Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [146]
“I’ll see what I can do, Mr. McBain,” he promised.
“Just one more thing,” said Fitz, walking over to the door. “My name is not to be mentioned to anyone. Is that understood?”
He pulled open the door and Bill stared in surprise at the tough, unsmiling young man standing in the hall.
“If it is,” said Fitz, “I shall know.”
Bill had no doubt he would; he’d known about Rory, hadn’t he? “Right.” He hurried through the door, pausing in the hallway. “What about the tape?” he asked. “I get that when I hand over the money, right?”
“Wrong. There are several copies of that tape, all of which will remain in various safe deposits of mine scattered around the world. They belong to me.”
“But then, I’ll never know …” Bill knew he was trapped.
“Exactly. You’ll just have to take my word for it.” Fitz was enjoying himself. “The option would always be open to me to go to the police.”
Bill walked across the hall toward the door. The young man didn’t move to open it for him, and as Bill’s hand rested on the knob, Fitz’s voice rang again in his ears.
“One more thing.”
Bill turned, beaten.
“You have exactly a week. You will be expected here at noon next Thursday. I shall not be here myself, but Mr. Ronson here will take care of you.”
Bill’s eyes met Ronson’s. They were as cold and gray as flint, and he shuddered.
“I’ll be here,” he promised, stepping hurriedly outside and closing the door behind him.
24
Paris flung the last of her six suitcases into the back of the rented station wagon and slammed the door shut. She might just as well throw them in the sea for all the good they were. She’d driven from Monaco to Antibes, calling at every smart boutique, and hadn’t made a single sale that was worth a damn. Everyone had admired the clothes, but it had been the same story at every shop—if only she’d been there in February or March, but now they were fully stocked. It was just too late in the season.
One or two had bought a couple of outfits where there had been a gap in their stock, and that might just cover her expenses, but she would have to face up to the fact that once again she was almost broke. Not only that, her belief in herself and her talent had taken a second beating. It wasn’t enough just to be a talented designer and a hard worker as well as your own model, you had to be a good businesswoman and you had to have the right contacts; you had to be luckier than she was, that was for sure! She hadn’t understood the workings of the retail fashion business, her sights had always been set higher—she was to have been the next Chanel, wasn’t she? So much for that dream; the closest she could expect to get to Chanel would be as a house model in the salon.
Paris pushed her way through the throngs of holiday makers toward the shade of a terrace café and ordered a citron pressé. It was still early in the morning and casually dressed tourists, wearing shorts and shirts, relaxed over their morning coffee, reading newspapers and gossiping idly. Paris felt very alone, isolated by her problems from the lazy holiday world of the resort. She debated for a moment whether she should call Vennie, as she had intended, or whether she should turn the car around now and head back for the city. It was deserted this month, restaurants and shops would be closed, everyone in France was on holiday. No, she couldn’t bear to be alone there; she’d call Vennie on the Fiesta.
Paris bought some tokens for the phone from the man behind the bar and dialed the operator, waiting impatiently while the phone clicked and hummed, and at last she was through to the Fiesta. It took only seconds for them to get Vennie.
“Hello,” called Paris, “Vennie, I’m in Antibes. I thought I’d come to see you.”
“Paris, oh, Paris, you don’t know how glad I am to hear your voice. Can you come and stay? We’re in St. Tropez. Please come, Paris, I need you.”
Venetia sounded on the point of tears, and Paris frowned. “Is anything wrong? You sound so odd.”
“No.