“Closer to forty, I suspect,” Plantagenet said.
“I hate that loathsome Mr. Kahn, too.”
Plantagenet kissed her forehead. “Too bad he can’t just keep quiet. He has a profile to die for.”
She giggled. “And shoulders for days.”
She turned to see Jonathan Kahn himself standing at the corner opposite.
“At least he didn’t stay to pry a story out of Prince Aldo,” Plant said.
Camilla watched Mr. Kahn’s tall figure cross the street against the light. A taxi swerved to miss him and spattered mud on the legs of his khakis. He jumped back and cursed, but as he caught sight of her, he gave a sheepish grin, showing his dimples.
She couldn’t help it. She smiled back. Their eyes locked. He looked different—almost vulnerable.
For that one moment, she and Jonathan Kahn were the only two people in Manhattan.
Chapter 2—King of the Chickenburgers
The following Monday, Camilla woke to the head-drumming of an incipient headache. She lay in bed fighting pain as dream-shards flickered in her brain: her father, riding to hounds…someone following him with a gun, shooting…a black-caped horseman, with the face of Jonathan Kahn, smiling so his dimples showed.
She pried herself out of bed and started on a quest for aspirin. Packing to go back to Rosewood, where she was due tomorrow evening, was going to be a pain, even without the headache. She hadn’t been able to decide what she’d need, so her entire wardrobe lay scattered around the room. She hated all her clothes. Nothing seemed right anymore.
But she’d be happy to get back in the dorm, away from reminders of her dad’s death—as well as rude newspaper reporters and the odious Aldo. She’d be rooming with Waverly Nelson, who came from California and never took anything seriously. Wave would be relieved that Camilla had finally parted with her virginity, even with an inept insect like Aldo, and she’d think of something wildly funny to say about Jonathan Kahn.
Camilla swallowed some Vicodin that somebody had given her for cramps and threw on a green velvet robe she found dangling from her shower rod. Tiptoeing down the back stairs, she hoped for few moments of tranquility alone with the newspaper before she had to say sensible things to anybody.
After that, she had to work up the courage to ask her mother about Jonathan Kahn’s awful accusations about Dad. She needed to know the truth before she left for school. All his nasty questions kept zinging around her brain. No wonder her head hurt.
The breakfast room was Camilla’s favorite of the forty-two at Randall Hall—furnished in simple Shaker furniture. Bright morning light streamed through the mullioned windows as she opened the door. Unfortunately, Mother was already at the breakfast table, looking unusually businesslike for this hour of the morning. She wore an Ultrasuede suit of nearly-black violet and had done her make-up more emphatically than usual. She scrutinized Camilla with a critical gaze.
“Are you planning to pack that robe? What are those stains down the front?”
Camilla hunted for the newspaper to hide in. “I probably spilled coffee on it.”
“Coffee? Coffee is now arrived, Miss.” Despina brought a tray bearing a silver coffee service and one Limoges cup and saucer. “More hot water, Madame?”
Unless she was entertaining, Mother consumed nothing but hot water until three P.M. as part of her battle against the ever-present enemy, cellulite.
“Despina, have you seen today’s paper?” Camilla gulped coffee.
“Madame needs hot water.” Despina nearly sprinted out of the room.
“Why don’t you change into another robe, dear?” Her mother glanced at Camilla over the leather-bound “Things to Do” notebook that had controlled their lives for as long as Camilla could remember. “I’ll have Phelps drop it off at the cleaners while Remy is doing my hair. He can pick it up tomorrow before you leave.”
“There are dry-cleaners in Virginia, Mother.”
“Don’t tell me my daughter would travel with filthy clothes. I can’t bear it.”
“Despina!” Camilla called out in despair. “Where’s the newspaper?”
“Don’t bother her. She’s busy preparing the bouillabaisse for luncheon.”
This was not good news. “Luncheon? What luncheon? Mother, I can’t deal with a bunch of guests. I have to pack. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her mother gave her a pained look. “Not a ‘bunch of guests,’ dear. Just one. Mr. Lester Stokes. He’s going to be staying with us for a few days.”
