Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [133]
“Delicious,” she said. “I have to confess, Fitz McBain, that I adore good food. It’s one of my weaknesses.”
Fitz didn’t ask what the others were. “How’s Beny?” he asked instead.
Olympe finished her final asparagus spear before she replied. She wiped her extravagantly red mouth delicately with her napkin. “Beny is well. He’s also in Australia, not a place I’ve ever fancied particularly. All those sheep fanners, darling, drinking all that beer. Poor Beny, I’m afraid he’s addicted to beer, you know.” She shuddered delightfully. “I hope you don’t drink beer, Fitz?”
Fitz grinned. “It has been known,” he admitted. “Don’t forget I grew up in the backlands of Texas. You’re talking to a rough old wildcatter here.”
“Am I really?”
How did she manage to say so much with her eyes? Fitz was fascinated. If Olympe had meant to enchant him with her flirting, she was succeeding.
“What brings you to New York?” he asked as the waiter removed their plates.
“Oh, shopping. And … curiosity.”
“What can a Frenchwoman possibly buy in New York that she can’t find in Paris?”
“Well, maybe just curiosity, then.”
Fitz leaned forward, smiling. “And exactly what are you curious about?”
“Among other things, what the apartment of a rough Texan wildcatter looks like….”
Olympe was as beautiful naked as she was dressed—a rare event in fashionable women, as Fitz knew. She stood before him with a body that looked as though it were sprung by Rolls-Royce, dazzling him with her nakedness and her wicked, amused eyes. It was those eyes that made him like her so much; they acknowledged that she was being wicked, but wasn’t it fun? And why shouldn’t they be wicked together? And they were, oh, they were. Olympe seduced him as beautifully and efficiently as any woman could, taunting him and then receding, leaving him trembling on the brink until he could bear it no longer and he grabbed her, thrusting himself into her well-tuned body as she murmured her pleasure to him, matching him in passion. And afterward she lay, propped up on the pillows, smoking a lazy cigarette, smiling at him with that mischievous little-cat smile. She looked elegant, in control, and ready for whatever he might suggest, though how she managed to convey all that, Fitz wasn’t quite sure. But there was no doubt that she was his kind of woman.
“How do you like the Mediterranean at this time of year?” he asked.
The warm, blue-black nights were driving Venetia crazy. They were even worse than the hot sunny days with the warm, soft breezes that tantalized her naked body as she lay sunbathing on the afterdeck of the Fiesta. Alone. She should be back in England, she knew she should. Back home she wouldn’t feel so … so physical! With a sigh Vennie sat up in bed. It was not good for her, being here all by herself—she didn’t even have Kate to talk to, and her letters, long though they were, weren’t the same as a good heart-to-heart. And she should have told Morgan that she definitely wasn’t going to marry him, though honestly she had tried. It was just that he refused to accept her refusal. He came to see her every week or so, when he was able. And once he had even come with Fitz.
They’d arrived unexpectedly, but she had known Fitz was on board by the way the crew reacted—there was an energy, a pace to things, when Fitz was around. Morgan had popped his head into her galley to say hello and ask her to have dinner with them, but she had said that as their chef she welcomed the opportunity of working for her salary. She couldn’t face meeting Fitz again with Morgan there. She had stayed away