Lita looked up. There was a man sitting alone at the next table, an American. He looked about thirty-eight, he had salt and pepper hair and thick, dark lashes around dark eyes. Under the light summer suit he was wearing, she thought she saw muscles.
‘Oh. Er, merci,’ she said. The woman left the glass on her wrought iron table and glided away.
‘It’s mint tea. They don’t drink’alcohol here, so this is the beverage of choice. Very traditional.’
‘Thank you,’ Lita said.
‘My pleasure.’ He turned back to his menu.
Lita sipped the drink. It was steaming, and very sweet, and nothing like the herbal mint teas back home. It was delicious. Strange, but delicious. Surreptitiously, she glanced across at the older man. His hands had no rings on them. Quite apart from his looks, he hadn’t pressed his advantage with a corny line, and he seemed to know a lot about the
place. She cleared her throat.
‘Excuse me.’
He looked up at her. He had chocolate brown eyes that seemed to look right through her.
‘I wonder if you’d like to eat dinner with me,’ Lita said. Then she blushed. Was that too forward?
He hesitated for a split second, then smiled lightly. ‘Thank you. That
would be lovely.’ He pushed back his chair, and came over to her table. He was tall, she noticed. Probably six feet. When she stood up, he’d
tower over her. He offered her a large hand; he had a strong grip. ‘I’m Edward Kahn.’ ‘Lita Morales.’
‘Are you here on business?’
‘Business?’ Lira’s brows lifted. ‘Why would anybody be in Marrakech on business?”
‘I couldn’t imagine why else a woman …’ he seemed to be looking for words ‘… uh, like you, would be eating by herself.’
Lira shook her head. She suddenly wished she’d put on makeup. ‘No, I’m here on vacation.’
‘By yourself?. That’s very independent.’
She smiled, and her golden skin lit up. Damn, he thought, what a
beauty. He had to steady an impulse to lick his lips.
‘So are you here on business?’
‘Actually, yes. I make a trip twice a year for buying.’
‘And what do you buy?’ Lita asked. The robed waitress appeared and
hovered by their table. Lita glanced down at her menu. ‘Have you tried Moroccan food before?’ ‘This is my first night.’
‘We’ll try the bastilla, the
eefia and the touajen de poisson,’ he said, nodding at the menu. He looked over at her. ‘You’ll just have to trust me.’ ,p>
‘Some people would say that’s very sexist,’ Lita said.
His dark eyes stared back at her. ‘Would they?’
For the first time in months, she felt a tightening between her legs. She shifted on her seat and tried to distract herself. Romance was just bad news. Wasn’t it?
‘I import carpets, among other things. I run a design firm in New York.’
He lived in New York, Lita thought elatedly. ‘That’s interesting.
What firm are you with?’
‘Olympia,’ he said.
‘I’ve heard of them. They’re the hottest interior design firm in
America. Didn’t they just get the contract to redo Gracie Mansion?’ He nodded.
‘And they supervised the last redecoration of the White House. Even
Sister Parish is jealous of Olympia.’
‘You’re very knowledgeable.’
‘I’m with an advertising firm. Correction. I was. We’re supposed to
182
keep current on trends in pretty much everything. Besides, I read Vogue. Olympia is featured in there all the time.’
He inclined his head slightly. ‘What firm were you with?’ ‘Doheny.’
‘They’re a very good outfit.’
‘They’re less good now,’ Lita stated flatly.
He grinned. He liked her spark. ‘You got fired?’
‘I walked out. It’s a long and boring story.’
The waitress came back, bringing a plate of Moroccan salad - minted
leaves, tomatoes, diced spiced potatoes - and two glasses of iced water. ‘This is so good,’ Lita said, amazed.
‘I think Moroccan is some of the best food in the world. Once you get past eating pigeon. So what did you do for them?’
‘I was a senior creative executive. I worked on campaigns for print
and TV. Some radio work. What about you?’
‘I own the company,’ he said.
‘Oh.’ Lira blushed again. Thankfully there were only the flickering
shadows from the filigree lamps to show her complexion.
‘How long ago did you walk out?’
‘Yesterday.’ Lita forked some mint and potatoes into her mouth as their waitress set down small square pastries. ‘I went home, went to my apartment, packed a case and drove to the airport. I got here on the redeye.’ He chuckled. ‘You’re adventurous.’
