Some of them had been more meaningful relationships than others, and a couple had actually held promise. There had been Anthony, the charming, unbelievably handsome, and alcoholic ex-model turned party promoter and club owner. Louis had succeeded him. He was an ultrahip-looking but misogynist up-and-coming painter who, like Anthony, was so self-absorbed that she ultimately decided she was better off alone than being his neglected chattel. Dickie, the darling, rich, and talented British cartoonist who dabbled in body piercings and tattoos—and heroin, she'd discovered to her chagrin—had followed Louis.
When she'd all but given up on the idea of ever meeting a stable and mature man with whom she thought she could settle down, she'd met Allen Bancroft, a preppy investment banker. All pin-striped suits, sedate ties, shiny wing tips, neatly clipped hair, and impeccably good manners to go with his impeccably good schools, good family, and good friends, he seemed to be the answer to her prayers. But she'd soon learned that beneath his polished veneer, Allen was probably the kinkiest man she'd ever met. His needs, when revealed, had revolted her.
She groaned aloud and slid off the bed. She picked up her little black beaded evening bag, wishing now that Todd were early. Anything—or anybody!—to take my mind off my dreary love life. Then she amended the thought: Make that lack of a love life. I'll soon be thirty-three years old, without any prospects except the unreliable Mr. Todd Hall.
As if on cue, the intercom buzzed, signaling that Todd was in the lobby. She started for the hallway to buzz him in, when the telephone rang. She went over to pick up the receiver, then thought, To hell with it. I'll let the machine answer it. I've had enough of the telephone for one day.
CHAPTER 2
'What did you find out, Sylvie?' Hilton Whitehead asked his chestnut-haired assistant as he looked at her from the doorway. Her office was located on the first floor of his penthouse triplex on the Upper East Side. Through the glass wall behind her, he could see the city lights reflecting off the East River, and beyond the river the gleaming lights of Queens.
Sylvie looked over at him from behind the highly polished burl amboyna and macassar ebony Ruhlmann desk at which she worked. 'I got the machine, so I left a message.' Her English held the merest trace of a French accent. 'But don't worry,' she added, seeing his look of concern. 'I know Allegra, and she'll get back to me very soon. She has my cell number and my number at home, so if she doesn't get me here before I leave, she'll get me on one of those. Okay?'
'All right,' he said, relieved. Although he was anxious, he knew there was no reason to fret about this matter, not if it was in Sylvie's hands. Sylvie Javelle was efficient, trustworthy, and dependable to a fault, in addition to which she was hip and chic. All angles, without an ounce of fat, she was not what most Americans would call a beauty, with her flat chest, prominent nose, huge eyes, and sharp jaw. But she compensated for her physical imperfections with superb haircuts and makeup, and a small but expensive and well-chosen wardrobe. She possessed a certain élan, Hilton thought, that was unique to Frenchwomen.
'Are you leaving now?' he asked.
'In about two minutes,' she responded. She looked over at him quizzically as she pulled a desk drawer open and took out her Hermes Birken handbag, a major investment in French craftsmanship.
'Why?' she asked in a flat voice. 'Has something come up that you need me for?' The urge to ask the question was irresistible, and she had to force herself to contain the smile she felt. She knew there would be no more business to take care of today, at least not in the office. Kitty the Magnificent had swept in earlier on her stiletto heels and was ensconced in the master suite.
'No,' he said, shaking his head, 'that's it. I'll see you tomorrow.'
'Good night, Mr. Whitehead,' she said.
'Ciao, Sylvie,' he replied, closing the office door behind him as he left. He bypassed the private elevator and headed for the stairs up to his third- floor aerie.
When he was gone, Sylvie spritzed herself liberally with JAR's Ferme Tes Yeux perfume, then picked up the telephone and tapped the REDIAL button. One ring. Two. Three. Four. Allegra's machine kicked in again, so Sylvie hung up. Merde, she cursed silently. I hope I get hold of her soon. I don't know if she's going to love me or hate me, but I can't wait to tell her what's going on.
'Boring!' Kitty complained aloud. She flipped the auction catalogue shut and tossed it onto the floor. She couldn't imagine anybody in the twenty-first century who would be interested in the ugly, expensive bric-a-brac pictured in the Sotheby's catalogue.
