Too Damn Rich (16 page)

They both smiled at the memory, and then his
eyelids fluttered and he was gone. She kissed his forehead
solemnly, laid his head gently down on the pillow, and smoothed her
fingers over his eyes to close them.

And that was how one chapter of her life
ended, and another began.

Admiring her reflection, Kenzie struck a
dramatic tango pose when the downstairs buzzer interrupted her
fashion high. The tango forgotten, she quickly smoothed the gown,
flung the long scarf around her throat, and hurried out through the
living room and into the small foyer.

"Who is it?" she asked cautiously through the
intercom.

"It's Mr. Spotts," replied a static-filled
squawk.

"Come on up." Kenzie hit the buzzer which
released the locked door downstairs; a few minutes later, when she
let him in, Mr. Spotts inspected her in one sweeping
head-to-toe-and-back-up stare. "Good heavens, Miss Turner!" he
said.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"Why, just look at you! I have never seen you
quite so beautiful."

She was touched. "Nor have I seen you looking
quite so handsome or debonair, Mr. Spotts. Black tie suits you. May
I fix you a drink?"

"Goodness, no, my dear. There will be more
than enough spirits to imbibe at the party. Besides, I have a cab
waiting downstairs."

"Then we'd better not keep the meter
running."

She grabbed her coat, he helped her slip into
it, and she linked her arm through his.

"Cinderella's all set!" she said brightly.
"Let's go have a ball!"

At the Met, the cocktail party in the
Blumenthal Patio was in full swing, the sea of rising voices
drowning out the strains of the valiant Mozart ensemble. Hundreds
of mingling guests created a perpetually shifting mosaic, birds of
a feather flocking together.

Prince Karl-Heinz von und zu Engelwiesen was
stationed at the entrance, where he greeted the constant stream of
new arrivals, all of whom were announced by the master of
ceremonies.

"... Her Royal Highness, the Infanta Dona
Pilar, Duchess of Badajoz, and His Royal Highness, the Duke of
Badajoz ... Mr. and Mrs. Carter Burden ... Mr. and Mrs. William F.
Buckley, Jr. . . . Lady Dudley and the Earl of Warwick ... Governor
and Mrs.—"

Prince Karl-Heinz acknowledged the women with
a kiss on the hand, and the men with firm handshakes and a slight
bow.

"... Mr. and Mrs. Sheldon D. Fairey,"
announced the master of ceremonies with stentorian gravity.

Sheldon D. Fairey came forward, squiring
Nina, his ageless socialite wife who wore an artfully painted
palette of a face and a voluminous cloud of emerald silk Oscar de
la Renta.

"Heinzie,
darling!
" she dramatized as
he kissed her hand, her smile as blinding as it was patently false.
"I cannot believe you are already celebrating another birthday! To
think that a year has passed since ... well, you are beginning to
make me feel positively ancient!"

Karl-Heinz summoned the requisite laugh.
"Then rest assured, my dear Nina, I am your very own picture of
Dorian Gray. As I become older and more dissipated, you grow
younger and lovelier with every passing year."

Expertly, he eased her past to make way for
new arrivals.

"Liar!" And tinkling laughter over her
shoulder, off Nina swept in a rustle of silk, her left arm linked
through her husband's, and her right already waggling her fingers
here, there, everywhere.

"I do hope I won't disgrace you," Kenzie
fretted. She and Mr. Spotts were climbing out of the cab on Fifth
Avenue, thus avoiding the traffic jam of limousines waiting to
deposit their passengers at the red-carpeted stairs.

"But why in all heaven should you disgrace
me?" Mr. Spotts, placing a hand under her elbow, inquired in a
kindly voice.

"Well, in case you haven't noticed," she said
nervously, "I'm not exactly society material."

"And what, pray tell," he asked, "is 'society
material'?"

"Oh, you know . . . private schools, dance
and deportment lessons, Swiss finishing schools, being an expert at
clever repartee, knowing the right time to hoist the mainsail as
opposed to the spinnaker, how much to tip the croupier ..."

"Ah." He nodded sagely. "In other words, Miss
Turner, you are assuming that an upbringing like, er, Miss
Parker's, for instance, would have given you all the requisite
social skills and polish for an evening like tonight's? Is that not
so?"

"Well, something like that," Kenzie admitted
uneasily, "yes."

