Too Damn Rich (76 page)

Of course, Dina knew very well that Robert
had a wandering eye— what healthy man didn't? But to ogle was one
thing; keeping nookie stashed in a love nest was a monster of an
entirely different sort.

No way was she going to put up with that.

"I want you and Darlene out of here," she
told Julio in no uncertain terms as she and Robert returned to the
Carlyle. "Stay down in your rooms until you are summoned." She
raised an imperious eyebrow. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, madame."

"I do not wish to be interrupted."

"No, madame."

Seconds later, Julio and Darlene wisely made
tracks.

While Dina ousted the help, Robert made a
beeline to the living room and the bar, where he proceeded to top
off a much-needed highball with fifty-year-old scotch.

Hearing the clink of crystal, Dina stalked
into the living room and stood there, icing him through slitted
lashes.

"You might as well bring the decanter," she
said frostily. "You're going to need it."

Goddamn it! he thought peevishly. Trust her
to rub it in! Aren't things bad enough as it is?

He wished he'd never had the bright idea of
visiting Bambi. In fact, he wished he'd never taken up with her in
the first place. He wished—

It's too late to wish, he told himself
grimly. It's time to face the firing squad.

Dina headed regally for a straight-backed
chair, took a seat, and clasped her hands primly in her lap. She
waited, armored with heavy metal from Carrier, her spine erect and
her chin raised, the ice queen preparing to pronounce sentence.

"I'm ready whenever you are," she told him
quietly.

Robert cringed. Quickly he tossed back half
the glass and waited for the fireball to sear his belly.

He expelled a scorching breath. Then, putting
down the glass, he hunched over the bar, leaning on his hands and
shutting his eyes.

Time to face the firing squad ...

Heaving a sigh, he pulled himself together,
grabbed his glass, and trudged reluctantly over and plotzed down
opposite her.

Dina looked him straight in the eye.

"I cannot pretend," she said with dignity,
"that I'm not disappointed in you, Robert."

Oh, great. Just what I need. A lecture.

Tightening his lips, he shifted uncomfortably
and looked away. What unsettled him most was that he'd fully
expected her to blow a fuse. He'd been all prepared for rants and
raves and identified flying objects.

Instead, she was surprisingly, alarmingly,
cool and collected.

The quieter the species, he thought, the
deadlier. I've got to watch every word.

"Do you," she asked, "have anything to say
for yourself?"

He was tempted to say, It isn't what you
think. He was tempted to say, Couldn't we just forget this and
pretend it never happened? He was tempted to say, If you put out
more, maybe then I wouldn't have to play around.

No, he thought. Talk about making a big
mistake.

Besides, he knew it wasn't true. The truth
was, he liked playing around. He liked having a Blow Job at his
beck and call.

Was it his fault that he was led by his
penis? Maybe it was a sickness. You couldn't be held responsible
for your actions if it was a sickness, could you?

Better, he decided, to say nothing than to
lie.

"Could you at least tell me how long this has
been going on?" Dina asked, her chilly expression unwavering.

Oh, Christ!

He gulped down half of what remained in his
glass, not about to return her gaze. How was he supposed to
respond? Did she expect him to spill his guts? Maybe even go
groveling around on his knees begging for forgiveness?

Fat chance.

Robert A. Goldsmith might be in the dog
house, but he was damned if he was going to act like a fuckin'
trained poodle!

"I take your silence to mean it's been going
on for a while?"

Shit! Another loaded question. Better leave
this one unanswered, too. If she found out, she'd really have a
fit.

How long has it been? he wondered. Seven
months? Eight? Something like that.

In all truth, he hadn't been keeping
count.

"Look, Dina, I'm sorry," he whispered
miserably, "aw right?"

"You're sorry ?" Dina widened steely eyes.
"You've been keeping a mistress and now you're telling me you're
sorry?"

He nodded. "Yeah." He was sweating profusely
and fumbled a hankie out of his pants pocket, mopping his
glistening brow.

"So," she said, "who is she?"

He shrugged. "Just some girl."

"Should I know her?"

He shrugged.

"She looked vaguely familiar. I could swear
I've seen her around."

