Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [154]
A sigh shuddered through Rory’s tense body. Okay, okay, then, he’d give it back. He knew what she meant now, she’d played the Hollywood game and almost won. So he’d pay his dues, but he’d make sure he came out a winner. He’d pay Bill the money, but he’d get a guarantee that every cent of it went to the Haven girls. It was going to cost him the Bel-Air house, but what the hell—maybe he’d be able to sleep nights again. And then Bill Kaufmann would have nothing on him anymore. In fact, Bill Kaufmann was in it just as deep as he was.
Snatching up his car keys Rory strode toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Margie’s plaintive voice followed him as he headed down the curving staircase.
Rory paused at the foot. Looking up he grinned at her.
“I’m gonna fire Bill Kaufmann,” he said.
26
The first mistral of autumn blew across the Côte d’Azur, scudding heavy, gray clouds before it in a thin spatter of rain as Venetia, shrouded in a serviceable Guernsey sweater and blue jeans, hurried through the quiet streets of St. Tropez. The last of the summer visitors had gone—departing that weekend like migratory birds for warmer winter quarters, leaving the resort a ghost town. Tired summer awnings flapped in the wind outside empty terrace cafes and SALE signs hung hopefully in the windows of silent boutiques.
Venetia shivered, clutching her parcels closer as the wind tugged at her. Summer was dead and London and the prospect of a lonely winter lay ahead. The only good thing she could see on the horizon was the reunion with Kate and the Lancasters. She’d been out buying presents for them all, spending a good deal of her accumulated salary on extravagances she knew they would love, and all that remained now was to pack her things in readiness for an early departure in the morning. The crew had asked her to dine with them that night as their guest of honor and she had made an enormous iced cake, inscribed with their names and a little boat—and “Farewell Fiesta.” On an impulse Venetia stopped at the store that sold wines and picked up a magnum of champagne as her contribution to the festivities—maybe it would help to cheer her up tonight. Laden with her parcels she staggered back to the Fiesta to find it in a state of surprising activity.
“It’s Mr. McBain,” said Masters, meeting her at the top of the stairs. “He’s back unexpectedly—and he’s been asking for you.”
Fitz was here! Her heart was jumping as she followed Masters along the deck. Why? Why had he come back? It must be to check on his beautiful boat before she sailed tomorrow for Rotterdam and her annual overhaul—of course, it could only be that.
“You’d better go along there, miss,” said Masters, relieving her of her parcels. “I expect he wants to give you your bonus—we all get one at the end of the season.”
So that was it. Venetia sought around desperately for an excuse not to go, but found none. She was still a member of his crew, and if the captain summoned, you went. She smoothed her hair futilely with her hands as the wind snatched at it again—she hadn’t even put on any makeup this morning, she must look about fifteen and just as silly in this old blue jersey. Stop it! she told herself angrily, there’s no use pretending you’re the most sophisticated woman on the Riviera—you are what you are! Squaring her shoulders she marched off to his study.
Fitz, in jeans and a windbreaker, was at his desk reading some papers, and he glanced up as she came in. He looked just as she remembered—his eyes were just as deep and dark a blue and they met hers in that familiar penetrating way, as though he could read her thoughts, and his hand had that remembered rough firmness as it held hers.