Too Damn Rich (6 page)

"Her Royal Highness!" Kenzie snapped her head
around. "Which Royal Highness? Queen Elizabeth? Queen Sirikit?
Queen Beatrix? Queen Noor?"

He cast her a sidelong look. "Try Princess
Goldsmith on for size."

"Oh, ho!" Abruptly frowning, she poked a
thumb at the third desk in the cramped office. "And where, if I may
be so bold, is Miss Locust Valley Lockjaw?"

"How should I know?" Arnold shrugged
dismissively. "And anyway, why should you care? I'd have thought
you'd be rejoicing that Bambi's not here."

"That's beside the point." Kenzie pursed her
lips, momentarily lost in thought. Then she looked over at him and
said, slowly, "I just find it highly peculiar that she's not in ...
especially today of all days. I mean, you know how she likes to
suck up to the powers that be."

"No!" Arnold feigned shock and sat forward in
his chair. Its vinyl upholstery squeaked. "You don't mean it! Our
Bambi Parker?"

Kenzie turned to stare at the unoccupied desk
some more. "Not that I really care," she remarked, "but it does
make me wonder . . . where is Miss Perfect Parker?"

"My!" Bambi Parker marveled in a soft
whisper. "
Oh, my!
You're hard already!"

Her fingers deftly unzipped the fly of Robert
A. Goldsmith's king-size trousers, felt around for the opening in
his baggy silk boxer shorts, and then unsnapped the two
gussets.

The better to be eaten, the porcine man slid
farther down in the mouse-colored velour seat. They were in the
back of his black stretch Caddy, the one-way windows, prudently
drawn curtains, and hermetically sealed silence cutting off the
raucous, hard-edged world outside.

"Just drive," Goldsmith had growled to his
chauffeur/bodyguard after Bambi had climbed inside at the
prearranged corner. "I don't care if we just keep circling the
goddamn block."

Which was exactly what they were doing
now—going around and around Burghley's, catching the red light at
every corner.

Slithering between his splayed legs, Bambi
sank to her knees on the velour carpeting, barely conscious of the
fact that the vehicle was moving, so smooth was the ride.

With clever fingers she dug his phallus out
of his pants. By now she was familiar with every last vein, curve,
and contour. It was very thick. Very red. And, alas, very stubby,
with a big mushroom of a skin-ruffed knob, which never failed to
remind her of one of those Dutch portraits with necks swathed in
layers of lace. Long ago someone had botched his circumcision—but
royally.

"Yummy!" she murmured, licking her lips and
pretending greedy passion.

He grunted. "Just don't get any goddamn
lipstick on my pants!"

"Don't worry." Bambi was way ahead of him,
already wiping Estee Lauder's Knowing Red from her mouth with a
handy Kleenex. Shoving the rumpled tissue under the seat, she got
busy. Dexterously undid the belt from around his forty-seven-inch
waist. Loosened his pin-striped, pleated gray wool trousers. Pulled
them and the ultimate turn-off—cerulean blue silk boxer shorts
sporting a pattern of hot air balloons—down around his knees. Then
lowered her head into his lap.

Like a supplicant.

Or a skilled whore.

As her educated mouth closed around his
penis, the new owner of Burghley's shut his eyes and remained
perfectly still, content to do nothing but sprawl back and enjoy
the ride.

Bambi Parker knew exactly which buttons to
push. Three weeks of almost daily assignations had made her an
expert on the sexual proclivities of one Robert A. Goldsmith.

They had met while he'd been negotiating to
buy the venerable auction house and Sheldon D. Fairey, Burghley's
chairman, CEO, and chief auctioneer, had rolled out the red carpet
for the potential new owner. During the VIP tour, the two men had
stopped in the main exhibition galleries to watch the mounting of
an Old Masters Paintings exhibit, which Bambi Parker had helped
oversee.

Blessed with a peripheral vision second to
none, Bambi instantly recognized the billionaire out of the corner
of an eye. And knowing the opportunity of a lifetime when she saw
one, Bambi instantly seized the moment. With seeming
spontaneity—pretending to ascertain that a Romney portrait (which
was hanging perfectly straight), was indeed hanging perfectly
straight—she took one step backward and then another and another
until—presto!—she'd "accidentally" bumped smack dab into her
prey.

"Oooooh!" she'd squealed, eyes widening in
counterfeit horror while one hand flew up to her mouth. And turning
around, she gushed in her best, whispery little girl's voice:
"Gosh, I'm sooooo sorry!"

