Too Damn Rich (14 page)

The words were barely out of her mouth before
he grabbed hold of her head and shoved her face down into his
crotch. No foreplay for Robert A. Goldsmith. No, siree! One moment
his wife was standing, and the next he had her—slam bam!—down on
her knees.

Already wheezing heavily, he spread his legs
wide. Leaning back against the scalloped edge of the sink, he
thrust his ample hips forward, and uttered two words:

"Start eatin'."

Dina, swallowing her revulsion as she'd
swallowed her pride, opened her mouth and closed her lips around
him, devoting considerable energy and talent to his penis and, by
obvious extension, to his dangling, hairy testicles as well. But
she was careful not to touch, nor so much as graze, any other part
of his body.

Oh no; she wanted every bit of his vast
powers of concentration to be centered right there in his
crotch—for Dina Goldsmith, like all women (and certain men), knew
that when a man was aroused, his brain was no longer in his head
but between his legs.

But first she had to bring him closer to
orgasm. Tightening her mouth around him, she set seriously to work.
Sucked in and out. In and out.

Strangely, she herself felt absolutely no
arousal whatsoever. No wetness flooding her loins. No trickles
running down the insides of her thighs. No swelling of her
nipples.

She was dry and closed. Not that there was
anything wrong with her, or that she couldn't get turned on. She
just couldn't get turned on to her husband. Sex with Robert was,
alternately, a duty, a weapon, or a method by which to extract
favors.

Her cheeks drew in as her mouth sucked
furiously with pretend hunger, and inflated as she withdrew.

God! Tears were beginning to form in her eyes
and her lips were becoming so numb she could barely feel them. How
much longer was this going to last? She needed to give her mouth a
break! But his wheezes were speeding up; she almost had him where
she wanted him.

Soon, she consoled herself. If I don't stop
now, it'll be any moment ...

She sucked like a maniac. Faster, faster. And
then she could sense a convulsive shudder starting to pass through
him, felt his engorged penis straining, readying itself for
imminent explosion.

And it was at that very instant, a mere
fraction of a split second before he could reach orgasm, that she
stopped and—plop!—let his penis slide out of her mouth.

The engorged organ strained and jerked in
midair, like a confused, heat-seeking missile searching for a
target which had suddenly disappeared.

"You fuckin' stopped!" he growled
accusingly.

Dina raised her head and looked up at her
husband with her best Daddy's Little Girl eyes. This was the
precise moment she had been waiting for.

"Baby needs a fa-vor from her Daddy."

She batted her starry lashes, the skillful
tip of her tongue diddling just enough with his penis to keep it
straining on this side of orgasm, like a dog pulling on its
leash.

"Yeah?" he rasped, all rational thought
replaced by the urgency of dire physical need. "What kinda favor we
talkin'?"

Feminine intuition served Dina well, and she
fondled his testicles cunningly while artfully giving his twitching
penis some cautiously resourceful sucks. Then she stopped again,
keeping him poised on the maddening, excruciating brink of
exquisite orgasm.

She hung her head and twisted her shoulders
childishly. "Baby's best friend needs help!"

"Baby's best friend is her Daddy's dick!"

Robert guffawed raunchy laughter.

"Baby means her other fwend. Zandra."

Raising her eyes, she fluttered her lashes,
her tongue darting out and thrumming his penis just enough to keep
him right up there on the wall.

"Please, Daddy?" Thrum. "Pretty please? All
she needs is a job."

"A job?" he rasped blankly. "Uh, what kinda
job?"

"One at Daddy's new company," Dina said,
expertly drilling the tip of her tongue into the one-eyed snake's
cyclopic eye. "Zandra knows all about Old Masters!"

Old Masters! Warning bells jangled and a cold
sweat suddenly sleeked his entire body. Aw, shit, he thought,
anything but that! Anything!

Robert A. Goldsmith might have been thinking
with his penis, but that didn't mean his mental faculties were
entirely shot. Christ Jesus! He'd have to be certifiable to stick
his wife's best friend into the very same department at Burghley's
of which his current Blow Job, Bambi Parker, was about to be put in
charge! All it would take was for the two of them to hit it off
and—yap! yap! yap!—his ass would be grass.