She lay back against a pile of pillows on Hilton's big bed, with its heavily padded leather headboard, waiting for him to finish his business. Clicking her long, manicured fingernails together, she sighed with impatience. She reached for the crystal flute of champagne at the bedside and caught the glint of the recently applied lacquer on her fingernails. Pausing to admire the Bitter Chocolate polish, she twisted her hand this way and that. She decided she'd made an excellent choice. With its matching lipstick, it was not only the latest shade from Dior, but it looked beautiful and sexy against her pale honey skin. Satisfied, she took a sip of the champagne. As she set the flute back down, she noticed another auction catalogue on the table. This one was from the Galerie Dufour in Paris. Magnificent Jewels, it said on the cover.
'Now, that's more like it,' she said. She picked up the catalogue and began leafing idly through it, scanning the jewels and their estimates. Most of them, she thought, were ugly. Grotesque even. Definitely too old- lady for her sensuous thirty-four-year-old body. She could think of nothing she detested more than old-fashioned jewelry. The kind that looked like it belonged on the hideous, powder-faced old dowagers who populated posh playgrounds for the rich and nearly dead like Monte Carlo. She was about to toss the catalogue aside when her attention was suddenly drawn to an emerald ring.
She spread the catalogue out on the bed and studied the ring closely. 'Oh, my,' she whispered reverently. 'Now, this is my kind of jewelry.'
In the photograph the enormous stone appeared to be a rich, dark green, and its yellow gold setting looked very modern, as if it had been created yesterday. It had been designed not to bring attention to itself, but to show off the stone. And while the ring itself was more than enough to make her body quiver with avarice, it was the ring's provenance that made her begin to hyperventilate with excitement.
Property of Her Royal Highness Princess Karima, the catalogue announced.
It need have said no more to whet Kitty's ravenous appetite. She had followed the extraordinary life of the princess—had idolized her even— since Kitty had been a child. She knew that the legendary Arab beauty was the former companion of one of the richest industrialists in Italy. She knew that the princess had houses all over the world where she entertained royalty, the richest international society, and a choice few of the merely famous in a style so lavish that it was unequaled.
What Kitty hadn't known until this moment was that the princess had decided to sell her jewelry collection. According to the catalogue copy, Princess Karima had recently embarked on a spiritual journey and wanted to devote the rest of her life to charitable work. Thus, the proceeds of the sale were going to her favorite charity.
Jesus Christ! Kitty thought. Spiritual journey! She must've gone completely over the top on drugs. That's the only thing that could account for such a crazy and dramatic change in the woman's life.
She bit a Bitter Chocolate lip in concentration as she gazed at the accompanying photograph of Princess Karima. She still looked very ... attractive, Kitty had to admit, but it was easy to see that she would no longer capture the attention of the rich men who could afford her, unless one of them happened to be fixated on screwing his mother.
Oh, my God. Serious wrinkles and sags, she thought with disgust as she studied the photograph more closely. Why doesn't the crazy bitch do something about them? She really has gone totally nuts.
Kitty had no respect for a woman who didn't take advantage of every cosmetic and surgical wo
nder available to stave off the ravages of time. Didn't she herself already have a daily regimen devoted to conserving and enhancing the beauty that God in his generosity had seen fit to give her? Of course she did, and it occupied a major portion of her time. It was work, but work for which she was born and which bore a great return.
Her gaze was drawn back to the emerald ring, a shimmering dark green even in the photograph. The stone was a step cut, the emerald cut used to minimize loss of material. No surprise there. And it was not flawless. Nothing remarkable about that, either, since emeralds were rarely found without some sort of flaw. What was unusual was that the catalogue mentioned an 'interesting' inclusion. Normally a fault in a stone was minimized by the seller, and it certainly wasn't trumpeted as was the case here.
What the hell was that all about? Kitty wondered. Particularly since the estimated price was enormous. She guessed that it was simply because Princess Karima owned the piece. Even though it had a fault, there were a lot of women who would kill to own a ring that had once graced the long, elegant finger of the princess. She'd met more than a few rich women who obsessed on anything that had belonged to Marie Antoinette and would spend whatever asked—no matter how outrageous—to possess a jewel-encrusted hair comb.
