The Secret Heiress

by Judith Gould

  They walked on, finally reaching Thirty-fourth Street and the destination Matt had in mind. Looking up, Ariadne turned to him. “I don’t believe it,” she said. “You want to go to the top of the Empire State Building? It has to be the most touristy thing we could possibly do.”

  He nodded. “Guilty on both counts,” he said. “But it’s something everyone should do whether it’s touristy or not.”

  The crowds waiting to get in were large, but they didn’t have to wait too long. They took the high-speed elevator to the floor where the observation platform was located and stepped outside. The wind was powerful and whipped Ariadne’s long hair about her face. She gathered it up and quickly put it in a ponytail, then, holding Matt’s hand, went as close to the edge as she could.

  “This is really awesome,” she said. “Unbelievable.”

  Initially, they looked north. Matt pointed out landmarks in Manhattan and beyond, up past Central Park to the Bronx and Westchester County. Taking their time, they walked west, where they looked across the Hudson River to New Jersey, then south to Staten Island and more New Jersey. Finally, they made their way to the east side, and gazed out across Queens to Long Island.

  She was mesmerized by the views all the way around. “I’m so glad we did this,” she said. “This must be one of the greatest vantage points in the entire world.”

  He squeezed her hand in his. “I’m glad you like it,” he said. “I haven’t been up here myself for many years. I’d forgotten how impressive it is.”

  Other tourists bumped against them, talking animatedly. Matt leaned down and kissed her cheek, and she looked up with shining eyes. “Thank you for this,” she said.

  When they got back down on the street, he hailed a taxi and gave the driver an address in SoHo. There, at a small French bistro on Spring Street, they had a late lunch, gorging on steak and pommes frites, washing it down with a good red wine, then enjoying a tarte tatin, all the while observing the street life of the neighborhood. Afterward, they walked off some of the lunch, window-shopping in the trendy environs.

  “Nearly everybody is so well put together,” Ariadne said. “What I mean is, everybody seems to have a look.”

  “There’s definitely a passion for fashion,” Matt said.

  She smiled at his rhyme. “That’s one way to put it.”

  “I think we have time for one more thing,” he said, looking at his wristwatch.

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ll see.”

  He hailed a taxi, and they shot back uptown on the West Side Highway. Near Forty-second Street, the driver came to a screeching halt. Matt paid the fare, and they got out of the cab.

  “Where are we going?” she asked. She saw bicyclists whizzing by and joggers running in a cordoned-off area across the street, and beyond that there was a ticket booth for the Circle Line, where a long queue of tourists waited.

  A new tower was nearing completion, and the sun struck it, turning the entire western side of the sleek silvery mass a blazing fiery column.

  “Just imagine the fantastic views the people will have in that building,” Ariadne said. Her gaze traveled to the top of the skyscraper. “It’s really beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Matt said nervously. “It’s quite a building.”

  She read the large sign in front. “Papadaki. A Greek name, just like mine. I’ve heard of the company.”

  Her driver pulled over in front of a loft building on the far western fringes of Chelsea. What had once been a neighborhood of garages and warehouses had metamorphosed into an area of art galleries, many of them driven out of SoHo by the skyrocketing rents and the popularity of the neighborhood that, ironically, they’d helped make so desirable. The same trend was repeating itself in Chelsea, but this building didn’t look very promising. Nevertheless, Nikoletta was not daunted. She knew that some of New York’s most stylish lofts were housed in buildings that looked much like this one.

  The driver opened the door, and she stepped out of the car. “I don’t know how long I’ll be,” she said. “I’ll call you on the cell when I’m heading down, so don’t stray too far.”

  The behemoth, who also served as a bodyguard, tipped his hat. “I’ll be here.”

  The day was windy, and grit and litter were blowing up off the sidewalks. Ignoring the debris, Nikoletta went to the entry door and looked at the brass panel of buzzers. When she saw the one for number 7, she noticed that there was no name in the slot provided.