"Well then, I advise you to get that nonsense
out of your head at once! I, personally, would not be caught dead
with the likes of Miss Parker hanging onto my arm!" His voice
gentled. "Look at it this way, my dear. If you're good enough for
me, then I daresay you're good enough for anyone else who may be
here. Now, I decree that we enjoy ourselves, and enjoy ourselves we
shall!"

"Yes ... but ... but Mr. Spotts! A Serene
Highness? What do I do? Kiss his ring?"

"That, Miss Turner, is reserved for the pope,
a cardinal, or an archbishop, and then usually only if one is a
practicing Roman Catholic."

He steered her unerringly through limousine
row and flashed his invitation to a guard, who unhooked the velvet
rope from its portable stanchion.

Climbing the red-carpeted steps, Kenzie
stared up with growing trepidation. The Metropolitan Museum of Art
hadn't earned its monikers, "Club Met," "The Party Palace," or
"Rent-a-Palace," for nothing. She knew that it was the single most
prestigious, if not the most expensive, location at which to throw
a party—and that in a city chock full of prestigious and expensive
places to choose from.

But despite the butterflies in her stomach,
she couldn't help but admire the awesome facade, palatial in the
wash of silver-green floodlights, the banners snapping briskly in
the wind, the crashing fountains sending up plumes of cool white
spray which almost, but not quite, masked the ever-present sounds
of traffic whizzing by down Fifth Avenue.

It was, she thought, impossible not to
imagine this floodlit temple of the arts as anything but the
son-et-lumiere show of a three-dimensional architectural
capriccio—huge, Corinthian-columned, and imposing—as if some giant
had scooped it up from one of the capitals of Europe and set it
down, intact, right here on the edge of Central Park in the very
middle of the greatest, noisiest, and most electrifying city on
earth.

At last they reached the top, where one of a
pair of doormen in eighteenth-century livery, complete with
powdered wig and silk breeches, inspected Mr. Spotts's invitation
yet a second time before bowing and gracefully gesturing them
inside.

Kenzie couldn't believe her eyes. The
resplendent lobby with its grand main staircase had been
transformed, for this single night, into a latter-day Versailles,
right down to the planters of full-grown citrus trees and massive
torcheres lit with hundreds of flickering beeswax tapers.

A liveried footman directed them to coat
check; from a passing couple, Kenzie heard a silvery tinkle of
laughter and the rustle of silk, caught, from around a thin
patrician throat, the cold flash of diamonds and the rich,
blood-red glow of rubies.

Heaven help me, she thought with a sinking
feeling as the reality of the soiree sank in. I'm just a plain
working girl. A simple office drone. What on God's earth ever
possessed me to come here?

Well, here goes the lamb to the slaughter,
Kenzie thought as Mr. Spotts gave their names to the master of
ceremonies. Her palms were moist and slippery and she was terrified
of making some terrible social gaffe. Squaring her shoulders, she
glanced out at the roomful of guests in an effort to shore up her
eroding self-confidence.

A major mistake.

The extravaganza of beautifully gowned and
bejeweled socialites only reinforced her feelings of inadequacy.
How foolish, the notion that a thrift shop find was all it took to
compete with these beings of the upper stratum!

"Mr. A. Dietrich Spotts and Ms. MacKenzie
Turner," the master of ceremonies called out.

Stifling a little cry, Kenzie glanced
anxiously at Mr. Spotts.

You'll do fine, his smile reassured, and
before she knew what was happening, she found herself face-to-face
with His Serene Highness.

To her amazement, before she could betray so
much as the slightest awkwardness, Prince Karl-Heinz took her hand
and raised it to his lips, his breath barely grazing her
fingertips. "Ms. Turner ..." he said, his blue oval eyes meeting
hers. He smiled charmingly. "A pleasure ..."

Then, letting go of her hand, he greeted Mr.
Spotts. The two men exchanged pleasantries and then Mr. Spotts
shepherded Kenzie on.

"I can't believe—you mean ... that's all
there is to it?" Kenzie asked incredulously.

Mr. Spotts smiled. "I'm afraid so. You see,
my dear, what did I tell you? There really was nothing to get all
worked up about, was there?"

He stopped, expertly canvassing the crush of
guests, and Kenzie did the same. Everyone seemed to be acquainted
with one another, and social choreography was in high gear, the
$942-a-case vintage Cristal priming sharp tongues and furtive
whispers. Everywhere, false smiles worthy of Oscar nominations lit
up perfect maquillage.