Hilton strode into his huge makore wood and glass-walled bedroom. It was a room that would dwarf ordinary men, but it suited him. His presence was such that he seemed to fill any room he walked into. He was unbuttoning his shirt and unhooking his belt when he saw that her luscious honey-toned body was naked and that she was completely absorbed in something. 'What's that?' he asked, tossing his shirt onto a chair.
'A jewelry catalogue,' she said, still not looking up at the lean, well- defined muscularity of his body.
'Which one?' he asked, stepping out of his trousers and tossing them atop the shirt.
'Galerie Dufour,' she replied, her eyes glued to the pictures. 'In Paris.'
'See something you like?' His voice was casual, even disinterested.
Finally she looked up at him and nodded. 'Yes,' she said, 'as a matter of fact I do.'
'What?'
'An emerald ring,' she said, 'but not just any emerald ring.'
'Let me see.' He stepped closer to the bed and looked down at the catalogue.
Kitty held it out for him. 'Princess Karima's,' she said.
He let out a low whistle. 'Through-the-roof estimate.'
'I know,' Kitty said, pouting. 'And I can't afford it.'
'Very few people in the world can,' Hilton pointed out as he took off his Jockey shorts and then his socks. The black marble floor felt cool on his bare feet.
'When I was growing up,' Kitty said wistfully, 'she was my idol. I always dreamed of being just like Princess Karima.'
'You and a million other little girls your age,' he said.
'She was the most beautiful woman in the world,' Kitty went on, 'and one of the richest. And a princess to boot.'
Hilton, his well-tanned body finally naked, sat down on the bed beside her. He placed a finger on Kitty's lips, and she kissed it, looking into his vibrant dark brown eyes. He ran his hand down her neck, gently brushing it against her flesh, and on down to her breasts, where he caressed each one in turn.
Kitty shuddered with pleasure and let the catalogue slide out of her hands and off the bed. She reached over and placed her arms around Hilton's neck, drawing him to her. Their lips met, and he kissed her tenderly as he repositioned himself on the bed. His powerful arms went around her, and his sensuous lips began kissing her in earnest. His tongue explored her mouth forcefully before it traveled to her ears and neck, where it darted and flicked. Its every stroke sent shivers of excitement through her.
Moving to her breasts, he licked and kissed them, their perfection filling him with desire. They were large with rosy nipples, which he felt harden against his tongue. Kitty moaned aloud, and her hands, which until now had been stroking his back and shoulders, sought out his manhood. She could feel him against her, already hard and powerful, and when she gently grasped his cock in her hand, she loved the gasp that escaped his lips. He arched back slightly, and she licked and kissed his nipples before slowly tracing a path down to his navel, circling it lazily with her tongue, then licked her way on down to the thatch between his thighs.
Hilton held his breath as she repositioned herself between his legs, then descended upon him with wanton desire, as if she had been made simply to give him pleasure. He leaned back against the headboard, gritting his even white teeth as she moved up and down, slowly, then more rapidly, then slowly again, teasing him mercilessly.
Oh, God, he thought. Nobody . . . nobody on earth can give head like Kitty Fleischman. He looked down at the tangled mass of jet-black hair at his groin and smiled with a mixture of sheer pleasure and wonder.
'Whoa,' he gasped, grabbing her eager head between his hands and holding it in place. 'You're going to get me off, baby. Got to watch out. We want to make this last a long time.'
Kitty looked up at him with huge, hurt-looking almond-shaped eyes. 'Oh, Hilton, I was having so much fun,' she said in a little-girl voice. Then she smiled, her collagen-injected lips a taunting, sensuous, and messy chocolate, before drawing herself up to her knees, fully exposing her large, cosmetically enhanced breasts.
Hilton's eyes were immediately drawn to their blushing, pert nipples, so like overripe strawberries begging to be plucked. He knew they weren't entirely a gift from Mother Nature. In fact, he knew Reid Thornton, the plastic surgeon who'd done the work. But he didn't care. They were a turn-on for him. Maybe even more so, he thought, knowing that Kitty had gone under the knife for him, something she had refused to do for her ex- husband.