For, Baby Doll routines aside, he knew that
if Dina so much as suspected he was playing around, she'd have his
balls on a platter. Sliced, chopped, diced, and fried.

"Daddy'll think about it," he grunted, trying
to postpone the inevitable. "Now, shut up and be a good l'il girl.
Finish off what you've started!"

Dina's lips closed around the bulbous knob
some more, her tongue making slow, deliberate revolutions, bringing
him even closer to the very precipice of orgasm.

She stopped again.

"Please, Daddy?" she begged. "Pretty please?"
His penis twitched and bobbed desperately, meeting only air.

She gave it a mere whisper of a lick.

Her husband cracked. She could tell from the
agonized wheeze he emitted.

"Oh, all right," he gasped, making the
decision with his penis and suspecting, but momentarily not caring,
that he might live to regret it.

"Oh, thank you, Daddy!" Dina squealed. And
her mouth pounced and gave his hot pulsing phallus her all.

His semen was boiling, and not ten seconds
passed before he tensed. For one tiny instant he was absolutely
still, and then a convulsive shudder passed through him and he
exploded in a protracted, overwhelming, if one-sided, flood of
magnificent release.

Dina struggled to her feet as Robert dizzily
staggered, gasping for air, and reeled from wall to wall before
collapsing heavily on the toilet. Body limp, and penis getting
there fast, too.

Well, there's one thing that can be said for
my husband, Dina thought smugly as she fled to her own suite, where
she quickly rinsed out her mouth with handfuls of water before
gargling with mouthwash. Once he gives his word on something, it's
as good as gold! Robert never, ever reneges, no matter under what
circumstances a promise might have been extracted. His peculiar
sense of honor would not permit it.

She was dying to share the good news with
Zandra, but a quick glance at the nephrite and pale pink enamel
bathroom clock showed that, even with the unromantic but necessary
sexual interlude, she had less than forty-five minutes to get
ready.

Not a whole lot of time for most women to
cleanse off smeared makeup, step under the shower, dry off, paint
on her public face, and get dressed from scratch.

But Dina Goldsmith wasn't most women. She was
one of a kind, and gifted with considerable foresight.

First, she'd had the sense to lay out
tonight's entire wardrobe on her bed, right down to her shoes,
pantyhose, silky blonde hair extension, diamond barrette, and every
last carat of jewelry.

Second, as far as makeup went, well, she had
that down to a science, too.

And third, Dina's personal fashion philosophy
was nothing if not pragmatic: No woman should ever wear anything
she couldn't put on in five minutes flat, and the same went for
makeup.

Forty-five minutes later Dina was ready. She
wore Damin Industries' patented Stay-Put Backless, Strapless
Push-Up bra inserts that came in a blue aluminum can and a plain,
deceptively simple white silk gown from Louis Feraud—the better to
set off the long-sleeved killer jacket from Yves St. Laurent,
sumptuously trimmed with gold laurel leaves at the neckline and
waist, and entirely encrusted with twenty pounds of faceted cut
glass.

She looked like a million, but wore at least
ten. Who said diamonds weren't a girl's best friend?

There was her diamond solitaire ring, a
flawless D in a pear cut, which weighed sixty-six and a half
carats.

There was the choker of eight strands of
giant round pearls (real pearls, not cultured), the kind Queen
Alexandra used to wear in the Edwardian era, which had a clasp
of—you guessed it—more diamonds.

And finally there were the earrings, huge
pearls dangling from great sweeps of four-carat flawless D
diamonds, which were pear-shaped like the pearls.

Or my husband, she thought with wry
irony.

The Countess wore red. And white. And
black.

The red was a flaring silk satin microskirt,
Dina's of course. The white was a corset top and a silky crinoline,
a lingerie-inspired Lacroix overdress, also Dina's. And the black
were the lacy pantyhose, spike heels, and elbow-length gloves she'd
borrowed from—who else?—Dina. But the scruffy motorcycle jacket
Zandra wore atop it all was her own prized possession, as was her
beautifully boned body and thick cascade of marmalade-colored
hair.

She was a knockout and knew it. Half
Frederick's of Hollywood and half downtown club
habitue-turned-couture model, she was that most elusive of
creatures which only the true British aristocracy seem able to turn
out—every inch a lady, but hip, fun, and thoroughly with-it.