"She ... works."

Dina smiled icily, her expression saying: I
bet she does.

"At Burghley's," he sighed.

She frowned, and then it suddenly dawned on
her. "You're right," she said, "I have seen her there. And ... I've
seen her elsewhere also, but where ... where ... ?"

Frowning slightly, she tapped her lips with a
finger.

"Ah!" she exclaimed. "Of course. At Heinzie's
birthday party. She was the girl who was all over you!"

He sighed again, not at all pleased by Dina's
mnemonic powers. Her memory was like an elephant's, something he
kept forgetting and—unless it was too late—it would behoove him to
start keeping in mind.

"Now let me see—" She smiled acidly "—that
was back in October, and this is March. Good heavens. This must
have been going on for at least six months! I would say that makes
her more than just some girl, Robert."

He thought it prudent to keep mum.

"I think," she murmured, "that I could also
use a stiff drink."

Dina stood up, walked to the bar, quietly
poured a little cognac into a glass, and returned to her chair. She
took a tiny sip and put the glass down on the end table, the
faceted crystal catching the light and refracting blue fire. Then
once again she folded her hands in her lap.

"There are two questions I need to ask you,
Robert. Just two. Please consider them carefully and answer
truthfully."

"What are they?" he rasped guardedly.

"Do you love her?" Dina's voice carried a
vibrato of unease.

He shook his head.

And shook it some more.

"I'd like to hear you say it, Robert. With
your lips."

He looked at her, as if drawn by the
intensity of her stare.

"No!" he expelled, his voice a strangled
growl. "I don't love her!"

She held his gaze. "And do you love ...
me?"

"Goddamn it, Dina! What kinduva stoopid
question is that?"

"It is not stupid in the least," she replied
softly. "It is, perhaps, one of the most important questions I've
ever posed."

His chin went up pugnaciously and he retained
eye contact with her.

"Yeah, Dina," he said, soughing a deep
breath. "Yeah, I love ya, for cryin' out loud. God help me, but I
do. What I did ..."

He lifted his hands in a futile gesture and
let them drop. "Well, what I did hasn't changed the way I feel
about ya. Ya know?"

He shot her an appealing look, which her
Teflon armor deflected.

"Look, I made a mistake," he pleaded. "I
admit it—okay?"

She pursed her lips and looked down, studying
her clasped hands.

"I won't pretend I didn't screw her. I did.
But I wasn't emotionally involved with her."

"A fine distinction," Dina murmured
dryly.

"Yeah. But it is one. Right?"

"Robert," she sighed, "tell me something. Do
the names Michael Kennedy, Raoul Felder, and Marvin Mitchelson ring
a bell?"

Ring a bell! Christ almighty, just their
names set alarms clanging, sirens screeching, and lights flashing.
What wealthy married man didn't know Husband Enemy Number One? He
felt a chill terror, like a physical stab, reach all the way to the
marrow of his bones.

Holy shit! he thought in disbelief. She's
talkin' divorce lawyers! She's talkin' New York's top three divorce
lawyers—the best carcass pickers a woman could buy.

"Aw, come on, Dina!" he cajoled. "You're not
gonna divorce me over this?"

She raised her eyes slowly. "I very well may.
It all depends."

"On what?"

"Robert, Robert," she sighed despairingly.
"Will you stop pretending to be so dense? You know very well it
depends upon you."

"An' you," he pointed out.

"And me," she agreed, nodding. "Yes."

He contemplated ways to sweet talk her,
ascertained that this was one situation where no amount of words
would help. Beneath the ice queen demeanor, she was mad as all
hell.

Not that I can blame her, he thought, feeling
a wave of guilt.

"Is there any way I can make this up to ya?"
he asked.

"No, Robert, I'm afraid there isn't. There
are, however, several... er, things you might do which could
influence my eventual decision."

He went into desperate overdrive: "You name
'em. Jewels, yacht, paintings ... a new jet? They're all the same
to me."

"Truly, Robert. Do you take me to be that
mercenary?"

He shrugged. "Just tell me what ya want."

"First of all, I want this young lady ... she
does have a name ... ?"

