Too Damn Rich (22 page)

"But ...
why?
"

"Because I am a romantic and have yet to find
the right woman. Or at least, one I would care to spend the rest of
my life with."

"
Voyez-vous
," Becky explained for
Dina's benefit, "wife-hunting is not as simple for Heinzie as it is
for most men. Besides producing a male heir before the death of his
father,
le vieil Prince
, Heinzie's wife must, like he
himself, be a direct descendant of the Holy Roman Emperors."

"And you should see what most of those
descendants look like!" Karl-Heinz gave a theatrical shiver. "With
the exception of Zandra here, they all have any number of ghastly,
but highly prized royal or serene deformities. You know ... the
most horrid bulbous noses, or no chins to speak of, or jaws full of
crooked tusks ..."

At the mention of Zandra's name, a
calculating glint had come into Dina's eyes. "You mean ..." she
asked slowly, furrowing her brow, "...
Zandra
would be
considered appropriate?"

"She is a distant cousin, but yes."
Karl-Heinz nodded. "Zandra would be highly appropriate. In fact, if
I wish to inherit, it is impossible for me not to marry a relative.
The Hapsburgs . . . the Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen ... the Borbon dos
Sicilias ... however distantly, somewhere along the line, everyone
appropriate is related to everyone else ..."

Dina tuned out, her mind a million light
years away.

She knew precisely what needed to be done,
and exactly how to go about it. Best of all, it would kill two
birds with one stone: provide Zandra a marriage of discriminating
quality and incalculable wealth, and, the old prince's health and
Zandra's womb permitting, ensure Karl-Heinz his imperiled
inheritance.

What could be more perfect, or obvious?

It's a wonder Karl-Heinz and Zandra haven't
thought of it yet. Clearly, they're meant for one another. They
make the perfect couple. Anyone with half a brain can see that just
by looking at them. Besides, what are best friends for, if not to
help steer two emotionally repressed souls toward a match made in
heaven—not to mention on earth?

Dina smiled to herself.
What indeed
...

Kenzie couldn't remember a time she'd enjoyed
herself more. It wasn't just Hannes's presence and the sexual heat
he generated. Nor was it entirely due to her delightful encounter
with Zandra who, she now saw, was seated beside none other than
their host at his table.

No. What beguiled her was no single person or
thing in and of itself, but the whole dreamlike fantasy, the entire
tapestry of this fairy-tale event.

As the appetizer plates were whisked away,
Mr. Spotts cleared his warbly throat. "Kenzie, my dear?"

Eyes alight, Kenzie turned to him, the smoked
oysters in lemon-cream sauce still lingering symphonically on her
palate. "Yes, Mr. Spotts, I mean, Dietrich—?" Her hands fluttered
self-consciously. "Sorry. I'm still not used to our being on a
first-name basis."

"That's quite all right, my dear," he said,
taking a fortifying breath. "There is something ... well, rather
unpleasant... which I feel I must get off my chest."

Kenzie's brow furrowed. "What's wrong?"

"Everything," he sighed, "absolutely
everything." Nodding abstractedly, he looked down at the
tablecloth, and with a long gnarled finger traced the circular
impression left by the appetizer plate. "I do wish I could spare
you this, my dear." He raised sorrowful eyes to hers. "Especially
tonight."

"Don't worry. If it's bad news, you might as
well get it over and done with."

He nodded. "But I'd like you to know that I
had no idea these machinations were taking place behind my back. In
fact, I only learned of them myself while you were in the powder
room."

"Y-yes ... ?" The furrows in Kenzie's brow
deepened.

"It concerns your promotion. I'm terribly
sorry, Kenzie. I'm afraid ... well, according to Mr. Fairey, it's
... it's not in the bag after all." His pink-rimmed eyelids blinked
rapidly. "Can you believe it? My recommendation was tossed aside.
Just like that!" His quivering voice rose an octave in outrage.

"It's all right," Kenzie said quietly.

"No, it is not all right!" Mr. Spotts
whispered intensely. Trembling with barely contained indignation,
he drew himself up. "You are the most qualified person to head the
department! You, also, are my chosen successor. And now ... well,
everything I've worked for ... everything I've striven to build
up—"

Suddenly his voice cracked, and his fingers
clutched the edge of the table as though to keep himself from being
swept off into the farthest reaches of outer space.

