Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [32]
The thought came to her suddenly, taking her by surprise. But of course there was no need ever to be in that position again. Jenny’s millions belonged to them now. Paris began to cry again.
The plane swooped over the dusty urban sprawl, skimming palm trees and azure swimming pools, hovering like some predatory bird over the traffic-packed freeway as it completed its final approach and touched down with a gentle bounce onto the runway at Los Angeles International Airport. With a final backthrust of powerful engines it slowed to a taxiing speed and rolled smoothly toward the cluster of buildings on the perimeter.
They were home.
Paris gripped the arms of her chair, nervously anticipating the events of the next few days. There would be the inquest. And then the funeral. Afterward they would have to sort out Jenny’s affairs, business as well as personal, and as the eldest she would have to take charge.
India smiled wearily at her from the seat in front. The bright sweater emphasized her pallor and fatigue-smudged eyes. Her hair seemed to have lost its natural buoyancy and the curls lay like crushed velvet against her skull, reminding Paris of the way she had looked when they were children.
Unfastening her seat belt she looked with concern at Venetia across the aisle. Her blond hair was rumpled and her eyelids swollen and red. She had washed her face, and without makeup she looked about fifteen years old, and very vulnerable.
“Vennie.” Paris slid into the seat next to her, putting a comforting arm around her shoulders. “I know it’s not going to be easy, but we’ll get through. At least we’re all together. Just hold on, darling, we’ll soon be home.” Even as she said it she realized it was wrong. They weren’t going home. They were going to Fitz McBain’s house. Venetia’s blue, tear-washed eyes met hers despairingly. “It’ll be all right, you’ll see.” Paris hoped her voice sounded more reassuring than she felt.
She fished hurriedly in the bottom of her bag for the dark glasses—the ultimate piece of Hollywood equipment. For the first time she understood why. At least if no one can see into your eyes you retain a little of your privacy.
None of them had any luggage, just hand baggage with a few necessities thrown in at the last moment, and the formalities of customs and immigration were made easy. It left them totally unprepared for the battery of lights, cameras, and microphones waiting in the hall, the babble of voices calling their names, demanding they “Look this way” and “Could you tell the viewers what you think of Miss Haven’s possible suicide?” They shrank back into the doorway, blinded by the lights and bewildered by the sudden commotion—and the shocking questions.
“Barbarians,” hissed Paris. “Quelles sauvages!”
“We’re gonna make a run for it, miss.” Their two burly guards were joined by two more who placed themselves between them and the cameras. Grabbing their arms, they ran, followed by the horde of newsmen, down the alleyways and across the sidewalk into a waiting limousine. From behind its darkened windows Paris could still make out the curious faces and flashing cameras as the enormous Mercedes pulled smoothly away from the curb.
“I’m afraid they’ll follow us, miss,” said the guard apologetically, “and there’ll be more near the house. But there’s a high wall and it’s electronically protected. We’ll make sure no one intrudes on your privacy. Mr. McBain was most insistent about that.”
“Thank heavens for your Mr. McBain, Vennie,” said India shakily. “He was the only one who anticipated something like this—I certainly never thought about it. If we hadn’t had our escorts we would have been trapped.”
Venetia thought of Morgan McBain. His blond sunbronzed face and last night’s dinner party seemed