Too Damn Rich (17 page)

She nodded brightly. "I'll be on the lookout
for you."

"And I shall be on the lookout for you. In
fact, I shall have the place cards rearranged so we can sit
together during dinner. That way we can catch up on all the
latest."

"I'd like that," she said, flushed with
pleasure.

"Me, too." He smiled and kissed her cheek.
"Would you believe, your unexpected presence has made a dreadfully
dull party totally worthwhile?"

Look, Robert!" Dina squealed, hopping on
tiptoe and waving excitedly. "There's Sheldon D. Fairey!"

"So?" grunted Robert, who since that morning
had relegated Burghley's chairman to his multitudinous ranks of
minions.

Dina turned to Zandra and Lex. "You two go
circulate!" she stage- whispered, making shooing motions. "We'll
meet up later."

Once she had Robert to herself, she said, "I
think it would only be courteous if we went and said hello to Mr.
Fairey."

Prudently, she neglected to mention her
ulterior motive. The very least she owed Sheldon was a quick hello
and a whispered thank-you—he had, after all, been instrumental in
getting them the invitations for this party.

To her surprise, Robert put up no resistance
whatsoever. "All right," he shrugged. "If that's what you want, why
not?"

Prudently, he neglected to mention his
ulterior motive. Namely, that this was the very opportunity he'd
been waiting for—but who'd have thought that his wife, of all
people, would drop it so fortuitously into his lap? For it was his
express intention to take Sheldon D. Fairey aside and finalize
Bambi Parker's promotion.

Dina, happily oblivious to that fact, clung
to his arm and unerringly navigated him over to where Sheldon D.
Fairey and two Social Register couples were standing around
chatting.

"Now remember, Robert," she reminded him
sternly, "you promised to find Zandra a job in the Old Masters
department. This is the perfect opportunity to bring it up."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he scowled, once again
cursing his idiocy in acquiescing to what amounted to playing
Russian roulette. God, but how could he have been so stupid?
Tossing Bambi and Zandra together was like lighting a stick of
dynamite and waiting around for the explosion. Sooner or later, it
was bound to come.

"Sweeties!" Dina, having descended upon their
quarry, let go of Robert's arm.

There was a flurry of handshakes and cheek
kisses, followed by another round of the same when Nina
Fairey—possessed of a social antennae second to none—seemingly
materialized out of nowhere.

"Wonderful jacket!" Nina cooed. "Yves St.
Laurent?"

"The one and only." Dina, for the first time
finding herself at the very epicenter of attention, took to the
kowtowing like a duck to water.

"My God, that ring!" one of the Social
Register wives exclaimed in shock. "I've never seen a rock that
huge!"

"This?" Dina purred, sighing happily. "It's
new. My sweetie is so generous."

Isn't he just?
Robert thought darkly,
unwrapping a genuine Havana—a Flor de F. Farach Extra—which he
rattled next to his ear, then held under his nose for a whiff.
Satisfied, he chomped off the puffing tip. Sucked on it to get it
nice and moist. Hoped the ritual would help tune out all that
female jabber.

No such luck.

"Now, darling," Nina was gushing, "you really
must tell us! How does it feel to own Burghley's?"

Robert heard his wife's glissant scale of
light laughter. "Ask me again once it's sunk in," Dina lied, eating
up every last bit of fuss, flattery, and deference. "Right now it
all seems so, well, so unreal."

"Like hell it does!" grumped Robert around
his cigar. Glaring at his wife's gaggle of newfound sycophants, he
had a good mind to tell them exactly where they could go—and why
Dina didn't was entirely beyond him. Christ, those ass-kissers
hadn't given her the time of day before; why should she bother with
their brownnosing now?

As these thoughts crossed his mind, he sensed
Dina giving him The Look—clearly a signal that he and Sheldon have
their little powwow.

He shrugged to himself. Why not? It was as
good a time as any, and would provide escape from the hens.

Tapping Sheldon to get his attention, Robert
beckoned him aside with a nod. Sheldon dutifully accommodated, and
Robert draped a comradely arm around his shoulders and edged him
away. "There's a couple a things we need to discuss," he said in a
buddy-buddy locker-room kind of voice. "Whyn't we take a stroll.
I'm dyin' to light up this here cigar ..."

