Too Damn Rich (82 page)

"Oh, I'm so glad. That's taken care of, then.
Now, about the rest of your sandwich ...?"

"Have it."

"You're sure?"

" 'Course I'm sure." Kenzie laughed. "After
all, I have a vested interest. Got to make certain my godchild
grows up strong and healthy!"

"You're a darling! Really, I'll love you for
absolutely ever and ever." Zandra attacked the remains of the
sandwich. "As will little Ernst-Albrecht," she added.

"Ernst ... Albrecht?"

"Mmm ... hmm." Zandra patted her belly.
"Ernst-Albrecht Rudger Gregorious Baldur Engelbert Burchard Georg
Lorenzo Rainer-Maria von und zu Engelwiesen. That is," she added,
"if he's a boy."

"And a godmother has to remember all that?
And in order?"

"I should hope so!"

"Holy shit! You'd better write it down so I
can start memorizing it. But I don't have to call him that
tongue-twisting mouthful all the time, do I? I mean, a simple Ernie
or Al will do? Won't it?"

"Not All." Zandra shook a finger back and
forth. "Never All. But Albie ... perhaps."

"After the auction? Of course that's fine
with me," Hannes said. "But why specifically then, Kenzie?"

They were taking time out to savor the
lulling, satiated feeling of postcoital bliss.

"Oh, I don't know."

Kenzie freed herself of the tangle of rumpled
bed linens, took a sip of Veuve Clicquot, set the glass on the
nightstand, and cuddled against him, the back of her head resting
on his chest.

"I suppose," she said thoughtfully, gazing up
at the dim ceiling, "it's a time point. You know. A landmark of
sorts? Like New Year's or something? The end of one juncture, the
beginning of another? Don't ask me why, but in some strange sort of
way, it just seems to make sense."

He kissed the top of her head and wrapped his
warm arms around her.

"Hannes ..."

"Yes, Kenzie?"

"If I should decide upon Charley, you ... you
wouldn't hurt him, would you?"

"Really, Kenzie," he chuckled. "What makes
you think I would do something like that?"

"Nothing. I'm being silly, that's all. Forget
it."

She twisted around and changed position,
lying on her side so she could see his profile.

"I mean, I'm hardly the femme-fatale type."
She laughed softly at the notion.

He rolled his head sideways on the pillow to
look at her. "Then what type are you, my love?"

She shrugged. "I've never really thought
about it." Her eyes seemed fastened to his. "Just your garden
variety, ail-American girl next door, I suppose."

"No, Kenzie." He shook his head and smiled.
"I don't think you are that ordinary at all."

"Then what do you think I am?"

"The right woman for me," Hannes said
softly.

BURGHLEY'S

FOUNDED 1719

requests the pleasure of your company

on November 11

at 6:00 P.M.

in the Madison Avenue Galleries

for an auction of

Rare and Important Old Master Paintings

from the Estate of the Duquesa

Rebecca Cornille Wakefield Lantzouni de la Vila

R.S.V.P. Invitation Only Black Tie

One thousand invitations, engraved on the
heaviest, pure cotton stock and affixed with an oxblood silk bow,
were mailed out on the fifteenth of October.

Hand-addressed in beautiful calligraphy, the
addresses had been culled by computer and included the cream of the
world's richest, most powerful, and socially prominent citizens
(500 of them), the most highly recognized celebrities (50),
Burghley's top spenders (390), the world's leading authorities on
Old Masters (15), and the directors of the world's leading museums
(45).

Naturally, a few macabre glitches were bound
to develop—and did. For instance, Becky V was mailed an invitation,
since she had yet to be deleted from the computer files. And
Karl-Heinz's father^ the old prince, received one, too—despite
languishing in an irreversible coma.

But no matter. Around the world, the
invitations were being delivered to the powerful, the privileged,
and the chosen few:

The sultan of an oil-rich emirate was brought
his on a solid gold salver along with his Coca-Cola, which was
specially bottled for him in silvered glass.

"Oh, my pet, my pet," he told his favorite
young boy of the moment. "I am going to show you New York ..."

