Too Damn Rich (60 page)

She twisted her hands in front of her.

"And I know the way I reacted was beastly.
It's just that I was absolutely thrown."

"I think that's forgivable. As I recall, I
made rather a mess of it. Tell you the truth, I was appalled with
myself."

"Anyway, you're probably wondering, and quite
rightly, what the devil I'm doing here. The truth is, I ... I've
come to see whether you might possibly be interested in a business
proposition."

"In that case," he said gently, taking her by
the arm and leading her to the nearest sofa, "let's have a seat. I
make it a point never to discuss business standing up."

She smiled gratefully and sat.

He sank into the chair opposite her. "Can I
offer you something? A drink? Coffee?"

She shook her head. "No. I ... I'd like to
get this over with. Heinzie."

She swallowed nervously. She stilled her
hands by clasping them firmly in her lap. She crossed, and then
recrossed, her splendid legs.

"I won't blame you if you'll think me
frightfully despicable—"

He leaned forward. "I seriously doubt that. I
don't believe you're capable of doing anything despicable."

"Please!" She heard her own stridency and
quickly dropped her voice. "Let me finish before you judge me too
hastily," she whispered, looking away, unable to hold his gaze.

He was silent.

"I understand the circumstances which led up
to last weekend. I also realize that it must have been damn hard
for you." She took another deep breath. "Just as this is damn hard
for me."

For fear of saying the wrong thing, he didn't
say anything.

"Your proposal ... well, I assume it really
was a business proposition—right?"

Something deep inside him twisted
excruciatingly, pierced him with brutal, lancinating pain.

Oh, Lord God—if only she knew the truth! If
only he could give it voice. More than anything, he wanted to take
her in his arms and sweep her off her feet.

"I mean ..." Zandra looked down at her
fidgeting fingers. "... I was supposed to marry you and have your
billion-dollar baby. Presumably, that was the whole point."

"Yes," he said miserably.

She raised her eyes from her lap and held his
gaze. "Well? Still interested?"

He was taken aback.

"I mean, why on earth shouldn't you inherit?
All it takes is an heir. I mean, what's the big deal of marriage
and giving birth? This is the nineties. Over half the marriages end
in divorce anyway. And, we wouldn't exactly have to stay married
forever and ever, right?"

"No," he said tightly, "we wouldn't."

"And, since you'll inherit all those billions
because of me ... well, I'm entitled to something, wouldn't you
agree? Sort of like a ... a finder's fee ... or an agent's
commission?"

His eyes were hooded. "So you're here to sell
yourself," he said in a raw whisper.

"No, Heinzie," she corrected him firmly, "no.
Not sell. Rent. You can rent me, Heinzie. Me and my most precious
asset, my legitimate, priceless, Holy Roman Empire womb."

"Zandra—"

"Of course, I can't guarantee the sex of the
child we'd have, but I'll do my best to see that you'll inherit.
I'll even stick around and have a second child, if the first turns
out to be female."

"And this ... this womb rental," he asked
dryly, "how much is that going to cost me?"

"Exactly one and a quarter million pounds
sterling, for me and my womb both. Payable immediately and in
full."

"Why one and a quarter million?" he asked in
surprise. "Aren't you undervaluing yourself? Why not a flat quarter
billion? Or half a billion? God knows, you're in a position to name
your price."

"I already did."

"But why settle for a paltry one and a
quarter million?"

She looked away from him. "That is no concern
of yours," she said softly.

He sat forward. "Zandra," he said quietly,
"are you in trouble? Is that it? You don't need to sell
yourself—"

"I'm not selling myself!" she blurted
angrily. "I'm renting myself."

"But you don't have to. I'll gladly help you
anyway."

Tears threatened to blur her vision, and it
was all she could do to fight them back.

"Look, Heinzie, I don't want help. This is
strictly business. Now, let's make a deal, or let's not. Just tell
me which it'll be."

He sighed and looked at her sadly.

"For Christ's sake!" she said angrily. "You
need me to inherit! Fine! Here I am. A bloody marvel. The perfect
product, all ready for leasing! Now, will you make up your
mind?"

