Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [108]
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?
The bathroom door opened and Fitz stood there, a white towel tied around his middle, his hair still sleek and wet from the shower. His tan had developed a ruddy glow from his days out at sea, and his body was lean and hard-looking. She noticed the scatter of gray among the dark hair on his chest and the deep scar down one arm from some long-ago accident, and then her gaze met his.
Fitz had felt pleased with himself. He’d thought he’d beaten it. He’d gone fishing with Pete, he’d stayed away three days, drunk enough whiskey each night so that he’d slept like a log, and been up again at the break of dawn ready for the next day’s sport. He’d told himself he’d forgotten her, dismissed the episode as nonsense—just something to do with the night and his old romantic dreams of Jenny Haven. And now she was here and it was starting all over again.
“I just thought you might be hungry,” stammered Venetia, setting down the food on a table. “After all, I am supposed to be the chef.”
“Thank you, Venetia.”
“Actually, that’s not absolutely true….” She moved closer to him, standing with her hands in the pockets of her baggy khaki shorts, like a guilty child. Only she wasn’t a child. Her nipples stood out against the thin vest she wore. “I came to say something else.”
Fitz walked to the table and picked up the bottle of wine.
“Will you have a glass of wine with me, Venetia?”
She took it from him, watching his eyes, searching for a reaction to her presence.
“Would