Sheldon D. Fairey winced. If there was one
thing in the world he hated, it was cigar smoke.

Not that he dared mention it. Who was he to
argue with his new boss?

Mr. Spotts scooped two champagne glasses off
a waiter's tray and handed one to Kenzie. "Here you go," he said,
clinking his glass against hers. "A toast. To your brilliant
future."

"Thank you, Mr. Spotts. And may I be worthy
of living up to your expectations."

"Come, come, my dear. Now that I've
officially been put to pasture, I think we can dispense with the
formality, don't you? So let's do drop this Mr. Spotts and Miss
Turner business. Friends should be on a first-name basis." He
raised his eyebrows. "That is, of course, if you don't mind ...
Kenzie?" He used her first name tentatively.

She smiled. "On the contrary ... Dietrich,"
she replied softly. "I'm honored."

He returned her smile. "I am glad. Now, if
you will be so kind as to excuse me, I'm off to hunt down Mr.
Fairey. I just want to make certain all the details of your
promotion have been ironed out. In the meantime ..." Mr. Spotts
lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Don't look now, but there's a
young man standing over there, off to your right ..."

Kenzie's curiosity was piqued, but trying not
to be too obvious, she waited a moment. Then she looked casually
all around before finally glancing in the direction he'd
indicated.

She drew a sharp breath.

The man in question—if he was the one Mr.
Spotts had mentioned, and surely he must be—had to qualify as the
most handsome male specimen on this side of the Atlantic!

Her voice quavered. "You . . . you can't mean
that Nordic god in his mid-thirties? The Viking with the
whitish-blond hair?"

Mr. Spotts smiled. "Indeed I do."

"What about him?"

"Oh, only that he hasn't been able to take
his eyes off you ever since we entered."

"What! He's been eyeing ... me?" she gasped
in disbelief. "Oh really, Dietrich! What makes you so sure he's not
waiting for someone else?"

"Because, Kenzie, my dear," said Mr. Spotts
in that precise and patient manner of his, "many things may have
changed since my remote youth, but there are, happily, a very few
that have not. And a handsome young man trying to catch the eye of
a pretty young lady, I am glad to say, is still one of them. Now, I
suggest that while I go scare up Mr. Fairey, you drop your
handkerchief or use some other such feminine wile, which, I
suspect, is all your young man is waiting for."

"Drop my handkerchief?" she said in
disbelief.

But Mr. Spotts didn't respond. He was already
gone.

Kenzie searched in vain for his tall figure
among the crowd, and was startled when a stranger's voice said,
"Hullo!"

Looking around, she almost choked. Dear God,
him! The splendid, beautiful hunk with the whitish-blond hair!

She stood there staring, legs trembling,
aware of his great shining greenish-blue eyes. Yes, large and
wonderful eyes, like warm, sun-dappled swimming pools in August,
the kind you wanted to drown in forever.

And, from close up, she realized something
else. He was a man gifted with more than mere masculine beauty; he
was, without doubt, the most beautiful man she had ever laid eyes
upon.

She lost all concept of time, and had no idea
how long they stood there staring at one another. Suddenly she felt
like an adolescent again. All arms and legs and no tongue.

He took the initiative, gave her the subtlest
of bows with his head. "Since we have not been introduced, allow me
to do the honors. My name is Hannes Hockert, but my friends call me
Hans. You know ..." His smile was devastating. "... as in Hans
Christian Andersen?"

She shook his hand, finding it strong and
hard, but with a surprisingly gentle touch. Much like his voice,
which was quiet and gentle, yet had a resonant, distinctly
masculine timbre.

"MacKenzie Turner," she managed in a daze,
her throat so constricted she had to clear it. "My friends either
call me Kenzie or Kenz."

"Kenzie ... Kenzie ..." he repeated to
himself, as though tasting her name on his palate. "Mmm. Rather
unusual, but somehow it seems to suit you. Yes. Ah." He indicated
her glass. "I see you have finished your champagne."

Champagne ... ?
She looked at him
blankly.

Deftly he plucked the empty glass from
between her willing fingers, threw back his head, gulped down the
contents of his own, and then held it up and grinned
disarmingly.