The telephone rang, sending a jolt through
her. She knew better than to entertain hopes that it could be her
brother, but still ...

She seized the receiver. "Hello?"

It was Julio. "There is a gentleman here to
see you," he announced sniffily.

"I'll be right out," Zandra said, wondering,
as she hung up, who her date for the evening was going to be.

Earlier, Dina had told her: "Darling, you
know you cannot go alone. An unescorted woman is absolute anathema!
You must have a walker, and I know just the one. Leave everything
to me!"

Taking one last glimpse at herself in the
mirror, Zandra left the suite. Julio intercepted her and led her
stiffly down the corridor to the library. He opened the door and
stood aside so she could enter.

Inside the book-lined room waited her
date.

"Hi!" he beamed, striding, hand extended,
across the palace-size Savonnerie. "I'm Lex Bugg."

Although Zandra had been a mere child at the
height of his fame in the sixties, his name nevertheless rang a
bell; even she was acquainted with his psychedelic, Yellow
Submarine-style art.

No spring chicken, he possessed undeniably
virile good looks and was all duded up in swallow-tailed,
Byronesque formal wear. He was six feet tall with a deep,
out-of-season tan and a blinding mouthful of expensive teeth.
Graying blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, eyes obscured by
tinted lenses, and a classic swimmer's build. He was forty-nine
years old and fighting every passing day.

From the looks of it, Lex Bugg seemed to be
holding his own.

Then, catching sight of the long sliver of
rock crystal dangling from a thong around his neck, Zandra gave an
involuntary groan. Hoping discussions of pyramids, crystals, and
psychics were not in her immediate future, she smiled brightly.
Said, "Hello. I'm Zandra."

His handshake was firm, but didn't crush
bones. Ever observant, she couldn't help noticing his fingers.

Incredibly, not so much as a smudge of paint
showed from beneath a single manicured nail. How he managed to
paint and do that was entirely beyond her.

Twenty minutes later, after drinks in the
library, Dina, Robert, Zandra, and Lex Bugg sallied forth in Dina's
white stretch limo, which transported them in garish luxury the few
short blocks to the Met.

Kenzie wore a gently used Salvation Army
thrift shop find.

She didn't know what had possessed her to
drop by the warehouse the day she had, but she blessed her lucky
stars, not to mention her sharp eye which was always on the lookout
for anything of exceptional quality. That was how she had spotted
the sleeveless yellow silk sheath with its rhinestone-studded
bodice and matching crusader scarf- cum-cape to begin with.

Unbelievably, it still had its Givenchy
couture label intact, and other than a small stain on the bodice (a
mere wee stain which could be cleverly hidden with some artful
draping of the capelike scarf), it was in mint condition.

Givenchy! From the Salvation Army yet! Who'd
ever believe it?

Kenzie hadn't, at least not at first. And
when she'd glanced at the price tag, her disbelief had only
increased. Not daring to trust her own eyes, she'd hesitantly
brought the gown to the cashier's counter, where she'd asked how
much it cost. The sales clerk had taken it, not with the reverence
it was due, but as though it was just a bundle of worthless rags,
and with a disinterested glance at the tag, had drawled,
"Thirty-five."

And Mrs. Turner's daughter, who hadn't been
raised a fool, had taken the extravagant bounty. Not ready-to-wear,
but a donated, honest-to- goodness couture gown which had certainly
been overlooked during the sorting, and which originally must have
set some fashion-conscious worshipper of Monsieur de Givenchy back,
what? Thirty-five thousand? Forty?

Now, eyeing herself from all angles in front
of the full-length mirror inside her closet door, Kenzie thanked
whichever gods were responsible for having dropped such
unbelievable beneficence into her lap, not forgetting to mention
her local seamstress, whose stitches had made it fit to
perfection.

Oh, yes. Tonight's was one party where she'd
be able to hold her own and fit in with the best-dressed, rich thin
women of Manhattan. Neither Nancy Kissinger, Lee Radziwill Ross,
Nan Kempner, nor the rest of the usual horde of undernourished
social skeletons would be better dressed. The only thing lacking
was jewels, but so what? Who needed bijoux with an outfit so
glowingly scrumptious, so extravagantly mind-boggling, and so
wantonly frivolous that any trinket would only be gilding the
lily?