Too Damn Rich (45 page)

"Tasting." Looking solemnly at her, he
fastened his lips around one erect nipple.

She arched her spine and uttered a little
cry.

"According to the Kama Sutra, Kenzie, there
are many places one may kiss." Knees on either side of her, he
leaned forward, then slid down along her body, tenderly kissing
each spot as he named it.

"Forehead." Kiss. "Eyes." Kiss. "Cheeks."
Kiss. "Lips, throat, bosom, breasts."

Paralyzing, these kisses; this magical,
ritual lovemaking. Kenzie lay back and shut her eyes. Body and
soul, she surrendered. She was his, and he hers, and nothing
outside these four walls seemed to exist.

Sliding yet farther down her body, he gently
parted her thighs and lifted her bare buttocks. "The jewel of your
secret place ... that, too, Kenzie, is to be kissed," he murmured,
and pressed his lips against her vagina.

She nearly wept with joy, and whimpered with
anxiety when he lifted his head and lowered her thighs.

"Also, Kenzie," he said, "everything in the
Kama Sutra has a special name," he continued, moving his body up
along hers until he was once again face to face with her. "For
instance, should either of our tongues touch the other's ... that
is called 'The Fighting of the Tongue.' "

He covered her mouth with his, and their
needs were such that it seemed they would devour each other in a
feeding frenzy.

Finally he tore his lips from hers. "And, if
I were to capture you in my arms, place my legs outside yours, and
enter you while I squat, pressing your knees against my sides, that
is the position called
Dadhyataka
."

Her fingernails dug into his arms. "And if we
were to ... to lie side by side ... or atop each other ..." She
stared at him. "If I were to take you in my mouth, and you used
your tongue on me ... ?"

He laughed softly. "That, Kenzie, is called
Kakila
."

"
Kakila
," she repeated.

"It means 'The Crow.' It is an act supposedly
performed by slaves ... and other lowly persons."

Her eyes were wide and shiny. "Then let us
revel in lowly pleasures! Hannes! Let's be base and coarse!"

Her voice dropped to a trembling whisper as
she added: "Let me be your slave!"

"
Papilein!
" Dina crooned.

She skipped into Robert's bedroom looking
like she was struggling with the big serving tray. Which, in truth,
she was. The steaming platters of sauerkraut, knockwursts, potato
salad, and four chilled steins of beer weighed a ton.

Robert's eyes all but popped. Beached on his
California king-size bed like some great pink cigar-puffing whale,
he endeavored to sit up.

Dina glanced at his already-hard pecker. She
ascertained that it was responding nicely, as evidenced by its
sudden twitching.

As well it should.

Papi's little girl was wearing a blonde wig
with two long fat braids, a minute Bavarian-style minidirndl which
left her breasts entirely exposed, and a smile that went from ear
to ear. Plus a variation on the usual makeup—giant starry lashes
and oversize, penciled-on freckles.

Heidi Does Manhattan, she thought grimly, and
quickly suppressed the image. She had no room for negative
thoughts. A positive frame of mind was essential, especially since
she intended to hit him with a double whammy.

"See,
Papilein?
" She glanced at him
shyly from where she'd stopped just inside the door. "Baby's
brought you dinner! Just like I promised!"

"Well? Don't just stand there, l'il girl!"
Robert patted the mattress. "Bring it 'ere!"

"
Ja, Papilein?
" Dina feigned
wide-eyed, childish pleasure. "May I really?"

"Yeah," he rasped with a lecherous leer.
"L'il girl's Daddy's real hungry. So c'mon. What're ya waitin'
for—Christmas?"

"Oh,
danke, Papilein!
" she
squealed.

And braids, hooters, and tushie bouncing,
Dina bounded across the room. Deposited the tray on the bed. Leaped
up beside him. Acted as frisky as any six-year-old with energy to
burn.

The fact that Dina had turned thirty a month
earlier made absolutely no difference. She gave the performance her
all. And Robert loved every minute of it.

She began by finger-feeding him, as if he
were one of those corpulent, licentious Roman emperors.

A prolonged game of "hide the knockwurst"
followed.

