Too Damn Rich (25 page)

Kenzie, aware of his gaze, saw a whippet-thin
guy who smoked from a cupped hand while simultaneously chewing on a
wad of gum and a toothpick. Caught him flashing her a knowing grin
and a wink, both of which she ignored.

She turned to Hannes as he caught up with
her. He was laughing and lifted her easily off her feet and gently
twirled her around and around in a circle.

"Why do I feel as though I'm fifteen again?"
he asked once he set her back down.

"Because you are." Her voice was a whisper
amid the crashing of the rain. She reached up and touched his cheek
tenderly with her fingertips. "Because tonight we both are."

He looked at her. A streetlamp threw its
harsh glare around them, but she had her back to it. Her face was
in shadows. Only her eyes shone with a peculiar light all their
own. Despite the cold lashing of the rain he could feel the fires
within her reach out toward him.

Then she lowered her hand and turned away.
Abruptly the spell was broken. She gestured in front of her.

He stood beside her; then followed her
sweeping hand as it encompassed all of limousine row.

"Am I correct in assuming that none of these
vehicles is yours?"

He could detect a note of humor in her voice
and smiled. "You are, so it's good you like the rain. Come. Let's
find a taxi."

He took her by the hand and pulled her in
single-file between the white superstretch and a midnight-blue Town
Car.

Dina's chauffeur made himself thinner so they
could squeeze past. Recognizing pocket change when he saw it, he
quickly drew on his cigarette and flipped it into the gutter.

"Yo!" he called. Kenzie and Hannes stopped
and turned around.

He sidled over and included them under his
umbrella. It muted the roar of the downpour to a steady, muffled
drumbeat. "I take it you folks're lookin' for a cab?"

Hannes nodded. "Yes."

The driver's toothpick waggled. His face was
expressionless as he squinted slowly over at Fifth Avenue to gauge
the downtown traffic. He looked back at Hannes. "Fifth's usually
crawlin' with so many cabs, you stick your arm out, a whole fleet
of 'em'll aim right at you like a school o' hungry sharks. But
that's when it's nice out. Right now, Fifth looks like it's filled
with nothin' but off-duties and occupieds, but what can you expect
in this kinda weather? 'Fraid you'll have a tough time findin' one
tonight."

"He's right, you know," Kenzie murmured from
long experience.

The driver waggled his toothpick some more.
"Where you folks headed?"

"First Avenue and Thirty-seventh," Hannes
answered.

The man nodded. "Tell you what. My boss won't
be ready to leave for a while yet. Fifteen bucks'll get you home in
style."

Hannes didn't hesitate. Reaching for his
wallet, he forked over a twenty. "Keep the change," he said.

"Hey, mister, you're all right! Thanks!"

The driver palmed the bill as deftly as a
seasoned maitre d'. He popped open the rear door and held it.

"Hop on in, folks," he invited. "Enjoy the
ride."

Kenzie crawled in first, sinking into a deep,
L-shaped leather banquette. A moment later, Hannes plopped himself
down beside her.

"Nice, huh?" she said, glancing around the
interior.

It was decorated like a yacht. All buttery
leather and burled elm, with gold accents, mood lighting, and dual
everything—TVs, VCRs, cellular phones, faxes.

Kenzie stretched her legs straight out in
front of her. "Can you believe this? There's enough legroom to do
sit-ups!" Sighing blissfully, she crossed her arms behind her head.
"Ah, for the lifestyle of the rich and famous!" she murmured. "A
girl could get used to this. Yes, indeed ..."

The partition separating passengers from
driver slid soundlessly down.

"You'll find a built-in bar between the TVs,"
the chauffeur called out. He was backing the big car slowly out of
its berth and expertly swinging it around in a tight reverse turn.
"There's booze, ice, the works. Help yourselves. Drinks're on the
house."

The partition slid back up.

Hannes looked at Kenzie. "Would you care for
something?"

She hesitated, then shook her head. "I'd
better not. I already drank more than my limit."

Hannes decided to check out the bar anyway.
Sure enough, the cabinet was custom fitted with padded, molded
slots containing cut-crystal glasses and matching decanters topped
with silver pouring spouts. A compartment below it held a
mini-refrigerator and a freezer filled with cubed ice.

Kenzie watched as he fixed himself a Scotch
rocks.

