Too Damn Rich (37 page)

She knew she ought to pick up her things now
. . . fluff the sofa cushions ... do what had to be done to
straighten the room up.

She yawned blearily. Bah! What was the rush?
Zandra wouldn't be home until—when? A couple of hours from now?
There would be plenty of time to clean up ... oodles and oodles of
it. And curling up on the sofa, she tucked a cushion under her
head, and practically purred. Ah, this felt sooooo nice ...

Her eyelids drifted shut.

Sweet dreams soon followed.

Such sweet dreams that she slept until Zandra
returned.

Then she awoke with a start.

There was Zandra. Playbill in hand. Gazing
about the living room floor with a mixture of curiosity and
amusement.

"Whaa-!" Kenzie, momentarily disoriented, sat
up suddenly. Realized she was buff naked. Grabbed the cushion and
hugged it against her.

"Ssssh!" Zandra put a finger to slyly smiling
lips. "Go back to sleep!" she stage-whispered, making a production
of tiptoeing past. "I won't natter." And with a knowing wink, she
sang, "Mum's the word!"

"It isn't what you think!" Kenzie growled,
knowing full well that it was.

Zandra pointedly detoured around the ripped
sweats. She did not speak. But then, she didn't have to. The
evidence spoke for itself, as did her raised eyebrows.

Kenzie slumped. "Oh, God," she groaned. "I'll
never live this down!"

"Never say never," Zandra advised. "But,
darling, you mustn't fret! Honestly, it's not as though you're
underage. Gosh. I mean, long as it was good—it was, wasn't it? No,
don't tell me ... right to privacy and all. 'Never complain, never
explain.' That's the creed. So you see, darling? You don't have to
explain a thing"—Zandra couldn't quite help herself— "though
personally, I think it's awfully sweet. I mean, you and Charley
actually kissing and making up." She gave a great sigh. "God, how
marvelously romantic!"

"Arrrgh!" Kenzie gnashed her teeth, flopped
back down, and covered her face with the cushion.

Zandra feigned a yawn. "Darling, the sandman
calls. Isn't it simply awful, shows always putting me to sleep?"
She drifted past, headed for her own room. "Want me to switch off
the lights?"

Kenzie was silent.

Zandra interpreted that to mean yes. "Well,
night-night!" she chirped, hitting the lights.

The living room was plunged into
darkness.

"Shit!" Kenzie whispered vehemently. And
curling up in the fetal position, she promptly fell back
asleep.

Late the following morning, at Park Avenue
and Fifty-ninth Street, the smell of money was heady on the second
floor of Christie's.

On this particular exhibition day, less than
twenty-four hours before the scheduled auction of Faberge, Russian
Works of Art, Objects of Vertu, and English, Continental, and
American Silver and Gold, the scent of wealth seeped from the
silver-gilt and enamel tea sets, and emanated from the voluptuously
gilded pairs of eighteenth-century royal doors, one of which
depicted a full-length St. John Chrysostom, and the other, St.
Basil. It wafted, like elusive perfume, from the sets of
hand-painted Imperial Factory porcelains, and rose, like a
provocative whiff, from the glass showcases containing intricate
Caucasian daggers and centuries-old snuff boxes.

Among objects of this quality, one was
compelled to whisper—even a connoisseur as discerning as Becky V.
Despite the decades she'd spent roaming the world's finest auction
galleries, private collections, and museums, she never failed to
thrill to the wonder of treasures whose provenances read like a
distillation of Burke's Peerage, Debrett's, the Almanack de Gotha,
blue-book society, and Who's Who—mere things which by virtue of
certain temporary custodianships, had been imbued with historical
or social significance and, in a very few, very special cases,
truly magical auras.

For what could compare to a silver goblet
from which Marie Antoinette had once sipped?

Or an enameled egg touched by a doomed
czarina?

Becky slowed in front of a glass display
case. Prince Karl-Heinz, who only the previous day had returned
from Germany, was following her around, coinhabiting her bubble of
insular remoteness while contemplating samovars, Augsburg silver,
and gold demitasse cups. From a discreet distance, Becky's Secret
Service detail hard-eyed everyone else in sight.

