Indiscretions by Elizabeth Adler Page B

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.”
    He was talking to his son. Morgan was a good-looking young man … maybe if things didn’t go too well with Fitz she should try him instead? No, at thirty-two she was better off with the father; after all, that’s where the power was.
    Raymunda glanced again at Fitz’s back. The drops of water had trickled down beneath his towel. She’d been waiting here, in the virginal robe, when he came back from wherever he’d been last—Hamburg, she thought he’d said. He’d gone straight into the shower after a brief hello, and then he’d got on the phone to Morgan. He’d never even noticed the robe. She looked at it doubtfully. Maybe it was
too
virginal? She unfastened the buttons to the waist and allowed it to fall open a little, displaying her ample and very pretty bosom to advantage. Her olive skin looked smooth and she ran a finger around her nipple, enjoying the responses of her own body.
    The real trouble was knowing how to play it with Fitz. It was difficult sometimes when he was making love to her to remember to use ladylike words, and yet she wasn’t sure whether a man from his background understood that even ladies liked to fuck? It was a dilemma and playing a dual role was hard work.
    “Fitz,” she called impatiently, “I
need
you.”
    He turned his head and smiled at her.
    The trouble was, he really turned her on—she liked his tall, spare, muscular body, hardened from those years spent wildcatting in the backlands of Texas, and she liked his thick brown-black hair and his face with its oddly jutting cheekbones and deeply set, dark blue eyes. And she was turned on, too, by the power of his money—it was breathtaking, that kind of power. When you were with Fitz McBain, you felt that the world was yours and that rich men made their own rules. Power was so exciting.
    Raymunda slid back the white robe tantalizingly, posing against the pillows; she wanted him now.
    “Fitz,” she called again, “come here, I want you.” He waved an impatient arm and went on with his conversation.
    “Goddamn it!” Raymunda sat up again and clicked channels furiously.
    “Wait!” Fitz slammed down the phone and strode across the room to the bed. “Put the news back on, channel two.”
    “Channel Two! Damn it, I’ve been waiting here for you to—”
    Fitz grabbed the