Too Damn Rich (78 page)

"Well, perhaps it's quite a large step," she
qualified.

"Oh, yeah?" He perked up. "This mean you'll
gimme another chance?"

"I'll give us another chance," she
emphasized.

"Hot damn!" His face lit up like a Christmas
tree. "You won't regret it," he promised.

"I certainly hope not."

"That mean I can move back in?"

"As long as you remember you are on
probation. But don't forget, sweetie. If I so much as catch you
sneaking a glance in the wrong direction ..." Her voice trailed
off.

"I won't."

"You'd better not," she said darkly.

He glanced at his watch. "Shit. I'm late for
a meetin'."

She sighed. "Sweetie, you are so
romantic."

He puffed away grandly. "Gotta keep my babe
in moolah, right?"

She smiled happily. "Right. And speaking of
which, Mr. Mongiardino needs two million dollars to continue on the
apartment. You will see that it's paid promptly, won't you,
sweetie?"

Another two mil! Robert's cigar nearly fell
out of his mouth. "What's the guy do with money," he asked. "Eat
it?"

Well, what the hell, he thought. What's a few
mil? Pocket change.

A divorce could easily have set him back a
quarter of a bil. Put into that context, he was getting off
cheaply, and knew it.

Bambi heard the chime of the doorbell, and
her heart gave a leap. Robert ...!

Convinced he had come to tell her it was all
a mistake, she rushed to the door and flung it open.

What ...?

It was not Robert standing there, but the
building manager. "What do you want?" she snapped.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Parker, but we have received
complaints. As this is an illegal sublet, I'm afraid you're going
to have to vacate the premises." She couldn't believe this! The
nightmare was continuing! Will it never end? she wondered.

"Just what sort of complaints are you talking
about?" she sniffed. He cleared his throat. "As you know, here at
the Towers we pride ourselves on the utmost discretion—"

"Well, stick it up your discreet ass!" she
declared, slamming the door. Then she collapsed against it and shut
her eyes. Oh, God, she thought. This can't be happening! Where will
I go? What will I do?

She was stumped.

But only temporarily. Bambi was, above all, a
survivor. The following morning, she moved in with Lex Bugg.

"I have your report in front of me,"
Karl-Heinz said into the telephone. "Other than ironing out a few
minor details, I don't anticipate any problems."

He glanced through the open door. Zandra was
pacing restlessly along the tall windows in the next room, every so
often gazing out at the rainswept Place Vendome.

She was agitated. He could see that. And it
had been building up over the past few weeks. He knew that, too. No
matter what she happened to be doing—eating, dressing, shopping,
conversing—before long, she would begin prowling restively.
Comforting herself by clasping and unclasping her hands.

Her attention span was down to nothing.
Clearly, something was eating at her.

But whatever it was, wild horses couldn't
drag it out of her, at least not until she was ready. This too
Karl-Heinz knew, for he had tried on countless occasions to do just
that.

"You can assure Mr. Yazahari that in essence
we both agree to the same terms," he said into the phone. "We can
discuss the minor details when we meet in Hawaii."

As the phone conversation wound down, he kept
his eye on the next room. Zandra had stopped pacing to peer out a
window yet again.

April in Paris, he thought. The trees are
supposed to be in bloom, the skies should be warm and sunny, and
lovers ought to be promenading along the Seine and in the Bois de
Boulogne and the Jardin de Luxembourg.

Instead, it had been raining steadily ever
since they'd arrived.

A portent?

In the adjoining room, Zandra had resumed her
pacing, and was hugging herself, her hands tucked under her
armpits.

She needs me, Karl-Heinz thought. She needs
me now.

"Please convey my best regards to Mr.
Yazahari, and tell him I'm looking forward to meeting with him," he
said politely, and hung up. In one elegant movement he pushed back
his chair, got to his feet, and went into the next room.

"Zandra," he said softly.

She stopped pacing and looked at him.

He advanced toward her and held her gently by
the expensive sleeves of her unbuttoned Ungaro jacket. "Liebchen?"
He looked into her eyes. "What is it?"

