amused him, and the lovely girl on his left was a complete mystery. More so because he kept having this odd feeling that he must have met her before and just couldn’t remember where. Vennie. The lovely Venetia.
“It’s such a pretty name—Venetia—and so unusual.”
Her soft hibiscus-pink mouth parted in a tantalizingly familiar smile and her enormous gray-blue eyes held a glint of amusement.
“It’s my mother’s idea of a romantic joke. I’m named after the city where I was conceived, Venice—either in a suite at the Cipriani or in a gondola, she’s never been quite sure which.”
Morgan’s deep laugh rang through the room. “Whichever, the result was worth it. I just hope for their sake you have no brothers.”
“Two sisters … you’re not going to believe this … Paris and India.”
“And the locations?”
“Oh, India’s is the best, we always think—a houseboat on a lake in Kashmir. And Paris was the Ritz. She says it’s because of being conceived practically next door to Chanel’s atelier that she’s destined to be a great couturier.”
“And is she?”
Venetia shrugged. “It’s difficult, but Paris works hard, and when you have as much talent and dedication as she does, then one day you must succeed. Don’t you agree?”
Morgan decided against telling her that it didn’t always work that way. “And you, Venetia—what’s your talent?”
“Oh, me … I’ve done nothing, just school and then a cooking diploma. I have no talent, really.”
“But the food was delicious and everything looked sobeautiful. That’s a talent, Venetia.” He wanted to add that she was also breathtakingly lovely, but it was too soon.
“And what about you, Morgan McBain, where were you conceived?”
Venetia’s eyes danced with amusement. She liked being here with Morgan, it was almost as if they were having dinner alone; the rest of the table seemed excluded from their private conversation and Morgan McBain’s gaze left her feeling elated. His skin looked so firm and tanned and his shoulders so broad beneath that wonderful dinner jacket. He was the most physical man she had ever met.
“I was conceived and born in a trailer on a drilling site in the flattest, most barren stretch of land in Texas. My father was wildcatting for oil and my mother, who adored him, refused to leave his side when I was on the way, even though conditions were primitive. She died two weeks after I was born. She had worked alongside him, helped him … he always says that without her he never would have made it.”
“Morgan, I’m so sorry.” Venetia was embarrassed that she had asked.
“It was a long time ago. And she was right, my father did make it. He never married again,” he added with a wry grin, “though I’ve had the most glamorous selection of women who just longed to become my momma!”
“Wait a minute.” Venetia didn’t know why she hadn’t put two and two together before. “Of course—
Fitz
McBain! The richest man in the world. Morgan, I’m terribly impressed!”
“Maybe not quite the richest.” Venetia was one of the few girls Morgan had ever met to whom the fact that he was Fitz McBain’s son obviously meant little more than her wide-eyed awe of the moment. Like his father, he was used to the sudden magic of the McBain name acting as a magnet for every available attractive woman in sight.Some of the most beautiful women in the international society of both Europe and America had tried their best to get either father or son to the altar. And some were still trying.
“You’re not in the least impressed,” he said, taking her hand in his and squeezing it, “and rightly so. I’m just the hardworking son of a successful father. We’re in more than just oil now. Fitz had an urge for real estate, maybe because of those six years living in the trailer in the middle of nowhere. Anyhow, he bought lusher, greener acres in semitropical islands, in the Caribbean; he had an urge for
“It’s such a pretty name—Venetia—and so unusual.”
Her soft hibiscus-pink mouth parted in a tantalizingly familiar smile and her enormous gray-blue eyes held a glint of amusement.
“It’s my mother’s idea of a romantic joke. I’m named after the city where I was conceived, Venice—either in a suite at the Cipriani or in a gondola, she’s never been quite sure which.”
Morgan’s deep laugh rang through the room. “Whichever, the result was worth it. I just hope for their sake you have no brothers.”
“Two sisters … you’re not going to believe this … Paris and India.”
“And the locations?”
“Oh, India’s is the best, we always think—a houseboat on a lake in Kashmir. And Paris was the Ritz. She says it’s because of being conceived practically next door to Chanel’s atelier that she’s destined to be a great couturier.”
“And is she?”
Venetia shrugged. “It’s difficult, but Paris works hard, and when you have as much talent and dedication as she does, then one day you must succeed. Don’t you agree?”
Morgan decided against telling her that it didn’t always work that way. “And you, Venetia—what’s your talent?”
“Oh, me … I’ve done nothing, just school and then a cooking diploma. I have no talent, really.”
“But the food was delicious and everything looked sobeautiful. That’s a talent, Venetia.” He wanted to add that she was also breathtakingly lovely, but it was too soon.
“And what about you, Morgan McBain, where were you conceived?”
Venetia’s eyes danced with amusement. She liked being here with Morgan, it was almost as if they were having dinner alone; the rest of the table seemed excluded from their private conversation and Morgan McBain’s gaze left her feeling elated. His skin looked so firm and tanned and his shoulders so broad beneath that wonderful dinner jacket. He was the most physical man she had ever met.
“I was conceived and born in a trailer on a drilling site in the flattest, most barren stretch of land in Texas. My father was wildcatting for oil and my mother, who adored him, refused to leave his side when I was on the way, even though conditions were primitive. She died two weeks after I was born. She had worked alongside him, helped him … he always says that without her he never would have made it.”
“Morgan, I’m so sorry.” Venetia was embarrassed that she had asked.
“It was a long time ago. And she was right, my father did make it. He never married again,” he added with a wry grin, “though I’ve had the most glamorous selection of women who just longed to become my momma!”
“Wait a minute.” Venetia didn’t know why she hadn’t put two and two together before. “Of course—
Fitz
McBain! The richest man in the world. Morgan, I’m terribly impressed!”
“Maybe not quite the richest.” Venetia was one of the few girls Morgan had ever met to whom the fact that he was Fitz McBain’s son obviously meant little more than her wide-eyed awe of the moment. Like his father, he was used to the sudden magic of the McBain name acting as a magnet for every available attractive woman in sight.Some of the most beautiful women in the international society of both Europe and America had tried their best to get either father or son to the altar. And some were still trying.
“You’re not in the least impressed,” he said, taking her hand in his and squeezing it, “and rightly so. I’m just the hardworking son of a successful father. We’re in more than just oil now. Fitz had an urge for real estate, maybe because of those six years living in the trailer in the middle of nowhere. Anyhow, he bought lusher, greener acres in semitropical islands, in the Caribbean; he had an urge for
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