Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [75]
Fitz swiveled his gray leather chair, turning from the papers on his desk to the view of Manhattan, almost obliterated today by the rain lashing from a leaden sky. The sight held little charm, and putting his shirt-sleeved arms behind his head he wondered again what to do about that deal. It should have been completed a month ago—licensing agreements had been reached, refineries made available, documents awaited exchange. Everyone they had dealt with had been charming and reassuring—and yet the damned thing still hung fire. It was going to take another trip down to Brazil—his third in two months—another round of reassurances, more lengthy dinners with businessmen and their socially ambitious wives, and at the end, would he have accomplished his purpose and signed the deal? He had to admit that for once he didn’t know. What he did know was that he was losing patience with the situation.
He wondered moodily whether it was all worth it—not just this deal but all of it, all the wheeling and dealing, the jockeying for position, and beating out the competitors. It had meant everything to him in the beginning, when life was just survival, and then, when survival was taken care of, it had become fun. When, he asked himself, did the fun depart and habit begin?
Perhaps he should give it all up. Retire and hand over to Morgan. And then what? He was forty-four years old and had worked since he was thirteen. What the hell did you do if you didn’t work? With a shudder he contemplated a life spent squiring a Raymunda Ortiz from one jet-set party to another. How different might it have been if Morgan’s mother had lived? That was always how he thought of Ellen now, as “Morgan’s mother.” Their love for each other and their youthful romantic passion seemed a long time ago. Maybe they would have had other children and a proper home, not just this selection of desirable properties in various parts of the world for which he paid all the bills, and in which he slept only occasionally. Morgan always said that his plane was his home and Fitz was damned if he wasn’t right; he was happier alone in that one room suspended between time changes and continents and surrounded by the clouds than anywhere else on earth.
Enough of that! He’d go to the club and play some squash, get rid of the depression and rev up his energy level a notch or two. Work was the single most important entity in his life. Retirement didn’t exist in his vocabulary and the Raymunda Ortizes were a long way down on his priority list.
Fitz pressed the buzzer on his desk and waited for his secretary to answer. Miss Clarke had been with him for ten years. He had always believed in equal opportunity within his companies and she was more than just a secretary, she was his personal assistant with two secretaries of her own; she was part of his life, a keeper of secrets, and he counted her a friend. But he still called her Miss Clarke and she always called him Mr. McBain.
“Hold my calls please, Miss Clarke. I’m going down to the gym to get in a game of squash—I’ll be back in forty minutes.”
What he needed was a different viewpoint on that Latin American contract, he decided as he changed into a gray track suit in the bathroom that adjoined his office. He’d send Morgan to Brazil; it would be something he’d enjoy, and coming fresh to the situation he’d probably be able to spot what was wrong. One thing was for sure, the Latin Americans weren’t going to tell him. Dealing with them was as baffling as dealing with Japanese—they never liked to say no. A polite agreement and “tomorrow” were meant to make you understand that perhaps they didn’t quite agree.
It was exactly the same with Raymunda; she flirted and teased and agreed—and then she’d be aloof and haughty. Raymunda was a beautiful woman, and a sensuous one. He liked being with her—at least when she was behaving reasonably and not like some spoiled teenager—and he enjoyed being in bed with her, very much so, but he had the feeling that Raymunda was playing out the marriage cards. Lately