Robert couldn't get enough, and Dina worked
her oral magic.

Soon his brain was where she wanted it to
be—in his cock. His resolve not to promise her anything had
evaporated.

For nearly half an hour, Dina kept him on the
very brink of orgasm. Then, and only then, did she make her
move.

Deciding to start off small, she sprang the
weekend at the Faireys on him. Believing he was getting off
cheaply, Robert committed himself with alacrity. Hell, it wasn't as
if it was going to cost him anything.

However, Dina wasn't quite finished with him
yet. She continued honking his horn and stopping moments before he
could climax.

From his wheezy groans, she finally judged
his faculties to be sufficiently impaired. If she dragged it out
much longer, he'd start getting crabby. Or worse, he might surprise
her and shoot his load.

She decided it was time to go for the
jackpot.

"
Papilein?
" she ventured, alternately
tonguing his penis and giving its ruffled head little tugs with her
lips.

He grunted unintelligibly.

"Baby needs something real badly!"

Robert snickered. "All baby needs is Daddy's
dick!"

Very funny, she thought, not in the least bit
amused. Nevertheless, she batted starry lashes. "Baby needs to
redecorate!"

He rolled his eyes. "Should'a known there'd
be a payoff!" he growled.

"Is not!" she countered, with a pout.

"Then what would you call it?"

She tossed her head indignantly. "Baby calls
it a present!"

"Yeah," he guffawed. "So does every hooker in
town."

Shit! He obviously wasn't incapacitated
enough.

Dina quickly fixed that by showing him what
her mouth was really capable of.

"Oh, Baby," he moaned. "Oh, yeah. Yeah!
That's the spirit—"

She gave it her all, head bobbing furiously,
mouth working triple-time.

"Oh, Baby," he gasped. "Baby—"

Then she felt the telltale tremor shuddering
through him, knew he was reaching the point of no return—

—and stopped.

Right in the nick of time, too. A few more
tugs of her lips and he'd have exploded.

"Goddammit, Dina!" he howled, aggrieved.

She puckered her lips. Blew teasing puffs of
air at his penis. Tickled its swollen red head with the tip of her
tongue.

"Please,
Papilein?
Can Baby have her
present?" She kissed the tip of his penis. "Pretty please?"

He drew a deep, resigned breath—and knew she
had him.

"Oh, aw right!" he croaked grumpily. "You
win. Now will ya finish what ya started?"

Bingo!
She'd hit the jackpot!

Dina deemed it time to show her gratitude.
The way he liked best. By bending her head and setting seriously to
work.

Robert climaxed half a minute later, unaware
what those thirty short seconds would cost him.

Well, he'll discover that soon enough, Dina
decided. Why ruin his pleasure by telling him he'd just had a
multimillion-dollar blow job?

The sandman wouldn't come.

Hours had crept by, and still Zandra lay
awake in the dark, alone with her thoughts.

Even though her room faced on the back, she
could hear the songs of the city. Distant wails of sirens and the
screams of car alarms; the bass beat of a stereo seeping out of a
neighboring building, the billow of laughter and raised voices in
the stairwell, the thunder of rap music blasting from a passing
vehicle.

But she'd become inured to these sounds, and
knew they weren't the reason sleep kept eluding her.

The real reason was because her mind, like an
endless loop, kept replaying every detail from lunch—or rather,
from that instant when Karl- Heinz first entered Mortimer's to the
moment she had made her escape from him in front of Burghley's.

She simply couldn't get him out of her mind.
Karl-Heinz. Her cousin. Her—

—obsession?

No. Never. Not in a million years.

Zandra heard Kenzie return and tiptoe past
her door. She glanced at the alarm clock. It was going on
one-thirty.

How she yearned for sleep.

Trouble was, it wouldn't come.

Karl-Heinz couldn't sleep, either. He prowled
restlessly from window to window in his sky-high penthouse.
Earlier, the view had resembled the platinum-processed Berenice
Abbott photograph hanging in his hallway. But that had been hours
ago.

Now the cleaning crews had departed from the
office towers, and most of the windows had gone dark. So had many
in the high-rise apartment buildings.

