Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [132]
“Then I’m sure she’d approve of the other reasons. I can’t live without you, India Haven. You bring joy to my life. I want to love you forever, to have children with you, to grow old with you. Please say you’ll marry me.”
It was as romantic as one of Jenny Haven’s movies, thought India; the lighting man had got the angle of the moon just right, the sound man had provided the soft, rhythmic background of the waves on the shore, and she knew her lines perfectly.
“Yes. Oh, yes, Aldo,” she said, “I want to marry you too.”
As her lips met his she knew Jenny would have approved the ending … fade out over lovers, camera pans onto moonlit sea and the surging waves. Only, this was better than Hollywood.
19
New York was not the smartest place to be seen in June, but Olympe thought it would be worth the sacrifice. She swept from the air-conditioned comfort of her limousine into the climate-controlled foyer of the Helmsley Palace Hotel on Madison, glancing around her in appreciation. At least the hotel was a good one; you could always tell by the flowers and the type of people you encountered in the foyer. She checked in quickly and was wafted to her suite on the tenth floor. Flowers and fruit awaited her, the gift of a respectful management. Picking up the phone she called room service and ordered a large, very cold bottle of Perrier water and a club sandwich. Olympe never ate or drank on planes, even on the Concorde; it only dehydrated one and contributed to the jet lag. Consequently she was starving. Kicking off her shoes, she sank onto the bed, dialed the operator, and asked for an outside line. Holding her address book open at M, she dialed and waited for Fitz McBain. The number was his private line that only he ever answered, and it purred gently, but without response.
Damn. Could he be out of town? Surely not. He’d mentioned to her that he had to be in New York most of June on business and that he planned to be in Europe later in the summer. Olympe hoped she hadn’t gambled wrongly—this was costing her a fortune. She’d take a shower and try again.
Thirty minutes later, fortified by the sandwich and cooled by her shower, she dialed his number again. Fitz answered immediately. If he was surprised to hear from her he didn’t show it, and when she put down the phone five minutes later Olympe had a dinner date with Fitz at Le Cirque for eight-thirty that night.
Fitz sat opposite Olympe at a discreet corner table while waiters did a complicated ballet around them, flourishing bottles for his approval, lighting her cigarettes, and brandishing menus. Olympe beamed her approval at him.
“I called it right, then,” he said. “I thought this would be the perfect place for you.”
“I adore it, Fitz. It’s charming, the service is good, and it’s … intimate.”
Fitz sipped his Scotch on the rocks. He didn’t usually like to drink whiskey before wine, but Olympe had ordered a Campari, so he had to have something.
“I’ve never thought of it as intimate, Olympe.”
“Of course it’s intimate—for certain people. Look at them.” Olympe gestured with her cigarette to the table-hoppers greeting those they knew, or hoped to know better. “They make it intimate for people like us who are here to have dinner—alone together. They scarcely even know we’re here.”
Fitz laughed at her backhanded logic. “I guess you’re right, though I had supposed that you were one of that sort of people yourself.”
Olympe gave him her most demure smile. “Only when circumstances force me, Fitz. Certainly not otherwise. I can’t think of anything I enjoy more than dinner alone with someone nice, someone I like. Except maybe …” She laughed, gesturing happily with the cigarette that she was using for effect rather than smoking. “Ah, my dear Fitz, I don’t know whether you are used to the direct ways of us Frenchwomen.”
“Certainly not before the appetizer,” murmured Fitz as the waiter appeared with her asparagus and his smoked salmon. He felt good for the first time in weeks, and it reminded him of the other time he’d been with