"Zandra," he said gently, "you're not a
product."

Salty tears stung her eyes. "Oh, cut the
shit, Heinzie!"

She got up and looked down at him, her
anguish apparent.

"Do you, or do you not, want me?" she said
quietly. "It's either now or never. Which will it be?"

He rose to his feet. "All right, Zandra," he
sighed.

"What does that mean? Yes? Or no?"

"It means yes."

The relief which flooded through her was
almost unbearable.

But not because of my inheritance, he wanted
to add. Because you need my help. Because I'm in love with you.

She fumbled for the business card Joe Leach
had given her, thrust it at him, and looked away.

"Wire one and a quarter million into this
account at Barclay's, London. The moment it's transferred, I'm all
yours."

"All mine?" he said, thinking: How can you be
all mine? The last I heard, nobody's come up with a way to capture
a ray of sunshine and bottle it.

"Yes, all yours. What you see is what you
get. All five feet, ten inches of me. Head to toe, golden womb, and
all."

He tapped the business card in his hand. "The
money will be wired within the hour."

"And there's one more thing," she said.

"Oh?" He raised his eyebrows.

"I want your lawyers to draw up a prenuptial
agreement in which I relinquish any and all claims to alimony,
inheritance, child support, and anything else."

"Aren't you being a little harsh on
yourself?" he said.

She shook her head vehemently. "It's a
condition I insist upon."

"Very well," he said. "Consider it done."

She took a deep breath, turned her back to
him, and reached behind her head, holding up her hair.

"Unzip me, Heinzie, will you?" Her voice was
suddenly strong and sure.

A painful tightness came into his chest. "The
money hasn't been wired yet."

"So? You're a man of your word. Best we get a
head start, don't you think? Got to make that billion-dollar
baby."

She waited, but he still made no move.

"Heinzie!" she said impatiently. "I can't do
this on my own, you know. Takes two to make—"

He grabbed hold of her and turned her roughly
around. "Zandra, stop it!"

Her eyes went wide with fear. "Does this mean
you don't want me? That the deal's off?"

"Don't be silly. But I'm old-fashioned and
want to do this the right way."

She stared at him. "Why, I believe you are
serious!"

"Very."

"If that's the way you want it," she said
softly.

He nodded. "I do."

She looked at him a moment longer, then her
chin came up. "Let me know about the arrangements," she said,
thinking: Why does it sound more like a funeral than a wedding?

"I will."

Her eyes were still on his. Then she reached
up, touched him tentatively on the cheek, and swiftly turned and
ran from the room.

Only once she hit the street did she allow
the poisonous, suffocating cloud to engulf her. Seeking the refuge
of the nearest doorway, she hid in its shadows, her forehead
pressed against cold, hard granite. Sobs racked her, and burst from
deep within her chest.

In one fell swoop she had bartered the only
three things she could ever truly, inviolately, call her own: her
name, her body, and her self-respect.

Which left her with nothing. Absolutely
nothing.

The senior partner of the law firm of
Freiman, Steinberg, Hirst, and Andrews, P.C., looked up as his
secretary came into his plush office in Detroit's Renaissance
Center. He took the sealed envelope she was carrying and placed it
solemnly on his desk.

"Sotheby's guarantee?"

"Yes, sir."

"Who is looking at the drawings now?"

"Mr. Adeane and Ms. Blow. From
Christie's."

"What about Burghley's?"

"Their specialist is waiting out in
reception."

"Good. I take it you walked the Sotheby's
representatives to the elevators?"

"I was going to, but they said there was no
need."

"What was their mood?"

"Very excited."

"Ah. Most excellent. Now then, why don't you
tell the Burghley's specialist it'll be a while. Apologize for any
inconvenience we may have caused him—"

"It's not a him, sir. It's a her."

"Whatever. You know the routine, Mrs.
Silber."

"Yes, sir." The secretary hurried out to the
reception area. "What the—" she began, and looked around.

Kenzie had vanished.

A few minutes earlier, Kenzie had been
sitting in the posh reception area, bent over a tome on Leonardo
drawings she had brought with her when three people approached and
stopped beside her chair.