‘I was mad,’ Lita said. ‘And I have a Moroccan lamp in my apartment.’
‘Makes perfect sense.’ He tookSd her over assessingly. Lita had a sense that her white dress was being peeled from her skin. She tugged her scarf lower. Her nipples were tightening, and it wasn’t cool enough out here to blame it on something other than him. Of course he was too old, too established for her. ‘And what did your boyfriend say about this unilateral trip?’
‘I don’t have a boyfriend,’ Lita said, a little defensively, ‘I was too busy.’
‘Good,’ he said, straight out.
Lita’s blush deepened. ‘Are you asking me Out?’
‘We are out,’ he said. ‘Try some of the bastilla. It’s delicious.’ She obeyed him. It was.
‘I’m here for three more days. Maybe we could explore the souks
together. Then you can tell me the long and boring stow.’ Lita hesitated. ‘I don’t know … I have a lot of plans.’ ‘No, you don’t,’ he said easily.
I83
‘OK.’ She smiled, she couldn’t help it. He wouldn’t let her pretend to
be coy.
He picked her up at the Fatima the next morning and nodded approvingly. ‘You have great taste in hotels.’ ‘Thank you.’ She bit her lip to stop herself from confessing she’d had nothing to do with it. She really wanted to impress this guy.
‘I’m at the Palmeraie Golf Palace, just outside town. It’s huge and
modern. This is much nicer.’ His eye swept her room.
‘Getting ideas?’
He didn’t smile. ‘Of course. I’m always working.’ ‘I thought your company was huge,’ Lita ventured. ‘It is.’
‘So don’t you have vice-presidents to do this sort of thing?’
‘The really important trips I don’t delegate. This trip will lay up a
stock of carpets for a year. For the small clients, the bread-and-butter clients, rich Wall Street wives and publishing moguls, we will be working the Near East look this year. And even an English country feel benefits from a Moroccan or a Persian carpet thrown in somewhere.’
He looked around slightly impatiently. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Ready.’
‘Let me see.’ He stepped back and analysed her. Lita had chosen her
most seductive dress, a silk wraparound number in pale blue that
stopped above the knee and hugged her breasts. ‘You can’t wear that.’
‘Excuse me?’ she said combatively. ‘
‘I said you can’t wear that. Let me see.’ Ignoring her look of outrage,
he went straight to her closet and riffled through her stuff. ‘Try… this and this.’ He handed her two hangers, one with her double-layered dark blue chiffon pants, the other with a loose, long-sleeved shirt in gold silk. ‘A pity it’s not high-necked, but you can wear.the scarf over your hair and neck like this.’ He took a white lace scarf of hers and looped it over her hair and neckline.
‘I don’t want to wear that,’ Lita said mulishly.
‘Display that much flesh, and the men here will think you’re a hooker,’ he said flatly, pointing to her dress. ‘Save that for dinner. And if you don’t mind, don’t talk too much during this little trip. They will understand you are Western, but if you don’t keep quiet, I will look like
a man who cannot control his female.’
‘And what if I do mind?’
He smiled. ‘Then I will leave you to your own devices today. Business is business. I’m sure you understand that.’
‘I guess so,’ Lita said.
‘Don’t worry.’ Edward looked totally confident. ‘You’ll love it.’
And she did. He led her though the winding, crowded, twisted streets of the city, packed into tiny districts each crammed with shops selling different goods: the leather-workers’ souk, the jewellery souk, the fragrant spices souk where she stopped to buy a pound of pure saffron; the copper souk and the pottery souks, with bowls and dishes all covered with the intricate patterns of Islam, and the scents of nutmeg and juniper and cinnamon everywhere in the air; and finally to the carpet souk, where rugs and carpets, intricately worked, exquisitely beautiful, the blue of the/kit Ouaouzguite, the tribe that wove them, the reds of the Berber, the multicoloured P,.abat and hundreds of other types, hung everywhere. Lita followed behind Edward, was offered countless thimbleful glasses of mint tea, shown carpets by women and generally ignored while he negotiated with the carpet-sellers in fast, guttural French. At each place they signed export papers. Edward bought hundreds of carpets, jabbing his large fingers, deciding lightning fast from the vast selections in each establishment. By the time they broke for lunch, heading back through the chameleon-sellers to Djemaa
el-Fna, she was exhausted.