"It's ..." she began, then gave a shrug of
futility and hugged herself even tighter. "Oh, Heinzie, it's
everything. And nothing. That, too. Do you suppose it's a phase
pregnant women go through?"

He shook his head. "There's more to it than
that, Liebchen, and I think we both know it."

She looked away suddenly, over his shoulder,
her face pinched with anxiety.

"Can't we talk about it?" he asked
quietly.

She expelled a sigh and bit her trembling
lip.

God, but it pained him to see her like this!
What a different Zandra this was from the radiant bride in Augsburg
Cathedral, or the carefree honeymooner who insisted upon making
love at various times of the day, or the rabid shopper to whom the
couture salons were like candy stores, just waiting to be
raided.

Where, he wondered, have all those other
Zandras gone?

Indeed, it was high time for a serious
talk.

Wrapping an arm around her, he led her across
the room and sat her on a delicately carved settee. Then he went
over to the round bouillotte table which held stemware and bottles
and came back with two full shot glasses.

"Here," he said, holding one out to her.

She glanced at the clear fluid, then up at
him. "What is it?"

"A little schnapps," he answered. "To soothe
your nerves."

She shook her head. "No. Not while I'm
pregnant."

He set both glasses on the coffee table and
then perched on the arm of the settee, stroking her hair. She
rested her head against his side.

"God," she murmured, "you must think me one
hell of a self- centered bitch."

"I don't think that at all." He planted a
kiss atop her head and continued brushing her hair with his
hand.

"I wouldn't blame you if you did," she said
pensively. "I mean, I've been beastly and absolutely no fun at
all."

"Zandra," he urged gently, "share your
misery. Please. Nothing is so bad that something can't be done
about it."

She smiled wryly. Sweet Heinzie, she thought.
He means so well. But how can he begin to understand? Men don't get
pregnant. Men don't nurture a spark of life from conception until
birth. How could any man understand?

"It's about the baby, isn't it?" he asked
softly.

She twisted her head to look up at him.

"Yes," she whispered, "it's about our
baby."

"Don't you want to have it?"

She jerked, as though an invisible fist had
slammed into her. Oh, Heinzie, Heinzie! How can you misread things
so badly?

"That isn't it at all," she said quietly. "I
want this baby, Heinzie. Oh, God! If only you knew how badly I want
it!"

He slid off the arm of the settee and dropped
to his knees in front of her, placing his head in her lap, the side
of his face touching her belly and the child growing within.

Tears suddenly welled up in her eyes. With
her hands, she pressed his head even closer.

She took a deep breath, and with huge
reluctance, plunged ahead.

"Oh, Heinzie," she said ruefully, "I know I'm
being an absolute shit, and I can't bear to disappoint you. But I
just loathe the way we're having this baby. I mean, it's not at all
fair to the child."

He raised his head from her lap and looked
deep into her eyes. "What isn't?" he asked softly.

"The mercenary way we're going about it.
Don't you see? Having a child shouldn't be a sweepstakes you enter
for a prize, should it? I know a male child's necessary for you to
inherit, I know all that. But... darling, it's our baby I'm
carrying! Our baby! Our own flesh and blood."

"Yes." He smiled tenderly and reached up and
gently touched her face. "I know," he whispered.

"And, I already feel connected to it. I
realize it's still early, but I am its mother."

He was still smiling.

"I know we made a deal," she said, "but
suddenly I don't give a whit whether it's a boy or a girl. And, if
it is a girl, what's going to happen to it? I mean, I want us to
have a son, I really do, worse than anything. But now that I'm
carrying, that's suddenly unimportant. Darling, I love it
already—boy or girl. Whichever it is."

The tears which had welled up in her eyes
started flowing down her face.

"I just want us to have a normal, healthy
child!" she blurted. "Is that too much to ask for?"

She paused and sniffed.

"Darling? Won't you say something?"

"Liebchen, don't you realize? I love the
baby, too!"

"You ... do?" Zandra's voice quavered
uncertainly.

"Of course I do. And I want what's best for
all three of us."

"Yes, but Heinzie, what I can't do ... "

She stopped and gulped a lungful of air.