  How like Frans, she thought. He’s hiding out, licking his wounds. Well, he can’t hide from me.

  She’d tracked him down after Bianca’s death. New York might be a big town, but the task had been a breeze for Nikoletta. Angelo Coveri, she’d learned, had ordered Frans out of Bianca’s apartment the day he had been informed of her death. When she’d heard about it, she’d called Frans and generously offered him the use of one of PPHL’s corporate apartments, but Frans had refused, angrily shouting at her on the telephone and hanging up. He’d disappeared, or so he thought, moving back into his old Chelsea loft. But Nikoletta had easily gotten that address from his agent. After all, PPHL provided the agent with a great deal of work, using models who were signed with her for innumerable advertising campaigns.

  Nikoletta had contacted him again, allowing a few days for grief. He would be especially vulnerable in his sorrow, wouldn’t he? But Frans had refused to see her. He still blamed her for Bianca’s death. To Nikoletta’s surprise, he’d actually been in love with Bianca. Well, Nikoletta had thought, he’d get over it. But even when she’d invited him for a cruise aboard her yacht after the upcoming film festival in Cannes, he’d refused. Dangling the powerful movie producers and directors who would be there as bait hadn’t worked in Frans’s case, either. More shouts and another hang up. He certainly wasn’t like most models, who’d jump at such an opportunity.

  She pressed the buzzer for his loft and waited for a response. No one answered, so she pressed it again, longer this time. Still there was no response. She pressed the button again, this time leaving her finger on it for a good thirty seconds. No one could stand the unbearable noise for that long.

  She heard the familiar static from the speaker as he pressed the response button in his loft. Aha! she thought. He’s answering.

  “Who is it?” the irritated voice asked.

  “Please give me just a second,” Nikoletta said. “I’ve got plans for Bianca’s memorial, and I have to discuss them with you.”

  That should do the trick, she thought.

  Frans didn’t respond immediately, and only the sound of static buzzed for a while. Finally he muttered, “I don’t want to see you.”

  “But Bianca’s memorial!” she cried. “She loved you, Frans, and I thought you loved her. You’re the only one who can help.”

  There was silence again, then, “What memorial?”

  “Something very special, Frans. Something to honor Bianca’s memory. Forever.”

  She could practically hear his mental gears turning in the ensuing silence. Then the speaker came to life again. “Only a few minutes,” he muttered.

  The buzzer sounded, releasing the locked lobby door. Nikoletta quickly shoved through and rushed to the elevator, pressing the UP button. When the elevator stopped on seven and the doors slid open, she stepped out into his loft.

  Frans, who was sprawled on a big leather sofa in the living area staring off into space, didn’t bother getting up. He didn’t even look in her direction.

  The loft wasn’t the typically vast, luxuriously furnished space of the lofts belonging to Niki’s friends. It was large, but was barely furnished at all. Besides the sofa on which Frans lay there were two chairs that might have come from the street, a coffee table made from shipping pallets, and a flat-screen plasma television along with a CD player/radio that were placed on a long board propped up by concrete blocks. The dining area was empty, but there were two stools at a kitchen counter. There was no art on the walls, no plants, nothing much
to make the place feel like a home, unless the sneakers, boots, jeans, underwear, and various garments strewn about were considered a homey touch. She could only imagine what a mess the bedroom must be.

  She started to cross to the sofa, her heels click-clacking loudly on the hardwood floor. She stopped near one of the empty chairs, waiting for him to acknowledge her. On the splintery pallet that served as a coffee table, she noticed an overflowing ashtray, a pack of Marlboro cigarettes, a lighter, a half-empty bottle of Stolichnaya vodka, and a smudged glass.

  “I really hate to bother you, Frans,” she said. “I know you’re in pain, but I need your advice about the fund I’m planning in memory of Bianca.”

  He finally focused on her. “Why would you do anything for Bianca?” he asked. His voice was subdued but hostile. “To appease your guilt?”