She slithered over the sheets up next to him, and laid her head on his well-muscled shoulder. Hilton put an arm around her, cradling her head against him possessively. Kitty stuck a long finger in her mouth, then brushed its wetness around his nipples, making circles around them, one at a time, barely touching his lusty flesh.
'That feels so good,' Hilton said in a near whisper. Then he reciprocated, thrumming her succulent nipples between his fingers, fascinated with their growing hardness, amazed anew at the power that even his fingers held over the most beautiful and desirable woman he'd ever seen. He never failed to be astonished that his body responded to hers like it never had to anyone else's. Maybe it was something chemical, he mused. He didn't know, but whatever it was, sex with Kitty was the best sex he'd ever had—and he'd long since lost count of the parade of beauties whom he'd bedded over the years.
He was a vigorous thirty-eight years old, and hardly a night had gone by since he'd been sixteen in which he hadn't enjoyed the company of a woman. He loved women, and he had to have them. When he wasn't working—and he worked very hard—women and hunting occupied nearly all of his spare time. Not for him were the golf courses, tennis courts, or yachts of his male friends. Women and hunting were his passion. When he wasn't actively pursuing wild game in some part of the world, he was chasing down unsampled female flesh. It was the hunt that intrigued him above all, and once the animal, or the woman in question, was in the bag, he invariably became bored and began to hunt anew.
He slid a hand down between Kitty's firm thighs and rubbed her engorged clitoris, a testament to her body's desire, then slipped a finger inside her. He expelled a heavy stream of air. She was soaking wet. She wanted him, all right. Her wetness, and her little catlike mewls, said so.
He pulled her closer to him then, relishing the feel of those big breasts against his chest, and began kissing her bee-stung lips, gently and tenderly. With mounting excitement, he began exploring the depths of her mouth more passionately, more hungrily, as if he wanted to devour her beautiful body.
With featherlight fingertips, Kitty brushed against his throbbing manhood and encircled it with her hand once again. She delighted in hearing him suck in his breath as she began working up and down its formidable length. She felt empowered by knowing that she could excite him so eas
ily, and it was this sense of empowerment from which she derived one of her greatest pleasures. For Kitty reveled in being the master puppeteer, manipulating the strings of the people in her life to get what she wanted. Sex with Hilton was certainly enjoyable for her, more so than with most of the men she'd known intimately. But the sex act itself was, and had always been, nothing more than a prelude to securing favors.
Hilton moaned as she moved her hand from his cock to his balls, which she stroked, then gently squeezed. She knew that it wouldn't be long before he was deep inside her.
She was right, only it happened with an alacrity that was startling, being as Hilton, unlike most men in her experience, normally savored lengthy foreplay, teasing and tantalizing them both into a state of excruciating, animal like hunger before sating their lusty desire. Now he mounted and entered her in one swift motion, unable to hold off an instant longer, eliciting a gasp from Kitty as he plunged in to the hilt of his cock. She grasped his back, holding on to him as tightly as she could, thrusting herself up at him, anxious to give him the ride of his life.
Hilton licked her nipples as he began thrusting inside her, half mad with desire, but his mouth moved to hers when she began moaning aloud, his lips over hers, stifling the cries of pleasure that she was unable to control. Faster and faster they moved together, in a wanton rhythm of carnal lust, until neither of them could wait another second. Kitty began thrashing from side to side, her raven hair whipping the sheets as she was swept up into the ecstasy of orgasm, and Hilton, urged on by the flood tide that engulfed him, plunged still deeper inside her, then suddenly jerked his head back and bellowed as his body went taut, quivering over hers, his seed bursting forth in a torrent that sated them both. For the time being at least.
Gasping for air, he eased down atop her, his muscles sweat-slick against her breasts, his chest heaving against hers, his lips kissing her neck, her ears, and her face, his arms hugging her to him tightly, as if in gratitude for the gift of her voluptuous body. She relaxed her ferocious grasp of his back and began caressing him possessively, elated that once again she had satisfied this most remarkable of men.
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