Camilla added another coffee stain to the front of her robe. Things were getting surreal.
“Lester Stokes? The Arkansas Chickenburger King? At Randall Hall?”
“Don’t be rude, Camilla. Mr. Stokes has been very gracious about the Barbados property, and since he’s going to be in New York for a few days while the house is being renovated, it was only polite to invite him to stay here.”
“What has Lester Stokes got to do with our house in Barbados?”
“He bought it, dear.”
Camilla’s headache pounded.
“You can’t sell the Barbados house! I’ve invited Wave Nelson and Pookie McGill for spring break…”
Her mother’s eyes darkened.
“That house is too full of memories.”
“I’m sorry,” Camilla said softly. This was the first time her mother had even alluded to Dad’s death in weeks. “I just wish you’d told me first.”
“Give me the robe,” her mother commanded. “Remy expects me at eleven-thirty.”
Camilla removed the robe and shivered in the one-shouldered silk nightgown that had been her last gift from Aldo.
“Do get dressed.” Her mother gave the nightgown a quick, scornful glance. “And toss whatever that is you’re wearing. Rosewood girls do not dress like Vestal Virgins in heat. I expect you to be packed when I get back.”
“When will that be?” Camilla adjusted the skimpy gown for more coverage. Aldo said the gown had come from an up-and-coming designer named Gianni Versace who’d been nominated for the L’Occio d’Oro in Milan this year. But Camilla knew better than to waste this information on Mother, who considered Paris the only home of real couture.
“Sometime before one. That’s when Lester arrives. What car are you taking to Rosewood? You should take the Volvo. You may run into snow.”
“I’m taking the DeLorean. How do you know it’s supposed to snow?” Her mother never turned on the radio or daytime television. Had she read the missing Guardian?
“That vulgar thing? I tried to make your father get rid of it ages ago.”
“But he couldn’t. It’s mine. He gave it to me, remember?”
“But what if it breaks down? There can’t be a garage in the country that has parts…. Here’s Phelps.” She grabbed her knock-about mink and swept out the door.
After one more fruitless search for the paper, Camilla headed for the east wing and the Herculean task of choosing what to pack. Now she wished she hadn’t taken the pills. Her pain had gone, but her body felt encased in lead.
As she climbed the circular staircase, she heard the gong of the front doorbell. She called for Despina, but heard no response. Despina must have left for the fish market. The bell rang again. She called for Augusta, who did the cleaning. But no. It was Tuesday. Augusta’s day off. She was going to have to answer the door herself.
She ran back down to the entrance hall, cursing the impatient bell ringer. A delivery person, probably, who didn’t want to bother with driving around to the service entrance. She gave the heavy oak door a yank.
But the large, red-faced man at the door did not look like a delivery person. He wore a string tie, an item Camilla had never seen off the television screen—and a large, white cowboy hat. The hand he held out to her sported four tremendous rings.
“Lester Stokes.” He flashed too-white teeth. “Joanie Randall is expecting me.”
“I’m Camilla.” She tried to smile as his beefy hand squished hers.
H
is grin widened as he looked her up and down. “Of course you are. I saw your picture in the paper.” He gestured at a folded Guardian under his arm. “You’re even prettier in person. In fact, you are one downright gorgeous little girl.”
At that moment the impact of her mother’s “Vestal Virgin in heat” comment hit Camilla’s drugged consciousness. Not only did the asymmetrical neckline of the gown make chest coverage a challenge, but the side was slit to reveal upper reaches of thigh that even an ancient Roman streetwalker might have hoped to keep private.
“Is my picture in the paper again?” She pulled away with a stiff smile. She would have given a good deal to have her robe back, stains and all.
“As a matter of fact, there’s two of them. Here.” Mr. Stokes set down his suitcase and handed Camilla the paper, carefully folded to show two photographs of herself, one looking plump and slightly tarty in the dress that Porfirio had cut too tight, and the other—she could hardly bear to look—showing the rakish figure of Mick Jagger and her own bugle-beaded derrière in front of Studio 54. No wonder her mother and Despina had conspired to make the paper disappear.