  “I . . .” Nikoletta’s voice trailed off. She had to tell Frans what he wanted to hear, regardless of her own feelings. “I guess you’re right,” she said. “If I hadn’t created that assignment, Bianca wouldn’t have taken it, would she? I realize that now. Once she found out about the assignment, there was no stopping her. I told her over and over how dangerous it was and so did other people at the company. But she wouldn’t listen to me or anyone else.”

  Nikoletta began pacing, nervously wringing her hands. “I could kill myself,” she said in an anguished voice. “I’ve never felt so awful about anything in my life. If only I could have stopped her.” She paused and made a choking sound, hanging her head, her face turned away from Frans. “She was my friend, and I loved her so much.”

  She heard the leather upholstery on the couch creak and knew that Frans was changing positions. Maybe she was getting his attention, she thought. “After what happened in St. Barth’s, I would have done anything to make it up to Bianca, to make her happy again. I hated losing her as a friend and seeing her relationship with you end. That was the worst thing, the absolute worst.” Nikoletta sniffed as if holding back tears. “One reason I created the new job was to try to make it up to her. I was so . . . so devastated.”

  “You should’ve been devastated,” Frans said, the couch creaking again.

  “I know. . . . I know,” Nikoletta said in a whispery voice. “I—I’ve made a mess of everything in the last few months, and now I’ve lost her. Lost her forever.” She extracted a handy Kleenex from her little clutch and blew her nose, still turned away from Frans. “That’s one reason I want to start this memorial. I—I was mortified when Angelo had a private funeral for Bianca. He barred me from it, and I don’t blame him. He blames me for her death. Everyone does. But I did everything I could short of firing Bianca to keep her from going on that assignment.” In an exasperated voice, she added, “She was just so headstrong. So independent. That was one of the things I loved about her, but it made it impossible to get through to her. To make her change her mind.”

  She turned to face Frans with tears in her eyes. She saw that he was sitting up now, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. He’s such a hunk, she thought. Even now, tormented as he is. “I don’t expect you to forgive me,” she said. “Not ever. But I’m begging you to help me with a memorial for her. I can’t work. I can’t do anything. I can barely function,” she went on, “and I think that doing something in her memory will help.”

  Frans saw the tears on her cheeks, the anguish in her expression. “I—I can’t work, either,” he murmured. “I’ve canceled all of my photo shoots. There’s no way I can smile for the camera.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I know that nothing . . . and nobody . . . can replace Bianca in your heart, but maybe helping with the memorial will give you some relief.” She wanted to sit down beside him and put her arms around him, to feel that incredible body next to her own, but she restrained the urge, knowing that would be the worst thing she could do.

  Frans looked up, his intense gaze on her. “What do you want to do?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “For once, even I’m at a loss. I know I want to establish a memorial fund in her name. Like a foundation. But I don’t want to do it without your suggestions. You knew her better than anyone else.”

  Frans shrugged his powerful shoulders. “I don’t know.” He poured a small measure of Stolichnaya in the glass and took a sip, then set the glass down. “I never thought about it, but it is a good idea.”

  Nikoletta felt a surge of excitement course through her. He had taken the bait. Give him time, she reminded herself. With time, he will be mine and no one else’s. “Bianca was interested in making a difference in the world,” she said thoughtfully, “so I think it should be something along those lines. You know, something that would help the poor or disadvantaged.”

  “That’s what she was trying to do when she went on that awful assignment,” Frans snapped.

  “Yes, I know,” Nikoletta said soothingly, “but as awful as it may have been, you have to remember that she was doing what she felt she had to do, Frans. She was so brave, so courageous. . . .” Her voice broke, and she turned away from him again. After a few moments she said, “Anyway, something along those lines would be a fitting memorial, I think. Something that would help underprivileged children.”

  “Yes,” Frans said softly. He drained the glass of vodka, then poured some more in the glass. “I think . . . I think that Bianca would like something that would help children.”