"Oh, hell's bells!" she declared, deciding
there was nothing to be gained from abstinence. "I'll have a vodka
and tonic—but I suggest you go real light on the booze. One drink
too many, and everything starts spinning." With a sly little smile,
she added, "The last thing I want is to spend the night with my
arms wrapped around a toilet."

He laughed. "Yes, I'd much rather they were
wrapped around me—so I think you'd best prepare yourself for the
weakest drink in the world."

She watched as he tonged ice cubes into a
glass, added a splash of vodka, a precut sliver of lime, and a
heavy dose of Schweppes. Finally he gave the drink a brisk stir
with a glass swizzle stick.

"For you."

He proffered the Baccarat highball with both
hands, like a priestly offering.

She accepted it in the same solemn,
ritualistic manner, holding it in both hands, and took a tentative
sip, all the while looking at him over the rim with wide amber
eyes.

"Yummy," she murmured, giving a deep,
pleasurable sigh. "Sheer perfection."

Slowly she ran the moist pink tip of her
tongue across her upper lip, her face taking on an unmistakably
playful cast.

"Tell me, Hans. Are you as good at everything
as you are at mixing drinks?"

He stared intently at her. "What do you
think?"

She looked thoughtful and took another sip of
her drink and swallowed, all the while holding his gaze.

"I think I'll have to reserve judgment until
after the experience."

"A consummation devoutly seeking to be
fulfilled," he murmured, scooting closer against her and making
soft caresses.

Even as the limousine pulled out onto Fifth
Avenue, merging smoothly with the swift downtown traffic as though
with a school of vermillion-tailed fish, Kenzie and Hannes were
already at it, letting their hands and lips do the talking as
hidden stereo speakers emitted soft, early Streisand—just what the
doctor ordered to enhance the strong sexual chemistry crackling in
the air.

Their departure had not gone unnoticed.

Behind the unmarked police car's arthritic,
ineffectual wipers, Charley Ferraro sat rigidly erect, clammy,
shivering hands gripping the steering wheel with such ferocity that
his knuckles shone white. He felt wounded, stung, betrayed. Like
the child who'd been warned about never hearing good things said
behind its back, but who'd gone ahead and eavesdropped anyway.

He supposed the same went for spying on
people.

Only it hadn't been his intention to spy upon
Kenzie. The sole reason he'd come and suffered more than a half
hour of the stifling, humid confines of this car had been to offer
her a lift home, prove he bore no grudge for having been
eighty-sixed from her apartment earlier in the evening.

He laughed mirthlessly, a harsh, grating rasp
like that of sandpaper on iron.

And how had the Good Samaritan been rewarded?
Why, by getting to witness her departure—her umbrella-less dash
down the steps while pursued by—well, whoever the guy was! And
watching him twirling her around in the rain—the two of them acting
like lovers in a god

damn Broadway musical!—before climbing into
the back of that garish white superstretch.

His chest felt tight, ready to explode.

"Shit!" He clenched his right hand in a fist
and slammed it down on the steering wheel. Too late, he wished he'd
stayed the hell home. He sure could have saved himself a ton of
heartache if he had.

But the fact of the matter was, he hadn't
stayed home! Like an idiot, he'd had to come and try to patch
things up.

Despite himself, Charley leaned in close to
the fogged windshield and wiped a spot clear with his cuff. He
stared, as though narcotized, through the streaks and runnels left
by the wipers as the limousine, emitting a burst of warning beeps
and red taillight flashes, backed out of its slot. He watched as
all but the tip of its low-slung hood swerved slowly out of sight.
Then the alarm and flashes ceased.

A moment later, the big car rolled
majestically forward, the driver having to cramp the wheel hard to
the left before reversing again in another tight arc, the automatic
son-et-lumiere shrilling and flashing.

Finally the noise and flashes abated.

The limo, now undocked, came gliding forward;
approached head-on.

Charley threw up an arm to shield his eyes
against multiple headlamps. For an instant, the wide grille seemed
to line him up in its sights, like some deadly, interstellar
gunship assessing whether or not to beam him to oblivion.

Then, as though scorning his vehicle as
beneath contempt, the hood turned disdainfully to the left and the
blinding wash of headlights swung away, followed by the long white
one hundred thirteen-inch ghost of a body, the whole skimming
serenely across wet pavement like an enormous cruise ship: haughty,
insolent, scornful.