"If you'll notice," he said, winking as
irresistibly as he smiled, "it just so happens that I could use a
refill, also. I shall return momentarily." He paused. "You won't
play Cinderella and disappear on me, I hope?"

Me? Disappear!
Kenzie thought, giving
a start.
Good God, why should I want to do that?

"No," she whispered, her eyes dreamily
following him as he moved fluidly away with the lean, unconscious
grace of a dancer, or some sensuously sleek jungle cat, until he
was swallowed up in the crowd.

Only then, once she could no longer see him,
did she wonder how she had ever attracted the attention of such a
splendidly gorgeous specimen of a man, and without even trying!

Oh my, she thought. Hannes Hockert, a.k.a.
Hans, was right up her alley and exactly her type. Strikingly
handsome. Compellingly masculine. And chivalrous to a fault.

She had to smile. It didn't take much stretch
of the imagination to fancy him as some throwback to Leif
Eriksson—a proud sea-roving warrior standing at the bow of a
marauding, double-prowed Viking longboat, the silk of his
white-blond hair whipped by the wind ...

Mmm, she thought with the secretive delight
of a miser hoarding his treasure, no doubt about it. Hannes truly
was her beau ideal—and as far as her own taste went, no one else
could come a close second. No one on God's earth.

Lex Bugg hopped, skipped, and jumped—a frog
on speed.

At first, Zandra was amused by his frenetic
energy as he charged from one circle of acquaintances to the next.
Barely able to keep up with him, she shook countless hands,
dutifully smiled and laughed, and did her best to put names to
faces.

A futile exercise.

Lex introduced her to too many people in too
rapid a succession for anyone to make an impact. Everything was a
blur.

"Is there anyone you don't know?" she quipped
good-naturedly.

"Only those who
don't
count," he
responded in total seriousness, his head slowly swiveling as he
scanned the sea of faces for any important new arrivals.

It was then, at that precise moment, that
Zandra realized to what extent he was using her. Not surprisingly,
her initial amusement turned to outrage. It was one thing to be
introduced to people, but it was another to be toted around like
some prize trophy, having her name and title dropped for no other
reason than his trying to impress people.

Well, that was where she drew the line.

Spying a world-famous photographer, Lex took
her by the arm. "C'mon," he said excitedly, "there's Francesco
Scavullo!" He started to make a beeline, but Zandra refused to
budge. She was fed up and royally pissed.

"Hey, c'mon!" he urged. "What's keeping
you?"

Turning on him in a blaze of hair, teeth, and
eyes, she snapped, "Goddammit, Lex! You really are a first-class
shit! You know that?"

He looked taken aback. "Is something wrong?"
he asked, genuinely perplexed.

"Is something wrong!" she echoed, dripping
contempt. "I'll tell you what's wrong! For your information, I take
exception to the brazen way you're using me as a carrot! I'm not
just some kind of social bait you can dangle in front of whomever
you please! You're using me."

He pretended shocked innocence. "Moi?"

"Yes, vous." Anger blazed from her eyes.

His brow furrowed at her sudden
transformation. Like he needed this scene! Who'd have thought she'd
turn into a complete minus?

"Is that how you really feel?" he asked,
trying to keep his cool.

"That's exactly the way I feel!" Her voice
was husky, quiet but strong, and something about her face reminded
him of tempered steel.

He took a deep breath, inflated his cheeks,
then slowly exhaled, deciding to placate her and avert a public
spectacle for now.

He said, "Okay, okay. You've got every right
to be angry with me, all right?"

Her eyes narrowed appraisingly, her fingers
blurring as she tapped the elbows of her crossed arms. Hardly
naive, she briefly contemplated his spiel.

He had all the right answers.

And showed the appropriate remorse.

Why, then, couldn't she shake the suspicion
that he was only humoring her? Or that his sincerity went about as
deep as the laminate on his porcelain teeth?

Correctly reading her skepticism, Lex decided
it behooved him to turn up the charm. "You're right," he said
earnestly, holding her gaze. "I've been selfish and owe you an
apology. What do you say we kiss and make up?"

Zandra, doubts unvanquished, let her silence
speak for itself.

Stuck-up bitch, Lex wanted to say, but curbed
the impulse. Instead, he gave her his most appealing
little-lost-boy expression.