  “And you can help me decide exactly what and how to administer it,” Nikoletta said. “I’ll make the initial contribution, of course.” She turned to face him. “At least a million dollars or so. But . . . oh, never mind. I know what a strain this must put on you, and I don’t want to add to your troubles right now.”

  “Thank you, Niki,” he said. He drank more vodka.

  “It’s the least I can do, Frans.” She could see that the vodka was loosening him up, but she didn’t want to push her luck. “Maybe one day when you’re feeling up to it, we can discuss it. I know I want to keep my name out of it entirely, at least as far as the public is concerned. We’ll put your name on it if that’s okay with you.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, looking up at her.

  “You know. When it’s announced in the press, and we start to solicit donations,” Nikoletta said. “We’ll say that it’s you who’s doing it for Bianca, and leave me out of it. I think that way we can raise a lot more money. You and Bianca were a couple in love, and you’re doing this in her memory. You see what I mean? People will like that. On the other hand, they see me as a monster.”

  Frans stared at her thoughtfully, then nodded. “Thank you, Niki,” he said again, his voice a whisper.

  Nikoletta felt a dampness between her thighs. Oh, God, how she wanted him. All raw nerves and pent-up anger and sorrow. But she knew she would blow it if she made a move. She backed away with a hint of a smile on her lips.

  “No, I have to thank you, Frans,” she said. “Now, I’d better get going. I’m just so happy that you let me tell you about it. I can never undo what was done, but I want to do everything I can to atone for it.”

  She started toward the elevator, then turned back around. “You have my numbers, so when you feel like it—not before—let’s get going on this.”

  “Okay, Niki,” he said.

  She went to the elevator and pressed the CALL button, aware of his eyes on her back. I have to get out of here fast, she thought. Another minute and I’ll be all over him. The elevator arrived, and the doors slid open. She stepped in, then let the doors close without waving good-bye. I’ll be seeing him again very soon.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dutchess County, New York

  It was dark by the time Matt turned onto the Taconic State Parkway. Ariadne had nodded off. The long walks and the excitement of the day had exhausted her. He was grateful, but at the same time he dreaded what was soon to come. Millbrook was only an hour or so away. He only hoped that she would forgive him when she found out what was going on. She would feel betrayed by him and with go
od reason.

  They had reached Dutchess County when she awoke. Covering her yawn with a hand, she glanced at him in the near darkness of the Jeep. “Was I asleep long?”

  “Not too long.”

  “Poor you,” Ariadne said. She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Driving all the way down, showing me all over the city, then driving back while I nod off. It’s not fair.”

  He forced a smile through gritted teeth. “I’m fine,” he lied.

  “Where are we?”

  “We’re in Dutchess County, in New York,” he said evasively.

  “B-but why? I mean, is this some special way back?” She looked at him with curiosity, studying his features in the light reflected from the dashboard of the Jeep.

  “Because . . . well, because . . .” He glanced at her, then shifted his gaze back to the road. “There’s something I’ve got to explain to you, Ariadne. I’m afraid that you’re going to hate me but—”

  She laughed uneasily. “I couldn’t possibly hate you, Matt.”

  “You might change your mind,” he said.

  His dark tone of voice put Ariadne on alert, and her smile faded away. “What is it?”

  The sign for the exit appeared on the right. “We’re going to be stopping in Millbrook,” he said. “At a friend’s house.” The exit came up, and he slowed down as he drove the Jeep downhill off the parkway.

  “What friend?” she asked suspiciously as he stopped at the end of the exit ramp.

  He gave the Jeep gas and sped off to the right unnecessarily fast.

  “Matt, tell me what’s going on,” she said. “You’re acting . . . well, you’re not acting like yourself.”

  “Everything will be explained to you once we get there,” he said. “There are some people who want to meet you. I’m not sure how much they want me to tell you. They don’t know that we’ve become . . . involved.”

  She was completely baffled. “You’re not making any sense, Matt. What people want to meet me?” She gave an exasperated sigh. “Why are you being so mysterious suddenly?”