"So ...
le vieil Prince?
" Becky
whispered in her mellow, whiskey- toned voice. She had temporarily
lowered her guard and raised her mask: her ubiquitous, huge dark
glasses rested atop her sable-haired head. "Your father's condition
is at least stable?"

"For the time being," Karl-Heinz replied in
an equally soft voice, "yes. But it was a very close call." With a
wry smile, he added: "I suspect my sister, Sofia, was devastated
when he pulled through."

"
Naturellement!
" Becky slid him a
significant sidelong look. "Think of the billions she and that
husband of hers ... what is his name—
je oublier
—Egbert? ...
would have held in trust for their eldest son!"

Karl-Heinz smiled. "Not Egbert. Erwein."

"Erwein!" She pronounced the two short
syllables as if with a surprised little cry. "Now why did I think
his name was Egbert?
Comment se fait-il que?
"

"Perhaps because it suits him?" he
suggested.

"
Oui
. It does." She smiled, without
humor. "I met him once or twice
, le malheureux
. Dreary,
dreary little man!"

"Worse than you can imagine," Karl-Heinz
agreed. "And he's so boring, which is perhaps the gravest sin of
all."

Becky stopped to study an exuberantly carved,
eighteenth-century silver wine cooler. Then, frowning slightly, she
shook her head and slowly moved on.

She was wearing a short-skirted Chanel suit
in sapphire blue with emerald trim, a perfect foil for her
Nefertiti-like profile, and size-four body. Her earrings, bracelet,
and necklace matched the trim on her suit. They were emeralds:
carved antiques with cameo faces.

"And you?" Karl-Heinz inquired politely,
walking in the Germanic fashion with his hands clasped behind his
back. "You are well?"

"You should know that life always agrees with
me. Hmmmmm ... "

Becky stopped at a table, where she
covetously eyed an exceptionally splendid, two-foot-tall silver and
enamel tabernacle. It was shaped like a Russian church, and had one
central turquoise onion dome surrounded by four smaller, turreted
ones at the corners. On three of its four sides was a hinged door
with an embossed, chased figure of Christ.

Peering at the lot number, she leafed through
her catalogue.

"Fine silver and enamel Darokhranilnitza,
Nicolai Tarabrov, Moscow, circa 1910," she read aloud. She glanced
at Karl-Heinz for his opinion.

He was smiling. "Here at Christie's, it's a
'
darokhranilnitza
.' Anywhere else, it's a mere
tabernacle."

"
Finaud
." Smart-aleck. Becky pinched
his arm affectionately. "With your twelve billion, you can afford
to lack
snobisme. C'est vrai?
"

So talking, she circled around the table,
bending down to study the tabernacle closely from all sides. She
fiddled with one of the tiny doorpulls, opened it, and peered
inside. Then she closed it just as carefully and stood up
straight.

"
Alors
," she decided. "I am going to
bid on it.
Qu'en pensez-tu?
"

"It is very beautiful," he agreed. "A
masterpiece in miniature."

"
Oui
. One thing about
Les
Russes
. They always were so very good at these kinds of
things." She frowned slightly at the catalogue. "The estimate says
six to eight thousand. I believe that's on the low side." She
glanced at him. "Hmmmmm ... ?"

"Definitely." He nodded.

She slid an arm through his and led him to a
wall of icons.

"Now then," she said, pulling him into the
privacy of a corner. "While we're on the subject of money ..." She
let go of him and suddenly whirled around. "Heinzie! We must talk
finances!"

"Oh? Are you short? How much do you
need?"

"
Finaud
!" Her whisper was like a
whiplash. "This is no laughing matter!"

"Why, Becky." He looked both surprised and
amused. "You sound so serious."

"That's because I am serious." She sighed,
placed her gloved hand on his chest, and for a moment lowered her
head, as if to contemplate her gracefully poised fingers. Then,
gathering her thoughts, she stared back up at him. "Heinzie, for
your own good, listen to me! Please!"

He was silent.

Her voice was hushed. "I beseech you. Once
and for all—get married!"

He laughed almost silently. "So this is why
you were so anxious to see me today?" It was more a statement than
a question.

"
Oui
," she admitted. "It is time you
secured your inheritance." She took hold of his lapels. "And before
it is too late!"