Robert A. Goldsmith wasn't blind—with his
twenty-twenty vision, what he saw was a twenty-four-year-old
genuine Barbie doll come to life. Tall, gorgeous, and perfectly
groomed, everything about Bambi Parker was so flawless as to seem
plasticized: skin, face, body—you name it— including Mykonos-white
teeth, courtesy of lamination, and that special way she had of
fluttering her long golden lashes before lowering her eyes
demurely.

She was Robert A. Goldsmith's wet
dream-come-true: a blonde, blue- eyed, hard-bodied
shiksa
.

Their gaze held for a full fifteen
seconds.

Whereas Robert A. Goldsmith saw a living
Barbie doll, Bambi Parker saw a big galoof with a shambling gait,
size twelve feet, and a body that was best not described. But no
matter. He possessed something all the male models in the world
couldn't compete with—sheer power.

A silent communication passed between them,
and Robert A. Goldsmith, who couldn't tell a Leroy Nieman from a
Nattier—or care less— suddenly developed a keen interest in Old
Masters. He'd diplomatically dismissed Sheldon D. Fairey by
suggesting that, "as a departmental expert," Bambi ("Ms. Parker" at
the time) act as his personal guide for this particular
exhibit.

Sheldon D. Fairey, not about to get on the
wrong side of the man he guessed, correctly, would soon become his
boss, had wisely made himself scarce.

As soon as he'd gone, Robert A. Goldsmith
smiled lecherously at Bambi and said, "I've got a feeling you've
got a lot to teach me, l'il lady."

And Bambi, giggling and wiggling and batting
her lashes, cooed, "And I've got the feeling you'd make a great
pupil!"

In three shakes of a doe's tail, they'd ended
up in the back of his limousine, where she proved her credentials—a
Ph.D. in Deep Throat—for the first time.

Now, holding his penis in one hand, she
flicked her tongue playfully around its bulbous head before sucking
him all the way in. Then her lips closed around the base and her
head bobbed up and down, up and down, until he tensed, uttered a
slight groan, and his penis twitched as he shot his load.

Right into her mouth.

It wasn't exactly an earth-shaking event. In
fact, if it hadn't been for the thick spurts of sticky goo, she'd
hardly have known he'd ejaculated at all.

Averting her head and hiding her grimace, she
whisked the wad of Kleenex back out from under the seat and spat
discreetly into it.

For a while he just sprawled there, breathing
heavily, his hooded eyes still closed. She used the time to
advantage, scrambling back into her seat and swiftly repairing her
makeup. Soon her face glowed in a palette of burnt oranges, spicy
paprikas, and Knowing Red.

Then she pulled up his boxer shorts and
trousers, nimbly snapped the gussets, zipped him up, and buckled
his belt. "Now remember, Robert," she told him, "I'm always at your
beck and call. Always," she repeated, giving him a significant
look.

When she got out of the car, she leaned down
through the open door, smiled in at him, and furled and unfurled
her fingertips childishly.

"Bye-bye!" she whispered in that breathy
little girl's voice of hers.

He nodded absently, his fingers already
pushing the buttons which drew aside the curtains and activated the
opaque partition which slid down into the back of the driver's
seat.

"Office," he tersely told his
chauffeur/bodyguard, an ex-boxer with the flattened nose to prove
it.

During the ride down to Wall Street, Robert
A. Goldsmith unsnapped his briefcase, took out a draft of
GoldMart's third-quarter report, and before tackling it, briefly
reflected on Bambi Parker.

Maybe he wasn't one to show his emotions, but
truth be told, he needed sex as much as the next guy—hey, maybe
even more. And, in his book, there was nothing, nothing on earth
quite like a blow job to start the day off on the right
foot—especially when it was a blonde Locust Valley/Piping Rock
Country Club ex-debutante shiksa of a blow job.

But out of sight, out of mind.

His reflection over, he tackled the
report.

"Miss Turner?"

The voice was thin, but the ancient gentleman
who pecked his head in through the partially open door was even
thinner. "If it's not inconvenient, I shall be requiring your
expertise this afternoon."

"Mr. Spotts!" Kenzie and Arnold chorused in
unison, their chairs shooting away from their desks as they
launched themselves to their feet.