‘Follow me.’
‘I’m always following you. Why can’t I pick a restaurant?’ Lita said. Edward grinned. ‘If you know a good one, be my guest.’
Lita shrugged. She wanted to stamp her foot, but he was right. How did she know she wasn’t going to get food poisoning? Did he have to be so goddamn … dominant, though?
Edward led her to a nondescrilt wall in the corner of the square and rapped on a tiny door. This was a pattern in Marrakech - a door opening from some dusty street or square into a quiet oasis. This one led into a courtyard with tables placed under the shade of various fruit trees. Lira noted tangerine and pomegranate.
‘This place is my usual restaurant in town.’ A waiter materialized, and Edward ordered in French for them. Lita had to trust him - she had no idea what was in anything, and yesterday’s dinner had been delicious.
Another boy came over and bowed, bringing Edward several papers. ‘That’s the Wall Street-lournal,’ Lita said, astonished.
‘Yes. I get them delivered here. A day late, but it’ll have to do. I like to check on the news and stocks. Keep current. A glass of chilled
lemonade here seems a good way to do it.’
‘Why not read them at your hotel?’
‘I keep my evenings free from work. They are devoted entirely to pleasure.’
85
Lira shivered at the way he said ‘pleasure’. He was looking at her again as though he wanted to strip the chiffon from her skin.
‘I also have The Times from London and the New York Times.’ He passed them casually over.
A robed woman brought them still, iced lemonades, and Lita idly looked at the English paper. There was nothing in it to interest her… more news of electricity blackouts and industrial stoppages. Some kind of IMF loan was being talked about. Amazing how the papers could report so calmly while the country was falling apart at the financial seams. She turned to the business section. It would be interesting to look at some European print ads and compare them. Lita flicked through it idly, then, suddenly, stopped dead.
‘Lancaster Scrapes Back Into the Black,’ read the headline. And underneath it, there was a picture of Becky.
I86
hapter 25
She regarded herself critically in the mirror.
Becky needed to make a good impression yet, whatever she did, she couldn’t avoid looking like a young woman. Despite the stress of the last two years, she was still in her mid-twenties, and it showed. She wore her long, golden hair up in an elegant French chignon, she kept her make-up light and professional and she wore flats so she wouldn’t be too intimidating to the bankers, but that was OK - she was so slim that not even flats could make her legs look dumpy. Her suit was solid navy with a cream shirt; her briefcase and shoes matched it. She had chosen matt Wolford hose, which were comfortable and wouldn’t draw too much attention to her. But, despite the crushing worry she had battled as hard as she could every working day for the past twenty-four months, and some of the weekends, too, her skin was still unlined, her eyes were still
bright and she was still .just a pretty young girl.
And that was a problem.
No matter what she did with Lancaster, no matter how deep or how drastic the cuts she had made, no matter what concessions she had been able to pull from the unions, in “endless, mind-numbing negotiations, men still resented women in the workplace. Especially rich, attractive, young ones.
Becky had fought it. With Ken Stone as her hardcore ClzO, she had made dramatic changes, and she had made sure that she and she alone got the credit for them. Undoing the perception of her that she had found 1Kupert had fostered - namely, that she was an airhead heiress with no business skills - had taken a lot of time. Moving the company to Yorkshire had been a dramatic move; slashing the over-staffed personnel roster had been another one. The long, boozy lunches in smoky City of London wine bars had been trimmed from the expense accounts of the men that had stayed, and when perks like company cars were suddenly tied to performance, there was a fresh round of resignations. Becky was glad. It saved Ken and her from having to fire more executives, which, despite them being bad at their jobs, overpaid and underworked, was still the part of her business she liked the least. The regime was
C
draconian, and the banking community responded. They had been able to obtain desperately needed financing. Productivity crept up, and costs dropped sharply. For the first time in more than eight years, according to Stone, Lancaster was able to show a modest profit.
The only trouble was that ‘modest’ wasn’t going to cut it.
In her heart, Becky knew that she could turn the shipyards around, given enough time. She could shift production away from the large, oil guzzling industrial ships that the world was starting not to want and towards luxury goods, like speedboats and cruisers. She could sell offthe tin mines, and use the profit from that for the shift. But to get there, she had to have time to find buyers and set up an entirely new distribution