“You sure twisted that reporter around your little finger, young lady. See where he says you’re ‘curvaceous’ and ‘luscious’?” He pointed to the words with a beefy finger. She could smell the Brut as he moved in close. “And he wasn’t lying. Not one little bit.”
Camilla clutched the folded paper over her chest and took a large step backward. “I’m sorry Mother isn’t here to greet you,” she said in as polite a voice as she could muster. She led him toward the staircase. “She’ll be right back. I’ll show you to your room, and then I’ll have to leave you on your own. I’m going back to college tomorrow, and I haven’t packed a thing. I have to drive to Virginia. And it may snow. I hate snow, don’t you? Driving in it, I mean. Riding is different. My horse, Lord Peter, loves to canter in the snow. Do you ride? Of course you must. You’re a rancher. Well, I suppose you don’t ride herd on chickens the way people do with cows, do you?”
She wished her head didn’t feel as if it had been stuffed with cotton candy.
Behind her, Mr. Stokes chuckled as if she were making sense.
“Do I what, honey? Ride chicks? Only in Nevada, sweet thing. There’s this Chicken Ranch…”
She led him up the stairway, moving as quickly as she could without being rude. Unfortunately, the faster she moved, the more the bias-cut silk seemed to cling.
“Despina usually answers the door, of course,” she said as she headed for the east wing. “But she’s buying fish. Or Augusta would take care of it. I don’t know what Augusta’s doing, but that’s because it’s her day off, so it really isn’t any of my business, is it?” She let out a stupid giggle and tried to go on with her explanation as Mr. Stokes followed, the chuckles still coming. “Mother had Phelps take my robe to the cleaner’s. She doesn’t understand that there are dry-cleaners in Virginia. Arkansas, too, I’m sure.”
He was breathing heavily as he shifted suitcase hands—but still grinning.
“Oh, sweet thing, I’m in just as much of a hurry as you. I know your mama’s coming back soon, but this good ol’ boy’s ticker isn’t as good as it once was.”
Finally she reached the room she hoped her mother intended for him.
“I think this is yours.” It wasn’t one of the biggest bedrooms, but it was the one usually assigned to bachelor guests. It had heavy, dark Spanish furniture and a Picasso drawing over the bed.
Still clutching the paper over her chest, she opened the drapes, and was relieved to see Despina had put fresh roses in the vase beside the bed.
“This is it! Your room!”
She waved her arms with what probably seemed demented enthusiasm and ran for the door.
“Now where do you think you’re going, honey?” Mr. Stokes closed the door behind him. “We only just got here.” He set his suitcase down directly in front of her.
She put on a firm smile. “I have to change, Mr. Stokes.” She tried figure out how to step over the suitcase without letting the side slit of her gown fall completely open.
“I don’t see why, sweet thing. You look so good in what you’re wearing.”
That’s when she realized the fabric of the nightgown, a pinky champagne—not her best color—seemed to have gone transparent in the morning sunlight. She stood in front of this large, grinning man virtually nude.
“Oh, my!” She stifled a gasp. “This won’t do. I’m really not dressed.”
“Then it wouldn’t be gentlemanly of me to keep all these clothes on, would it?”
She watched with horror as Mr. Stokes reached for his silver belt buckle.
“And back home, people say Yankee girls aren’t friendly….”
The time for good manners was over. Vaulting over the suitcase, Camilla pushed past Stokes’ big body and yanked open the door.
“Hey, no more running, for God’s sake!”
She broke into a run down the corridor, her feet skidding on the polished floor.
“OK. I’ll play. But you’d better be worth it, sweet thing.”
Steadying herself against the carved balustrade, she ran until she reached the carpeted hall of the south wing, but she could hear Mr. Stokes behind her. She ran faster. When she finally reached the safety of her own room, she turned the lock and clutched at her heart, which felt as if it might pound right out of her chest.
The knob on the door jiggled.
“Hey, there, you little tease. This is getting old…”
Her head roared as she leaned with all her weight against the door.