"You're back!" Kenzie exclaimed, her heart
leaping in delight as Arnold threw the door wide, and the threesome
embraced in a warm but gentle hug.

Mr. Spotts kissed Kenzie on the forehead and
tousled Arnold's hair with a palsied, paternal hand. Then,
regarding them both from over the tops of his half lenses, which
were perched at the very tip of his nose, he said: "Yes, I'm back.
At least for now, my dears, for now ..." He cupped a hand to his
mouth and cleared his wattled throat. "But that's something we can
get into later."

Kenzie had to tilt her head way back to look
up at him—A. Dietrich Spotts was that tall. He was also very
brittle and, due to severe osteoporosis, very stooped. His eyes
were moist topaz, his head bald save for some thin, longish strands
of white hair he wore combed back, and his skin was translucent
from age. As always, he was immaculately dressed. Today he had on a
hand-tailored dark gray wool suit, white shirt with pale gray
stripes running through the cotton fabric, a beautifully knotted
bordeaux silk tie patterned with tiny rooks, and a matching pocket
square.

For the moment the three of them stood there,
contently soaking up one another's company. Despite more than a
half century's difference in their ages, they got along
famously.

"At least now that you're back, things will
finally return to normal!" Kenzie said happily, giving the old man
another tender hug.

"Well?" Arnold inquired. "What's the
prognosis?"

Mr. Spotts clicked his tongue against his
teeth. "The good news, according to the quacks, is that I'll
live."

"Then why the long face?" Kenzie asked.
"What's the bad news?"

"Bad," said Mr. Spotts, giving a feeble sigh.
"Very bad."

"Well, just how bad?" Kenzie, exchanging
glances with Arnold, inquired anxiously.

Mr. Spotts sighed, flicked a speck of lint
from his sleeve, and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb
and forefinger, as though to stem the flow of pain. "Bad enough
that I can no longer work," he warbled softly.

Kenzie and Arnold stared at him
speechlessly.

"What do you mean, you can't work?" Arnold
finally asked, once he found his voice.

"Those damn quacks insist that I take it
easy. Told me I must retire and enjoy myself. Humph!" He shook his
head, his wattle and dewlaps quivering with indignant outrage. "How
can I enjoy retirement when art is my life's blood? Can you tell me
that?"

"Oh, Mr. Spotts!" Kenzie moaned, looking
crestfallen.

Mr. Spotts lifted a gnarled pale hand.
"Enough of that. The last thing I want to discuss right now are my
cardiovascular problems. In the meantime, Miss Turner, I've been
invited to a party tonight by Prince Karl- Heinz von und zu
Engelwiesen, one of our most valued clients. I always saw to him
personally in the past, so I don't believe you ever had the
opportunity of meeting him."

Kenzie shook her head. "I've seen pictures of
him in the columns, but that's about it."

"Then all the more reason for me to introduce
you. If you're free this evening, I'd be delighted if you would
accompany me."

"You're asking me out on a date? Oh, Mr.
Spotts! How sweet!"

"Not a date," he corrected, giving her a
censorious look over his half glasses. "It's one of those loathsome
high society events I usually go out of my way to avoid. However,
in this case—" Mr. Spotts shrugged eloquently.

"I'd love to go," Kenzie assured him
warmly.

"Good. Oh, and do dress up. It's black tie.
Anyway, we'll talk more later. If you're both amenable, perhaps the
three of us can have lunch together?" He looked inquiringly from
Kenzie to Arnold.

"Sure!" Kenzie enthused.

"That'd be great!" Arnold added.

"Splendid. Lunch will be my treat." Then,
lifting a trembly hand in a half wave, Mr. Spotts ducked back out.
From the way he shuffled along to his office, it was obvious he was
on his way to clean out his desk.

"Poor Mr. Spotts," Kenzie empathized as she
slowly sank into her chair and swiveled around to face Arnold.
"Retirement will kill him," she said quietly. "You know that."

"Only too well," he answered. "For him,
Burghley's has always been home. If they'd have let him, he'd have
eaten and slept here."

"You know, it's weird. But I really can't
imagine this place without him."

"You're not the only one."

It was true. A. Dietrich Spotts was an
institution—the only person left at the New York branch who had
been there from the very day when it had first opened its doors,
nearly forty-two years earlier. For over three decades now, he had
headed the Old Masters Paintings and Drawings department, and
neither Kenzie nor Arnold needed to be told that without him,
things would never again be the same.