Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [34]
Bob Ronson looked surprised. “Mr. McBain usually plays the music he thinks his guests would like to hear. I don’t know what he plays when he is alone.”
Venetia wondered about that. Morgan had said that there were many women eager for a place in his father’s life. Could Fitz McBain often be alone? It was odd being in the home of a man you merely knew about but didn’t even know the appearance of. She couldn’t recall having seen pictures of him in the newspapers, but then Morgan had said he was a very private man. He must look a bit like the older men on Dallas, she decided, sort of burly and middle aged, a ranch hand in a business suit.
India picked up a cue and potted a red on the snooker table, admiring the Victorian fringed lampshades. “This is a terrific room,” she announced. “Let’s make it our headquarters while we’re here.”
“I agree.” Paris flopped onto a sofa. “It feels more like home.”
“Please treat it as if it were your home,” said Ronson. “No one will disturb you here. Now, if you’re ready, I’ll show you your rooms. I’m sure you’d like to rest.”
A burly man from the Bel-Air Patrol was waiting for them in the hall. But for the gun at his hip, he could have been the twin of the guards who had accompanied them earlier. Did they breed them specially for the job? wondered Paris, as the man, serious-faced and respectful, informed them that the patrol was on alert and the house would be completely protected at all times. They would have no need to worry about photographers with telephoto lenses climbing trees to snatch a photograph, nor of TV cameras and gossip writers lurking at the gates. His men would see to that.
“Well, that’s a relief,” commented India. She understood the ways of paparazzi well enough to know that a brief dip in the swimming pool on a hot day could be snapped and captioned “Haven daughter swims in Hollywood sunshine while inquest decides cause of mother’s death.” It was not a nice world. And the inquest was to take place the day after tomorrow. Thankfully she followed her sisters to the refuge of her room.
3
NEW YORK
Raymunda Ortiz lounged in the center of the king-size bed, wearing a virginal white cotton robe, clicking through the television channels with the remote control while keeping one ear open to catch what Fitz was saying on the phone. He was always on the phone, always talking business. She could swear that phone grew out of his hand—except, of course, when his hands were better employed making love to her. A glance at her white robe—the finest Swiss cotton, embroidered with girlish flowers and ruffled at the neck and hem—confirmed that it was virginal; she didn’t want him to think she was some kind of whore in sleazy satin. No, she wanted Fitz to understand that no matter what went on between them in bed, she was a lady, the sort of lady who could decorate his table, make his home into a social meeting place for the best people—a lady suitable to be his wife. And it was true, she was a well-brought-up Brazilian girl from a good family, married at eighteen, widowed at twenty-eight, and at thirty-two looking hard for a second husband. Who better than Fitz McBain?
She glanced at him across the room. Fitz, naked but for a towel wrapped around his middle, leaned casually against the table, the phone propped beneath his chin. His dark hair was still wet from the shower, and little rivulets of water trickled down his muscular back. Raymunda thought she’d like to lick each of those drops from his skin … if he’d ever get off the damned phone! Impatiently, she changed the channel to a game show, lowering the sound and listening to Fitz.
“Throw the job open to tender, Morgan,” he was saying. “It’s the only way. And don’t touch those Liberian tankers—they’ve lost two in the past six months.