Now that the worst of her fears had proved
groundless, Kenzie found herself mesmerized. The sheer profusion of
so much haute couture under a single roof boggled the mind. It was,
she thought, an opiate dream, an ever-changing kaleidoscope of
felicitous grace, mesmeric colors, and intermingling textures which
had to be of some other, more prodigal world. Ravenously, her eye
for quality ate up the seemingly effortless, flawless tailoring;
soaked up, above all, the infinitely prolific and bewildering
flights of fancy which were the hallmarks of the couturier's
art.

For that was what these garments were. Art.
Art to wear. To flaunt. To frivol the night away in.

There were column gowns in Fortuny pleats;
waltzing dresses embroidered with iridescent silk roses;
rhinestone-encrusted crepe hourglass dresses; swirling tartan
ballgowns; patchwork Gypsy ensembles no Romany tribe could ever
have conceived, and more. Much, much more.

"Why don't we find ourselves a drink," Mr.
Spotts suggested peremptorily. He smiled out at the crowd with
knowing satisfaction. "After that, we can stand back and amuse
ourselves ... perhaps watch the social climbers digging in their
cleats and pitons?"

Kenzie raised her eyebrows. "Do I detect a
note of cynicism?"

"Cynicism! From me?" Mr. Spotts pretended
appropriate shock, but his eyes danced merrily. "Really, Miss
Turner ... !"

"Mr. and Mrs. Robert A. Goldsmith," the
master of ceremonies announced stentoriously.

On that cue, Dina swept grandly forward, her
extended arm dangling a delicately limp wrist and her new diamond
bracelet.

Karl-Heinz took her fingertips and raised
them to his lips. "Exquisite," he murmured, whether to her
sixty-six and a half carat solitaire, her twenty-eight carat
bracelet, or to her—Dina couldn't quite ascertain which.
Nevertheless, she preened visibly.

Letting go of her hand, Karl-Heinz turned to
Robert. "My most sincere congratulations," he said, exchanging firm
handshakes.

Robert A. Goldsmith blinked like a sleepy
lizard. "Congratulations?" he repeated blankly.

Prince Karl-Heinz smiled. "For buying
Burghley's, of course! I must admit I feel a twinge of jealousy. A
company of that caliber is, how does one say it?" Karl-Heinz turned
to Dina, a slight lift of his left eyebrow chiding her for having
wangled a last-minute invitation. "A feather in one's cap?"

But Dina, now that she had become the Queen
of Manhattan Island, accepted the gentle rebuke with regal
graciousness.

"To show our appreciation for your kind
invitation," she purred silkily, "we have brought Your Serene
Highness a little surprise."

"Indeed?" The prince looked amused. "And what
might that be?"

Dina smiled mysteriously and wagged an
admonishing finger. "You'll see momentarily," she promised, and
knowing an exit line when it presented itself, off she glided, her
husband in tow.

Behind them, the master of ceremonies
announced, "Her Grace, Zandra von Hohenburg-Willemlohe, Countess of
Grafburg, and Mr. Lex Bugg."

Dina glanced over her shoulder to catch
Karl-Heinz's reaction— which, like the proverbial picture worth a
thousand words, turned out to be supremely gratifying.

"Zandra ... ? Zandra! It is you!" Karl-Heinz
quickly got over his tongue-tied surprise. "But this is
unbelievable!" he exclaimed, greeting her with a long warm hug and
a kiss and then another hug.

Finally, holding her at arms' length, he
studied her from head to toe.

"Is it possible? Can you have become more
beautiful than ever?"

"Still the flatterer, I see," she laughed,
unable to hide her delight at his delight to see her.

"That is because flattery gets me
everywhere." He smiled and shook his head in wonder. "My God! How
long has it been?"

"Too long, cousin. At least two years. No.
Longer. The last time was ... let me see ... yes, that dreadful
party at Aunt Annabel's."

He made a face. "Ah, yes. An excruciating
occasion best left forgotten." Still holding her hands, he said, "I
had no idea you were in town!"

"Flying over was a—a spur-of-the-moment
lark," she improvised quickly. "Except for Dina, I don't believe
anyone even knows I'm in town."

He smiled. "Well, now the entire city does."
He gave her another hug. "I hate reception lines, but alas, they
are an evil I must contend with. We will talk later?"