Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [53]
“Well, I never—fancy meeting you here, cooking lunch for that lot!” The woman’s face lit with sudden understanding. “Then that’s what the phone call was! Samantha in reception said that the rich American, McBain, was on the phone—calling from a foreign country he was, too, asking for Venetia Haven. So of course Miss Smarty out there tells him there’s no such person works here. Oh, she was all smiles this time. He’ll have been calling for you, love. Better go and ask her. I think he said he’d call back because he was sure you were expected.” She gulped her coffee and smiled at Venetia, delighted to be the bringer of good news, and she knew it was good by the way the girl’s eyes brightened. Really pretty she was, just like her mum.
Morgan? Morgan was calling her here? “But how did he know …?” Even as she said it she knew how silly it was; of course Morgan would have called home and they would have given him the number. It must be urgent if he couldn’t wait until she got home.
“Thank you, thanks a lot,” she said, heading for the door. “Oh—could you just keep an eye on the lamb in the oven for me? I won’t be long.”
Samantha at reception sipped the pink high-protein milk drink that was her lunch and glanced at Venetia with supercilious boredom.
“For you?” Her voice was faintly scornful; obviously the girl was mistaken. The McBains of this world didn’t make urgent telephone calls from Geneva to lunchtime cooks.
“I’m Venetia Haven. Didn’t he ask for me?”
Samantha’s gaze fastened on Venetia for the first time. My God, of course. She was that Haven girl, why hadn’t she noticed it right off? The phone rang again, purring quietly in this hushed office, and she answered automatically.
“Blakemore and Honeywell. Oh, yes, Mr. McBain. Yes, you’re quite right, Mr. McBain. She’s here now, I’ll put her on the line.” Handing the phone to Venetia she sipped her lunch and pretended not to listen.
“Morgan?” Venetia cradled the phone under her chin, speaking softly. “Yes, yes, of course I’m pleased you called, but why here? Is it urgent? It is? Yes of course I ski…. When? Oh, Morgan, it sounds lovely, but I’m not sure I can … you’re snowbound—how romantic! Yes, of course I’d like to be with you, but I have to work, Morgan…. Oh, well, perhaps I could …”
Her laugh rang through the silent offices and Samantha glanced at her enviously.
“All right, then, we’ll talk about it when you get here … you’ll talk me into it?” She laughed again. “Okay. Yes. I’ll wait for your call … yes … me too … ‘Bye.”
Venetia put down the phone and drifted happily back toward the kitchen, followed by Samantha’s envious stare.
The Rolls from the Palace Hotel whisked them through the snowy streets of St. Moritz, up the fir-dotted slope to the sprawling, gabled building that looked, thought Venetia, like a chalet that had just kept on growing. The manager was waiting to greet them personally and to assure them that his staff would see to their every comfort. “There’s good snow,” he informed them, “and more to come—too much, perhaps. But if we are snowed in, Mademoiselle will find plenty to do at the Palace—you can ice-skate on our own rink, swim in our pool, exercise in our fitness room, play squash, bridge, dance—maybe a little shopping. …”
“Forget it,” laughed Morgan, “Mademoiselle is going up those mountains and back down again as fast as she can. I have a ten-pound bet that I’ll beat her—best of five runs.”
“What I didn’t tell you,” Venetia informed him as they headed for the elevator, “is that I first skied here when I was three years old—I came with my mother, and Jenny was quite an athlete. She was a superb skier, and she saw I had the best tuition. Even if you beat me on speed, Morgan McBain—and I’m not admitting that you will—you’ll never top my style.”
“You’re probably right,” he replied with a grin.