"Bambi Parker."

"Bambi? Why, how sweet. How adorable." Her
face hardened. "I expect Bambi to be given the ax at
Burghley's—immediately."

"If I see she gets a pink slip," he promised,
"she can be outta there Monday mornin'. What else?"

"I want her to be evicted from Auction
Towers. Forthwith."

"Okay."

"And, I expect you to never, ever, see or
speak to her again."

"And if I do that?" he said hopefully. "This
mean you won't consider a divorce?"

"It means nothing of the kind. I am not
promising anything."

Fuck! Just his bad luck to have shit happen
the one day Dina wasn't bent on wheedling somethin' out of him.

"This isn't," she continued, "the type of
thing one decides lightly. I shall have to sleep on it for a few
days first. As soon as I've come to a decision, I'll let you
know."

He sighed but nodded.

"In the meantime, I need time to myself. I'd
appreciate it if you called downstairs and secured yourself another
suite."

Robert's mouth gaped. "You're throwin' me
out?" he exclaimed.

"Under the circumstances, a short separation
is not inappropriate."

"You gotta be kiddin'!"

"On the contrary, Robert," she said coldly.
"I am quite serious."

His mouth gaped some more.

Son of a bitch! he thought, wondering
whatever happened to a man's home being his castle. Like I need
this!

"Aw right, aw right," he wheezed. "You want
me out, I'm outta here!"

He struggled to his feet and trudged heavily
over to the house phone.

One call secured a suite. Another summoned
Julio.

Fifteen minutes later, Robert's necessities
were wheeled out on a chrome trolley and he was gone.

Dina had the suite to herself.

On Monday morning Bambi was arriving at
Burghley's at her usual late hour when the doorman failed to open
the heavy etched-glass door. For a moment she stood there, then
looked daggers at him.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Parker," he told her. "I'm
afraid you're not permitted inside."

"I beg your pardon?" She drew herself up and
stared at him, not sure she'd heard correctly.

He looked away, coughed discreetly into his
cupped, white-gloved hand, and cleared his throat uncomfortably.
"I've been given orders, you see. You're not allowed in."

"Oh?" Bambi's withering gaze raked him up and
down. "And why the hell not?"

"I really wouldn't know, but I was told to
give you this." He produced a sealed envelope.

She snatched it out of his hand, ripped it
open, and speed-read the enclosed memorandum. It was short, not
sweet, and to the point:

April 3, 1995

TO: Barbara (Bambi) Parker

FROM: Sheldon D. Fairey

A recent review of your performance as director of
the Old Masters Paintings and Drawings department has found you
seriously lacking in leadership abilities, expertise, and on-time
performance.

Subsequently, I regret to inform you that you are
dismissed from that position as of immediately.

Naturally, you are entitled to the usual severance
package and unemployment benefits. Please contact Ms. Heidi Ross at
personnel for details.

It goes without saying that this has no bearing on
your becoming a future Burghley's customer, and you will always be
welcome as such.

Sheldon D. Fairey

cc: Heidi Ross, personnel

Bambi's first reaction was annoyance.

If this is someone's idea of a joke, she
thought angrily, I'm not having any of it.

A second read-through, and an inspection of
the signature, proved otherwise. It was for real, all right.

She felt a sudden fear clutch at her insides.
I'm fired. I'm really fired! "Sheldon D. Fairey regrets!" she
huffed. "He'll regret it all right!" Brandishing the memo and
shaking with fury, she pushed past the doorman and yanked open the
big heavy door herself.

She found her way barred by two beefy
security guards. "Sorry, ma'am," one of them said. "Our orders are
to deny you entry."

She stared at them.

Deny. Me. Entry. It's that bitch of a wife's
doing!

"I insist upon speaking with Mr. Fairey," she
demanded.

"Sorry, ma'am. He's not available."

"Then where the hell is he?"

"He didn't say."

"I want to use a phone."

"Sorry, ma'am. You'll have to use one outside
this building." It was like finding herself trapped in a nightmare.
"What about my personal belongings?" she wanted to know. "They'll
be messengered to your home."