In Beverly Hills, the world's most famous
screen actress squealed with delight when she opened hers in the
swimming pool.

She smiled at her sweetie pies—her sixth
husband, lounging on the chaise, and her six Lhasa Apsos, which ran
around yapping up a storm.

"See whose private jet we can borrow," she
said to her secretary. "And let's see, we'll need enough suites at
the Waldorf Towers for the usual entourage ..."

In Boca Raton, A. Dietrich Spotts ran his
hand over the coveted invitation and smiled.

I wondered when it would come, he thought,
making a mental note to call the airlines for reservations, and
Burghley's to RSVP. This is one occasion I wouldn't miss for
anything.

Dina Goldsmith couldn't help herself. Sitting
on the sidelines never had been her style, nor would it ever be. To
the chagrin of everyone at Burghley's—and Sheldon D. Fairey in
particular—she threw herself into the midst of the whirlwind. And
with a vengeance.

Before anyone realized what had happened, she
was in charge. Orchestrating every phase of the Becky V
auction.

If the atmosphere at Burghley's was tense
before Dina's involvement, it now became as deadly as the inside of
a pressure cooker. There were a thousand and one things to be done,
and a limited amount of time in which to accomplish it all.

And Dina was damned if she would permit
anything to slide.

She encouraged and cajoled, threatened and
gave ultimatums.

It was she who made all the final decisions.
She who rewrote the press releases. She who fielded a hundred calls
a day, attended the sales conferences, came up with suggestions,
and approved the advertisements. And it was she, also, who demanded
changes in the catalogue proofs. She, who when there were problems
shipping Becky's paintings out of France, saw to it that the
necessary documents were rushed through. She, who when a lost crate
from Palm Beach needed tracking down, or damaged canvases required
quick restoration, made certain immediate results would be
forthcoming.

Somehow, she seemed to be everywhere at once,
and employees began looking over their shoulders before grumbling
among themselves.

Not surprisingly, Dina managed to step on
more than a few toes. When complaints reached Robert, he decided to
have a talk with her.

"I don't know why ya had to get involved with
this shit," he grumped. "Ain't ya got enough to keep ya busy?"

"Of course I do, sweetie," she cooed,
throwing her arms around his neck. "But I have to make certain this
auction goes purr-fectly. Who else has Daddy's best interests at
heart?"

Who indeed?

Overnight Dina had become an awesome force to
be reckoned with. Naturally, she had the final say regarding those
coveted last- minute invitations.

As soon as word of that leaked out, "friends"
she never knew suddenly popped out of the woodwork.

People tried to wine and dine her. They
offered to put private jets and yachts at her disposal. They
showered her with expensive gifts.

Several big name fashion designers went so
far as to promise her free, unlimited wardrobes in exchange for an
invitation.

To Dina's credit, she returned each gift and
graciously refused every offer. It was easy. Because, for once in
her life she did not want presents. She did not need bribes. The
only thing that really mattered was that she was courted; that the
offers were made so that she could reject them.

Dina soon proved that she had a genuine
aptitude for organization. True, she still had her share of
detractors, but she was also a powerhouse who knew how to get
things done. Employees quickly learned that the surest way to cut
through red tape was by going to her.

Slowly but surely, Dina was gaining respect
among the various echelons.

Robert still received complaints, but they
slowed to a trickle. One thing, however, did not escape his
notice—the lack of bills. Unbelievable as it seemed, his wife was
suddenly too busy to go shopping, a fact which delighted him.

If this would only keep up, he thought
wistfully. And then it hit him. There was a way.

No fool, he knew better than to approach Dina
with his suggestions. She'd sniff a rat instantly. Wisely, he put a
bug into Gaby's ear instead.

"You know what you should be doing?" Gaby
suggested to Dina the following day.

"What, sweetie?"

"Putting all this energy of yours into
charitable projects."

"What do you think I'm doing?" Dina retorted.
"I'm not on the payroll, and the entire proceeds of the sale go to
charity!"

"I meant after this is all over."

"Hmm," Dina said slowly.

Gaby might be onto something, she thought. It
could prove to be fun. And at least it wouldn't be boring.