Kenzie placed a hand over his. "You needn't
worry," she said softly. "Arnold and I will still be there. We'll
keep things on track."

He shook his head. "You don't understand.
It's not just your being passed over that's so abhorrent. That too,
but ... well, worse still is the new head of the department."

"Who's it going to be? Do you know?"

He exhaled heavily. "Yes," he said tightly.
"And we can thank Mr. Robert A. Goldsmith for that choice!"

At the mention of his name, Kenzie's eyes
strayed across the room to where Burghley's new owner was seated at
the prince's table. She caught sight of Zandra and Dina touching
glasses in a toast. Slowly she drew her gaze back in.

"Well?" she asked again. "Who is it?"

It was all he could do not to choke on the
name. "Bambi Parker," he whispered hoarsely.

It went like a stab through her heart.

Bambi? In charge?

Sick with shock, Kenzie sat there in
bewilderment, disbelief robbing her facial planes of vitality, her
chin of its strength. In her stomach, oysters and champagne roiled
violently.

I've been cheated.

The realization detonated like mental sticks
of dynamite.

Bambi robbed me of my promotion.

Mr. Spotts inspected his fingernails. "At any
rate, I no longer hold you to your earlier promise. Saving the
department from Ms. Parker is too much to ask of anyone." He smiled
bleakly. "What I said about the gift coming with strings
attached—"

"It's not the Zuccaro I'm—"

"I know," he commiserated gently, "I
know."

Two waiters glided toward their table,
smoothly setting down plates of roast duck with brandied fruit
compote.

The rich aromas of fowl and liquor were too
much. Kenzie found herself engulfed in a sudden swirl of heat and
nausea.

Abruptly she pushed back her chair and
staggered to her feet. "I—I'm sorry," she gasped. "I'll be right
back. I—I've got to— to—"

Clapping a hand over her mouth, she stumbled
through the maze of tables, making it to the ladies' room just in
time. Lunging for the nearest sink, she bent over it and threw up
oysters, lemon sauce, and champagne.

After the worst of her wretching had
subsided, she raised her head to the mirror. Her face was drawn,
her complexion sallow. Loosening her grip from the counter, she
fumbled with the cold water tap, grabbed a handful of paper towels,
and soaked them. With her left hand, she pressed them to her
forehead; cupping her right, she scooped handfuls of water into her
mouth and rinsed, spat out, rinsed again.

Tears stung her eyes; from time to time,
great convulsing dry heaves continued to wrack her body.

Passed over in lieu of Bambi Parker!

The injustice churned sickeningly.

How in God's name can I endure working under
that bimbo?

How many times have I had to rectify her
asinine mistakes?

She thought: So this is what it tastes like,
the bitter cup of defeat!

It had begun to drizzle as Bambi Parker and
Garth Wheeler Stewart II hurried up the carpeted steps to the Met.
Garth, the blandly handsome young heir to a multimillion-dollar
toilet paper fortune, carried an outsized umbrella which sheltered
them both.

"It would have been nice if you'd rated an
invitation for the dinner," Bambi reproached in her breathy little
girl's voice, "instead of just the dance. If you ask me, I think
it's insulting."

"If it bothers you, we can go on," Garth
said. "There are at least four other parties tonight that I know
of. Bet this place is full of geriatric cases anyway."

"No," Bambi said quickly. "We've come this
far, we might as well stay for one little drinkipoo. Besides, this
is supposed to be a real bash, and I want to see for myself what
the hullabaloo's all about."

Wisely, she neglected to mention her real
intention for coming— expressly, to see whether or not Robert A.
Goldsmith was here, and if so, to "accidentally" bump into him and
make certain he'd pulled the necessary strings for her
promotion.

Once inside the museum, Garth handed over his
invitation and went to check their coats and umbrella. Bambi
smoothed her revealing, beaded blue minidress trimmed with blue
ostrich feathers at the hem and got out her compact. A swift
inspection assured her that her face was perfect. She looked young
and bright and au courant.

Just the way Robert liked.

In the Temple of Dendur, the Peter Duchin
Orchestra segued smoothly from "Fascination" into "Moon River."

