a couple of minders onto him. He didn’t give a damn what Rory did when he was on his own, but when he was here and working—then Dirk wanted to know. He’d have to keep him in check or they’d never get the show in on time and he’d be the one to blame.
Venetia was wearing what to Fitz looked like a shapeless blue cotton dress with a low neckline, a waist that wasn’t because it was too wide, and a full skirt. It looked like a dress meant for someone two sizes bigger, but on her it was charming.
“My sister designed it,” Venetia said with a grin. “It’s a bit avant garde, but I love it. Of course, she’s very influenced by the Japanese since she’s gone to work for Mitsoko—all I’ve got to wear now are kimonos! But she’s really terribly good. Mother always said that Paris had the true talent in the family.”
They were sitting opposite each other at a candlelit table at the Bagatelle Great House, one of the island’s loveliest restaurants, whose thick stone walls dated from colonial times, when it had been a plantation house. The choice had been made on the spur of the moment by Fitz, and it had turned out to be a happy one. Venetia was enchanted by the place and he was intrigued by her enjoyment and her curiosity about her surroundings. She wanted to know everything, from the history of the island and the story of this plantation to the origins of Bajan cooking. Fitz allowed himself to relax in her company; he was beginning to forget even that she was Jenny’s daughter, because though the physical resemblance was strong she was a very different person. Now she’d mentioned her mother and it brought back sharply the memory of Venetia’s stricken face on the television screen.
“How are your sisters?” he asked.
“They’re all right now, I think. Paris tried so hard, you know, with her fashion show—she designed everything herself, practically made the clothes, too, from what I can gather, and then just because Mitsoko changed the day of his showing,