"... I can't allow it to be prodded and
poked," Zandra whispered fiercely. "I know it's only been weeks,
but suppose it can already feel things? And what about the risk?
Dr. Rosenbaum put the risk of villus sampling at somewhere between
one and two percent, but he did say some doctors put it as high as
eight. And even an amniocentesis carries some risk. There's the
chance, however slight, of triggering a spontaneous abortion,
injuring the fetus, or even introducing an infection!"

She was sobbing noisily now.

"And even if it were a hundred percent safe,
which it isn't, and if we find out it's a girl, I ... I could never
bring myself to abort it!"

"No one is asking you to," he said
gently.

"I mean, I'll gladly do anything—anything at
all—so long as it doesn't endanger the child."

"Liebcheti! Haven't you listened to a word
I've said?"

She stared at him. "Then you ... you don't
mind? You'll accept it even if it's a girl?"

"How could I not? She would be our
child."

"But the inheritance—"

"The hell with the inheritance! I'm rich
enough in my own right. My personal fortune's over two hundred
million."

"That much!"

He smiled. "Besides making money for the
family, you don't think I didn't make some for myself, do you? So
stop worrying."

She smiled. "I'll try."

"And promise me one thing, Liebcheti."

"What?"

"From now on, if something bothers you, don't
keep it bottled up inside. For God's sake, share it. This is my
baby, too, you know."

She felt like hugging him to death.

"Oh, Heinzie, Heinzie!"

She flung her arms around him.

"I'm so happy!" she cried. "You don't know
how happy you've made me!"

Then he had his arms around her, and tears
streaked down both their cheeks, and it seemed they stayed that way
forever, clinging to each other as though for dear life itself.

When the telephone rang, Karl-Heinz ignored
it, and then Josef discreetly cleared his throat at the door. "It's
a personal call from Mr. Yazahari, Your Highness," he said in
German.

Karl-Heinz didn't even turn around.

"Later, Josef," he said. "And shut the door,
would you?"

"But shouldn't you take it?" Zandra asked.
"It might be important."

"There are only two really important things
in my life," Karl-Heinz told her softly. "I know that now. You and
our baby—and that's all."

And for some crazy reason, they both burst
out into a fresh round of joyous tears.

"Preg—!" shrieked Princess Sofia in
horror.

She clapped both hands over her mouth to
stifle the devastating word in midsyllable. Her eyes bulged in
shock.

"—nant," she expelled in a gulping
whisper.

She sank down onto a severely plain
Biedermeier settee, afraid that if she remained standing for a
moment longer her legs would surely give out from under her.

Outside the arched, neo-Gothic windows of the
sitting room of Schloss Schweingau, the steamer that regularly
plied the lake was passing by. Two little sailboats, tacking into
the wind, bobbed in the steamer's wake. Storm clouds were
gathering, and the snow-clad Alpine peaks to the south seemed to
press closer.

"They've been married ... what now?" Sofia
whispered shakily. "Six weeks? Seven? And you tell me she is
already pregnant!"

"Z-Zandra?" piped up Erwein, whose presence
Sofia had demanded when Herr August Meindl, the senior von und zu
Engelwiesen solicitor, and his four solicitor sons, had come
calling.

Erwein put his teacup into the saucer he was
holding, and his hands were so shaky that cup and saucer
rattled.

"It is Z-Z-Zandra you're t-talking about?" he
stuttered.

"No. The Duchess of York," Sofia snapped
sarcastically. "Who else's pregnancy would affect us, you subnormal
cretin? You moronic, duncical chain around my neck!"

Erwein cringed, and his cup and saucer
rattled even louder.

"And do put your tea down!" hissed Sofia
irritably. "That infernal racket is driving me up the wall!"

Erwein immediately thrust the offending cup
and saucer on a round fruitwood table.

Wearily Sofia rubbed her face with her hands.
Only then did she turn to the messenger who had delivered the
unwelcome news.

In his youth, a very, very remote youth—that
is to say, sometime in the years preceding the First World War—Herr
August Meindl had made a hobby of studying the classics, so the
traditional fate befalling messengers of bad tidings was not lost
on him. He fully expected Sofia's ax to fall, though he did not
fear it.