Nearby, two celebrity watchers were huddled
in whispered conversation, obviously undecided about whether or not
to approach Becky, while her Secret Service detail, always ten
steps ahead, already prepared an intercept.

"You know I'm right, Heinzie!" she
whispered.

She let go of his lapels and instinctively
smoothed them. The celebrity-watchers hurried forward, and were
expertly rebuffed.

Not that Becky or Karl-Heinz noticed. Unaware
of anything happening outside their insular bubble, they were
holding each other's gaze.

"You cannot put it off any longer!" she
warned. "
Dieu sait!
Hasn't this close call with your father
been lesson enough?
Mon ange
, be sensible."

Karl-Heinz sighed. He rubbed his forehead and
turned toward the wall.

Faces and eyes of stylized icons, like mute
witnesses, stared at him from within the intricate armor of their
silvered
okhlads
. The Virgin of Vladimir holding her child;
St. Nicholas of Moshaisk; the Centurian Longinus. St. George with
his lance. And the archangels, St. Michael and St. Gabriel, swords
in hand. They seemed out of place in these

bright, modern surroundings: plundered
treasures from a strange and distant shore.

"Heinzie," Becky implored softly. "Why ...
why must you, of all people, be so disinterested in your fate?"

"Why?" He turned to her with a wry smile.
"Perhaps because I have you, my dear Becky, to worry about it."

"
Cela suffit!"
Her eyes flashed
angrily. "I won't have you uttering such nonsense. Non. The only
reason I worry is because I am genuinely fond of you."

"I know that," he said gently.

"I cannot bear to see you lose your
inheritance," she continued. "But you must face the facts, cheri.
One of these days, le vieil Prince will not pull through." She took
a deep breath. "And then what?"

Not for the first time, Karl-Heinz felt the
force of her will, was aware of the iron hand under the kidskin
glove.

"You know the answer to that as well as I
do," he replied softly.

"
Oui
," she sighed. "But it does not
have to happen that way. It cannot!
Mon Dieu!
Did you
multiply the family fortune only to relinquish it to your sister's
imbecile? And for what? Mere want of a male heir?"

He did not speak.

"Listen to me, Heinzie. You know what will
happen if that
imbecil
e takes over. The empire will lose
direction. Its momentum will slow. It will rot and crumble from
within!"

His gaze had not changed.

"Alors. You are your family's captain. So
please, Heinzie. For everyone's sake—especially your own—don't give
up the ship!"

He gave a bitter laugh. "You make it sound so
easy!"

"That's because it is easy!"

"Oh?" He raised one cynical eyebrow. "Keeping
a dying old man alive? Getting appropriately married? And siring a
male heir in time?"

"Oui."

"Becky, I am not God!"

She stared at him. "No one expects you to
be," she said, undeterred. "But did you build that empire into what
it is only to see it torn apart? Non. You love the businesses,
Heinzie. Admit it. They are your life's blood. As are your social
positions. The various Schdsser. The art collections. The power.
You love everything that comes with being head of the family,
except for settling down!"

"My one true duty?" he mocked. Again, the
raised eyebrow, this time accompanied by a sardonic little
smile.

"Dammit, Heinzie!" she breathed through
clenched teeth. "Must you be so stubborn? Marry, for God's sake!
Produce a male heir! Ensure that what is yours shall continue to be
yours!"

"Why is it," he sighed, "that I can sense my
carefree bachelorhood coming to an end?"

"Because it's time!" she said sharply. "You
have had a reprieve—now use it to your advantage!"

"And marry."

"
Oui
."

He turned away, as if to study the wall of
icons. After a moment's silence, he said, cynically: "Let me guess.
You have already picked out the appropriate bride?"

"Of course, cheri. And just think. She's been
right under our noses all this time!"

He shut his eyes. "Zandra," he said
painfully.

"Of course, Zandra!" she said, her eyebrows
drawing together. "Why not Zandra?"

Karl-Heinz opened his eyes and stared at the
icons a while longer. Then, putting his hands in his pant pockets,
he turned to her and said: "You don't understand. I have known her
since she was born."

"
Alors?"

"She still has her entire life ahead of her.
My God, Becky! Marriage to me, with all its responsibilities, could
destroy her!"