But he didn't notice. Even as he stared out
at it, the cityscape was the furthest thing from Karl-Heinz's
mind.

His thoughts were consumed by Zandra. By the
myriad questions he had concerning her. The mental list he'd
compiled was endless: What goes on inside that beautiful head of
hers? How does she feel about me? Is there someone else in her
life? Will Becky's scheme work?

For one of the few times in his life, His
Serene Highness, Prince Karl-Heinz von und zu Engelwiesen, was at a
total loss. He knew that he loved Zandra. He'd known that since the
night of his birthday party last October.

However, what he didn't know was the extent
of—or the lack of— Zandra's feelings toward him.

If only I had an inkling, he thought.

But he didn't. Nor would he, until the
weekend after next.

He stared out one of the north-facing
windows. At this very moment, she was out there somewhere, in one
of the countless thousands of buildings of this great
metropolis.

Zandra. No doubt sleeping the deep, contented
sleep of the innocent.

Suddenly he was tired. For a moment he shut
his eyes.

Please, God, don't let me corrupt her.

Long Island City, January 14

"How much longer are we to remain here? Or
have we exchanged one prison for another?"

The outburst was uncalled for, the lack of
respect shown, unforgivable. The hooded figure, rendered inhuman by
the black convex lenses, electronic voice distorter, jumpsuit, and
gloves, was tempted to lash out and make an example of the
belligerent Libyan.

But for now, he decided to let him off with a
warning. The Arab possessed skills which would prove essential.

The eerily distorted voice barked: "Would you
rather stand trial for that skyjacking? Your return to prison can
always be arranged!"

His words had the desired effect: the swarthy
Libyan backed down. Cast desultory eyes upon the concrete-slab
floor, studiously avoiding the hatred emanating from his eight
teammates.

So, the hooded man thought to himself.
There's no love lost between them. Good.

They were in the safe house, a former
die-cutting factory set amid the industrial wastelands on the
Queens side of the East River. All the equipment had long been torn
out and hauled off. Vast cold, empty space surrounded them.

As did darkness.

He had ordered the fluorescents switched off
before his arrival. Now the only sources of light were the haze of
Manhattan glittering across the watery divide and the moonlight
leaking in from the overhead skylights.

Even in daylight, it was a grim and
forbidding place.

At night it was downright hostile.

Thick concrete supporting columns, rising
like squat sentinels, stretched into stygian blackness. Gusts of
blustery wind shrieked through broken panes. And foraging rats,
like evil whispers, scuttled in the unseen perimeters.

But worst of all was the noise. It came from
directly above—the constant, maddening din of traffic buzzing
across the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge—and sounded like the amplified
whirring of angry hordes of bees.

From between a thin slit in his black lenses,
the man studied his hand-picked crew. There were nine—eight men and
one woman. Disenfranchised terrorists all:

The former Israeli commando. Fearless and
inventive, he was a veritable one-man army.

The German. A master electrician, he didn't
need a circuit chart to shut down a building, or an entire
city.

The Libyan, whose forte was hijackings. He
was an expert at having ransom demands met.

The ex-navy SEAL. Master of the big bang, he
could single-handedly bring down a wall, a bridge, or an entire
building.

The Frenchman. A daredevil who could drive a
Formula One, pilot an F-15 or a 747, and sail or steer anything
afloat.

The Colombian brothers. Finesse was neither's
strong point, but if it had a trigger, they could shoot it, with
deadly results.

The Japanese. Yoshi Mori was his name and
electronics were his game. Specialty: computer hacking. Given time,
he could break into most any system, civilian or military.

The Italian woman. Formerly of the Red
Brigades, she was chic, slim, and beautiful—and deadlier than any
male.

With one exception, thought the hooded man.
Me. I'm the deadliest of the lot.

He tossed a long cardboard tube at the
nearest of them. "Here."

The German snatched it neatly from the
air.

"Inside are blueprints. Study them until you
can remember every detail in your sleep. That goes for all of
you."

"Then-a this-a is our target?" The harsh,
accented voice belonged to the woman.