Charley let his arm drop.

"Let the bad times roll," he muttered, and
turned the ignition. He waited until the limo had a twenty-yard
head start. Then he tailed it—a piece of cake.

On Seventy-second, it hung a left and
continued on east until Second Avenue, where it did a slow, tight
right before accelerating and racing downtown. At Thirty-fourth, it
slowed again, swung another left, then yet another, and for three
blocks cruised sedately up First Avenue in the left lane.

Between Thirty-seventh and Thirty-eighth
streets, it pulled over in front of a monstrosity of a high
rise.

Charley cut the ignition, killed the
headlights, and let the battered old maroon Plymouth coast to a
halt. Steeling himself for the inevitable, his grip on the wheel
tightened.

Everything before him seemed to unfold in
exaggerated slow motion: the chauffeur's door creeping open; the
building's doorman, gradually

mushrooming umbrella in hand, forsaking the
bright dry comfort of the lobby and heading sluggishly, as if
struggling through invisible molasses, to the dripping end of the
awning; the slow-gaited chauffeur reaching for the rear
doorhandle—

Charley moaned aloud, realizing, belatedly,
that he hadn't steeled himself for the inevitable. Hadn't watching
their departure from the Met been trauma enough?

Once they were inside, Charley drew in his
breath as he watched them, hands held, hurriedly crossing the
gleaming marble on their way to the elevators—

—like lovers unable to wait to get
upstairs!

Suddenly the scene sped up. Ferocious storms,
full of sound and fury, shrieked and raged within him.

They're behaving like goddamn newlyweds!

Then, mercifully, they finally disappeared
from view.

Charley drew an anguished breath and slumped
back in his seat. At least now that he no longer had to see those
two lovebirds, the sharpest jolts of pain subsided, became a
constant, dull, but almost tolerable ache.

He knew there was nothing to be gained by
waiting around. He'd seen plenty. Pulling himself together, he
fired the ignition, threw the car in gear, and savagely floored the
accelerator—taking off like a squealing, rubber-burning rocket.

He knew what he would do. Head uptown and
wait in front of her place. He'd confront Kenzie there.

Becky V's departure created as much of a
sensation as her arrival. This was entirely due to her pathological
obsession for privacy. She never overexposed herself, and thus kept
the hungry multitudes—even the highest and the mightiest—yearning
to see more.

A case in point: this party.

Except for the scant minutes she'd spent
circulating with Karl-Heinz during cocktails, smile frozen in
place, and then the dinner itself, during which she'd erected
invisible walls around Karl-Heinz's table, she'd honored her host
with the first dance and thereafter had immediately sequestered
herself in the seclusion of the Patrons' Lounge on the top floor of
the Wallace Wing.

There, in one of the plush, Regency-furnished
sitting rooms, she had held court for the duration of the evening,
but only to a handful of highly select close friends.

Now, at eleven o'clock, she was ready to
return to the Olympian heights of her penthouse across Fifth
Avenue. Lord Rosenkrantz, summoned from downstairs, jumped to with
alacrity and took the elevator straight up.

Five minutes later, flanked by Becky's
ever-vigilant Secret Service de

tail, they made a single circumference of the
Temple of Dendur where, without breaking her regal pace, Becky
nevertheless slowed to bid good night to certain friends and
acquaintances.

Dina was overcome to find herself singled out
for one of these queenly farewells.

"It was a pleasure to meet you," Becky told
her.

"Oh, no, the pleasure was all mine!" returned
Dina with star- struck effusiveness.

Becky smiled her enigmatic smile and, as she
moved on, suddenly remembered that Robert A. Goldsmith had just
purchased the controlling interest in Burghley's, and since she
herself sat on the advisory board of the parent company, Burghley's
Holdings, Inc., future interaction with the Goldsmiths would be
inevitable.

Moreover, Rebecca Cornille Wakefield
Lantzouni de la Vila was nothing if not practical. Sole mistress of
an empire worth in excess of six and a half billion dollars—an
otherwise daunting responsibility which, thanks to Lord
Rosenkrantz, who was to high finance what Picasso was to art,
virtually ran itself—she could devote her entire energies to
cultivating the world's very, very rich and truly famous for one
express purpose: to pick their pockets for the scores of charitable
causes she championed.