"Perhaps I shall," she said. "I'll have to
think it over carefully."

Meanwhile, the date of the sale loomed ever
closer, and an overwhelming amount of things still needed to be
done.

Dina saw to it that they were.

On time.

And to her own discriminating standards.

For when Dina Goldsmith spoke, people
listened—and jumped.

Or else!

Gerhard Meindl was waiting on the other side
of customs in the International Arrivals terminal at Kennedy
Airport. When he saw them coming, he adjusted his somber gray tie.
Then he took a deep breath and strode toward them.

"Welcome to America, Your Highnesses," he
said in German. "I trust your flight was pleasant?"

"It was dreadful," sniffed Princess Sofia.
"Nowadays they let anyone aboard a commercial plane! Even in first
class you find yourself seated next to the most horrid people. The
most hideous young couple was across the aisle. Both with rings
through their lips and noses and eyebrows. Disgusting!" She threw
up her hands. "It really does make one yearn for the good old days.
Isn't that right, Erwein?"

"Ja, Sofia," he said, with weary resignation.
He was just behind her, carrying her jewelry and cosmetics cases.
Behind him, three porters were wheeling mountains of vintage
Vuitton luggage.

"Next time," Sofia added, "we're taking the
family jet."

Gerhard Meindl nodded sympathetically; he
knew why they hadn't this time—Sofia didn't wish to forewarn her
brother of her arrival.

"The car is this way," he said smoothly, and
gesturing with one hand, led the entourage toward the automatic
glass doors and out into the sunshine. "Ah, there it is."

Sofia eyed the silver gray stretch limousine
with disgust. What an abomination! she thought, comparing it to her
own stately old Daimler. It was like everything else here in
America. The few times she had visited this country, the sheer
crassness of everything had simply overwhelmed her. Now it was
overwhelming her again—and she hadn't even left the airport!

She glared at the porters who were depositing
her luggage none-too- gently in the trunk.

"Tip them, Erwein," she snapped. "But not too
much?" She raised her eyebrows.

"Nein, Sofia."

She ducked into the car and waited for it to
be loaded up. Extracted a gold compact from her handbag and dusted
her face with powder.

"You made our reservations?" she asked, once
they were rolling.

Gerhard Meindl, seated on the jump seat,
nodded his head. "Yes, Your Highness," he assured her. "A
two-bedroom suite at the Carlyle, just as you requested. I
inspected it personally. I think you will find it quite
satisfactory."

"If I do not, you and the management will
hear of it."

I'm sure we will, he thought.

She eyed Erwein, who was seated beside her,
with mounting irritation. He had both of her cases on his lap, as
though clutching them from invisible thieves.

"Oh, do put them down!" she snapped.

He did; at once.

"Did you decide how long you would be staying
in New York, Your Highness?" Gerhard Meindl asked solicitously.

"We came for the auction," Sofia said, "but
we will stay until the child is born. That way, I can rest assured
that nothing about the birth is shady or contrary to family
law."

It was a direct insult to the Meindls, a
deliberate slap in the face, but Gerhard kept his emotions
carefully in check. "And the old prince? How is His Highness, if I
may ask?"

"You may, and he is not at all well," Sofia
said, her lips settling into a satisfied expression. "He had
another stroke last week."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yes," said Sofia slowly, "I don't doubt that
you are."

Dina marched to the entrance of Burghley's,
Gaby half a step behind. All that was missing were drums and
trumpets to announce their arrival—to Gaby, it would have sounded
like the lead-in accompanying a Twentieth Century Fox film
logo.

"Morning, Mrs. Goldsmith." The doorman.

"Good morning, Raoul."

"Lovely day, isn't it?"

"Why ..." Dina stopped in the doorway and
turned around, looking up at the sky in surprise. "Why, yes, Raoul.
I suppose it is!"

And in she swept, Gaby in tow.

"Damn brownnoser," Gaby mumbled under her
breath, spiking him with a glare.

Raoul grinned and touched his visor. "And a
nice day to you, too, Ms. Morton."

Gaby scowled. "That and two quarters buys you
a cuppa coffee."