"The elevators are right this way," she had
heard Mrs. Silber say.

"Thank you, but we can see ourselves out," a
man's vaguely familiar voice replied. "Our flight isn't until
seven-fifteen, and we have a few hours to kill. Could you recommend
a bar on the premises?"

"Well, there are quite a few," Mrs. Silber
said.

"I suppose the restaurants are already
closed?" a woman asked.

Her voice also sounded familiar. Keeping her
head down, so that her profile was hidden behind her curtain of
Prince Val bangs, Kenzie slid the party a curious upward
glance.

Standing right beside her, yuppie-perfect and
groomed to the nines, were Robert Sullivan and Gretchen Ng—her
counterparts from Sotheby's.

"Just take the elevator down to the ground
level," Mrs. Silber directed. "When you get out, turn right.
There's a very nice bar there that also serves snacks. You can't
miss it."

"It sounds perfect," Robert Sullivan told her
warmly. "Thanks ever so much."

They exchanged handshakes. "I hope you were
pleased with the drawings," Mrs. Silber said.

"Pleased doesn't begin to describe it!"
Gretchen Ng enthused. "I'm sure we'll be in touch."

"You have a good flight back, now," Mrs.
Silber said. "It was lovely meeting you."

She left, and Robert Sullivan went to the
cloak closet to fetch their coats.

Kenzie continued to keep her head down,
hoping she wouldn't be recognized.

"This your coat, Gretchen?"

"That's it. God, Bob! Could you believe those
drawings?"

"They're incredible. I've never seen anything
like them."

"Think we stand a chance of handling
them?"

"I don't see why not."

"Yes, but our guarantee—"

"I've got to wet my whistle. Why don't we
discuss it over a drink? Got everything?"

And together they left the reception area,
opened the glass doors etched with FREIMAN, STEINBERG, HIRST, AND
ANDREWS, P.C., and disappeared down the lushly carpeted
corridor.

Let's discuss it in the bar ... Those six
little words had done it.

Slamming the book shut, Kenzie shoved it in
her shoulder bag and jumped to get her coat.

"If anybody asks, I'll be back shortly," she
told the receptionist. "What's the fax number here?"

The receptionist scribbled it down and handed
it to her. "Where can you be reached in—"

But Kenzie wasn't listening. She was already
flying out the etched- glass doors and down the corridor to the
bank of elevators. Pressing the down button, she waited for the
next car and took it to the shopping arcade level.

It was bustling with people, and there were
shops galore. I don't have time to search and browse, she thought.
There has to be a quicker way.

There was. A uniformed security guard.

She rushed over to him. "Excuse me. Could you
direct me to the nearest hair salon?"

"There's one right down there," he informed
her, and pointed. "But I'm afraid it's one of those old-fashioned
parlors—"

Her heart beat a little faster. That's
exactly what I'm looking for, she thought.

"Thanks!" she told him.

It really did turn out to be an old-fashioned
beauty parlor. The window was shared by faded blown-up photos of
outdated hairstyles and faceless Styrofoam heads modeling dusty
wigs.

She opened the door and went inside.

For all the Renaissance Center's futuristic
sleekness, it was like stepping backward in time. The air stank of
permed hair, and women leafing through glossy magazines were seated
under a row of noisy hooded dryers.

"Sorry, hon," a red-haired woman in a blue
smock and big pale blue designer frames told Kenzie. "We're all
booked up."

"That's okay. I just came to see about buying
a wig."

"Wig! You sure got the wrong place, hon. We
only do hair."

"But ... what about those wigs in the
window?" Kenzie demanded.

"Oh, them. They're just win'der displays.
Been there ferever."

Kenzie reached for her wallet.

How much can one of those wigs possibly be
worth? she wondered. Twenty bucks is pushing it.

She pulled out a hundred dollar bill. "I'd
really like the long blonde one."

The woman fished the money from between
Kenzie's fingers. "Then it's all yers, hon. I'll go git it right
now."

A minute later, Kenzie left the beauty
parlor, sunglasses on her nose and mid-1970s Farrah Fawcett tresses
bouncing. Catching sight of her reflection in a store window, she
paused and cringed.