On the dance floor, the couples slowed their
pace accordingly. Above their heads, the minor Egyptian temple, a
gift to the United States for saving Abu Simbel from the Aswan Dam,
glowed as though the sandstone was washed by mysterious moonlight.
Outside, Central Park was dark, and the towering gridwork wall of
rain-streaked slanted glass reflected, like a tilted mirror, the
glitter from the floating, flickering candles and lotus blossoms in
the temple's reflecting pool.

"Isn't this romantic?" Dina sighed as Lord
Rosenkrantz, despite his size, proved himself an exceptionally
adept dancer. "I had no idea you danced so well!"

His chest swelled with pride. "That comes
from being paired with such a beautiful young lady," he said
staunchly, lifting her hand and kissing the tips of her
fingers.

Dina positively preened. She was floating on
cloud nine and wished this party would never have to end. "Isn't
this music divine?" she crooned. "Really, I do believe I could
dance all night. Tell me, Lord Rosenkrantz. Does every dance
partner of yours feel as if she's wearing the Red Shoes?"

"Alas, madam, never one as beautiful as you.
Ah, isn't that your husband?"

"Where?"

"Over ... there." He turned Dina around in a
slow, fluidly sweeping 180-degree turn.

Over Lord Rosenkrantz's shoulder, she caught
sight of Robert scowling at her from the sidelines, unlit cigar
clenched between his teeth.

Serves him right, she thought happily,
pretending not to see him. "Please, Lord Rosenkrantz," she
whispered, "you must hold me closer! I don't know why, but I'm
suddenly possessed of the most fiendish urge to make my husband
jealous! He doesn't appreciate me all he should, you know. I think
it's time he's taught a little lesson."

Lord Rosenkrantz obliged by pressing her more
tightly against him. "Is this better?"

"Oh, yes!" Dina smiled. "This is
purrrrr-fect!"

And she thought: Maybe this will teach Robert
to dance with me!

At the edge of the dance floor, Robert A.
Goldsmith nearly bit his cigar in two.

What in damnation's come over that fool
woman? he growled to himself. Does she have to make such a public
spectacle of herself?

Chewing on the Havana like a riled-up pit
bull, he surveyed the immediate area to see if anyone else noticed
the way his wife and Lord What's-His-Name were carrying on.

Naturally, no one paid them the least bit of
attention.

Goddamn bunch of hypocrites!

From behind, he suddenly felt a firm tap on
his shoulder.

He turned around, coming face-to-face with
the last person he expected to see—Bambi Parker. His immediate
reaction was to flash a quick guilty look in his wife's
direction.

Christ, he thought. What the hell's Bambi
doing here?

"C'mon, Garth, give me some space, will ya?"
Bambi told her date. "I won't be but a few minutes."

She shooed Garth off with peremptory flicks
of a wrist. Then, taking both of Robert's hands in hers, she gave
him the full impact of her fluttering baby blues.

"Robert," she breathed in that teensy-weensy
voice, "why don't we go dance, huh? That way, we can talk without
arousing any suspicion."

Like hell we won't! he thought, his eyes
darting furtively toward Dina.

Fortunately, she and Lord Rosenkrantz had
disappeared from sight, swallowed up by the sea of dancing
couples.

Bambi tugged on his hand. "Robert!" She
sounded exasperated and accusing, and he half-expected to see her
stamp her foot petulantly.

"Okay, okay," he muttered grouchily. "One
dance."

He tossed his cigar in the reflecting pool
and Bambi let go of his hand, leading the way out onto the dance
floor. Once there, she stopped and looked back at him.

Robert hesitated for all of three seconds.
Oh, what the hell, he thought, throwing caution to the winds.
Quickly he followed her. What harm can one dance do?

This gorgeous hunk certainly has all the
right moves, Kenzie thought pleasurably as Hannes danced her
fluidly along the edge of the pool, his searching fingers moving
slowly down along her back. After a half hour in the ladies' room,
she had decided to march back in and have a good time. The hell
with Bambi Parker.

"Mmmm," she murmured dreamily. She had her
eyes closed, her cheek resting against his warm broad chest, and
her arms looped loosely around his neck. "I love these slow dances
..."

"So do I," he said softly and cupped her
buttocks, pressing her pelvis tightly to his.