“Open this door!”
She could feel the doorknob turn.
Chapter 3—Back to the Closet
Camilla felt the cold mahogany of her bedroom door against her naked back, as the doorknob jiggled.
“What the hell are you playing at, honey?” said Lester Stokes. “I can buy and sell you and your mama a thousand times over. You better get your head straight.”
She couldn’t catch her breath, even to scream. Thank goodness the lock held.
“Well, to hell with you, then,” said Mr. Stokes. “I am not playing games with a girl who’s Looneytunes.”
She heard his footsteps thump down the hall back toward the east wing.
As she remembered how to breathe again, she finally relaxed the grip she had on her chest and realized she still clutched Mr. Stokes copy of the Guardian. She stared at the photographs, wishing for the awful noise in her eardrums to stop—until she realized the sound came from the telephone on her nightstand. She rushed to answer it.
“Camel? Is that you?” said Plantagenet’s voice.
She erupted in tears. Big sobby tears. She couldn’t stop.
“I understand, darling. I do. It was a vicious attack. I’m so very sorry. I wish I could have stopped it.”
She’d heard of ESP between close friends, but this was amazing. “I think I’m safe now. There’s nothing you could have done, and it was partly my fault—”
“Edmund does keep a handgun.”
She sniffed back the tears. “No, don’t shoot anybody. I’m pretty sure there are laws against it, even when the person you’re shooting is an insect in a people-suit.” She glanced at the door, praying the ancient lock would hold if Mr. Stokes changed his mind.
“And there are laws against libel. As decorative Mr. Kahn seems unaware.”
“Mr. Kahn?” He wasn’t making sense. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m sure the Guardian will ban him from the society pages after this.”
She glanced at Mr. Stokes’ paper and for the first time, read the words:
POOR PEOPLE ARE BORING SAYS TOP DEB. “Camilla Randall, 19-year old great-granddaughter of newspaper baron H. P. Randall, drains her third glass of champagne of the afternoon, closes her heavily-made-up eyes and makes the pronouncement: ‘Poor people are boring.’ Ms. Randall, who was named by several New York publications as last season’s Debutante o
f the Year, is wearing a Porfirio original of a cashmere knit that leaves little of her curvaceous figure to the imagination. She has long, silken blonde hair, large blue-green eyes, and a full, luscious mouth that seems permanently set in a pout. Although she ‘loves’ parties and nightclubs, Ms. Randall wants to be a journalist…”
“Camilla? Camel? Are you there?” Plantagenet’s voice called from the receiver.
“It’s horrible,” she said, hurling the paper across the room. “He makes me sound like a tramp. With the I.Q. of a gerbil. I could just die.”
“But you mustn’t, darling. You must go on. Try to ignore it. I thought maybe I could help. I know you’re leaving tomorrow, but I could come out—”
“Yes, please. Right away! I’ve got to see you…” Her voice broke as she thought of having to face Mr. Stokes at the luncheon table.
“I’ll be there as soon as the commuter train and a Darien taxi will carry me. I’m afraid Edmund has confiscated the Mercedes. We’ve had a little tiff.”
~
Camilla tore off the traitorous nightgown, pulled on her oldest Calvins and baggiest sweater, then excavated under the bed for her luggage. She had to be ready as soon as Plantagenet arrived so she could leave for Rosewood today. She couldn’t spend another minute under the same roof as Lester Stokes.
Tidying the room, she gingerly picked up the Guardian again. Unfortunately, there seemed to be more of Kahn’s poisonous article on the other side of the fold.
“Ms. Randall claims to have a romantic arrangement with the jet-setting Prince Aldo di Saxi-Cadenti, but...”
Nasty, mean and snide.
She shredded the paper into small pieces and stuffed them into a wastebasket, trying to console herself with the fact he didn’t print any of his creepy stuff about her father being a suicidal criminal.
~
Sometime later, a knock at the door made her jump. She threw on her fuchsia-dyed mink bomber jacket. Even with the baggy sweater, she didn’t feel covered.
Randall #01 - The Best Revenge Page 2
