Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [95]
Bendor smiled indulgently as his guests cheered the suggestion. She could have anything she wanted when she smiled at him like that.
Fitz was at the controls of his Learjet with Morgan beside him. They were on their final approach, preparing to land, and despite the fact that he was upset with his father, Morgan had to admire the cool expertise with which he brought the plane down onto the runway at Miami’s busy airport. Ever since he was a kid he’d felt there was nothing Fitz couldn’t do, from scuba diving to flying planes. He had no idea how the hell he’d found the time to acquire all those accomplishments, but that was Fitz—if he’d had just half a day free he had used it to learn something. He’d been hungry for knowledge, above and beyond his business acumen, which was instinctive. “Blame it on my lack of education,” he’d told Morgan once, and Morgan could remember being surprised because Fitz had never seemed an uneducated man. Yet it was true, his formal education had been not only brief but sketchy, and Morgan knew it had irked him. Fitz had set his own educational goals, acquiring knowledge through voracious reading—which he still kept up. At the age of thirty he’d disciplined himself to take the time to learn three languages so that he might conduct his foreign business more familiarly and without having to depend on others to translate for him—you can lose the nuances of a deal if you don’t understand exactly what is being said, he’d explained to Morgan when he’d balked at the extra German, Spanish, and French tuition Fitz had arranged for him in the school holidays. And, he’d added, those nuances might cost you a lot of money—or even the deal.
Despite his lack of formal education his father was a cultured man and his appetite for the arts was wide and intuitive. Fitz never saw a play merely because it was the fashionable play to be seen at; he saw the performances he was curious about. He liked Mozart’s operas, he enjoyed the ballet, and he was passionate about art. It was a fact that he was in the fortunate position of being able to buy what he liked, but he was also known as a generous donor to the American museums, as well as being the anonymous patron of several struggling and talented painters and sculptors.
He was, thought Morgan, unfastening his seat belt, a hard act to follow.
Even on the Fiesta Fitz had seemed unable to relax. He’d spent most of today on the phone between New York and various Latin American countries, leaving Raymunda sunbathing sulkily, alone, and Raymunda sulking was not anyone Morgan had wanted to be around! He’d taken himself off to Bridgetown to buy a welcoming present for Venetia, who was expected that evening, and he had arrived back to be informed by his father that instead of next week, he wanted him to leave at once for Rio de Janeiro. Morgan had protested that he’d squeezed a few days out of his busy globe-trotting schedule to spend with Venetia, but though Fitz had been understanding, he had been adamant. He would have gone himself, he said, but he felt that his presence might put too much weight on their side, indicating exactly how eager they were to have this refinery deal. Sending Morgan as his representative toned things down to the next level, a step up from just sending one of their top executives. And he would bring a fresh viewpoint to the stalled negotiations. Morgan had argued that it was a fine point, but he had known his father was right—as usual.
Miami felt humid and sticky, and Morgan thought longingly of the Fiesta as they walked together to the airport control. He had just fifteen minutes to make his flight.
“Remember to pick up Venetia this evening,” he called as he strode off toward the check-in. “Tell her I’ll call.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her. And, Morgan