As soon as he'd gone, Robert A. Goldsmith smiled lecherously at Bambi and said, "I've got a feeling you've got a lot to teach me, l'il lady."
And Bambi, giggling and wiggling and batting her lashes, cooed, "And I've got the feeling you'd make a great pupil!"
In three shakes of a doe's tail, they'd ended up in the back of his limousine, where she proved her credentials—a Ph.D. in Deep Throat—for the first time.
Now, holding his penis in one hand, she flicked her tongue playfully around its bulbous head before sucking him all the way in. Then her lips closed around the base and her head bobbed up and down, up and down, until he tensed, uttered a slight groan, and his penis twitched as he shot his load.
Right into her mouth.
It wasn't exactly an earth-shaking event. In fact, if it hadn't been for the thick spurts of sticky goo, she'd hardly have known he'd ejaculated at all.
Averting her head and hiding her grimace, she whisked the wad of Kleenex back out from under the seat and spat discreetly into it.
For a while he just sprawled there, breathing heavily, his hooded eyes still closed. She used the time to advantage, scrambling back into her seat and swiftly repairing her makeup. Soon her face glowed in a palette of burnt oranges, spicy paprikas, and Knowing Red.
Then she pulled up his boxer shorts and trousers, nimbly snapped the gussets, zipped him up, and buckled his belt. "Now remember, Robert," she told him, "I'm always at your beck and call. Always," she repeated, giving him a significant look.
When she got out of the car, she leaned down through the open door, smiled in at him, and furled and unfurled her fingertips childishly.
"Bye-bye!" she whispered in that breathy little girl's voice of hers.
He nodded absently, his fingers already pushing the buttons which drew aside the curtains and activated the opaque partition which slid down into the back of the driver's seat.
"Office," he tersely told his chauffeur/bodyguard, an ex-boxer with the flattened nose to prove it.
During the ride down to Wall Street, Robert A. Goldsmith unsnapped his briefcase, took out a draft of GoldMart's third-quarter report, and before tackling it, briefly reflected on Bambi Parker.
Maybe he wasn't one to show his emotions, but truth be told, he needed sex as much as the next guy—hey, maybe even more. And, in his book, there was nothing, nothing on earth quite like a blow job to start the day off on the right foot—especially when it was a blonde Locust Valley/Piping Rock Country Club ex-debutante shiksa of a blow job.
But out of sight, out of mind.
His reflection over, he tackled the report.
"Miss Turner?"
The voice was thin, but the ancient gentleman who pecked his head in through the partially open door was even thinner. "If it's not inconvenient, I shall be requiring your expertise this afternoon."
"Mr. Spotts!" Kenzie and Arnold chorused in unison, their chairs shooting away from their desks as they launched themselves to their feet.
"You're back!" Kenzie exclaimed, her heart leaping in delight as Arnold threw the door wide, and the threesome embraced in a warm but gentle hug.
Mr. Spotts kissed Kenzie on the forehead and tousled Arnold's hair with a palsied, paternal hand. Then, regarding them both from over the tops of his half lenses, which were perched at the very tip of his nose, he said: "Yes, I'm back. At least for now, my dears, for now ..." He cupped a hand to his mouth and cleared his wattled throat. "But that's something we can get into later."
Kenzie had to tilt her head way back to look up at him—A. Dietrich Spotts was that tall. He was also very brittle and, due to severe osteoporosis, very stooped. His eyes were moist topaz, his head bald save for some thin, longish strands of white hair he wore combed back, and his skin was translucent from age. As always, he was immaculately dressed. Today he had on a hand-tailored dark gray wool suit, white shirt with pale gray stripes running through the cotton fabric, a beautifully knotted bordeaux silk tie patterned with tiny rooks, and a matching pocket square.
For the moment the three of them stood there, contently soaking up one another's company. Despite more than a half century's difference in their ages, they got along famously.
"At least now that you're back, things will finally return to normal!" Kenzie said happily, giving the old man another tender hug.
"Well?" Arnold inquired. "What's the prognosis?"
Mr. Spotts clicked his tongue against his teeth. "The good news, according to the quacks, is that I'll live."
"Then why the long face?" Kenzie asked. "What's the bad news?"
"Bad," said Mr. Spotts, giving a feeble sigh. "Very bad."
"Well, just how bad?" Kenzie, exchanging glances with Arnold, inquired anxiously.
Mr. Spotts sighed, flicked a speck of lint from his sleeve, and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, as though to stem the flow of pain. "Bad enough that I can no longer work," he warbled softly.
Kenzie and Arnold stared at him speechlessly.
"What do you mean, you can't work?" Arnold finally asked, once he found his voice.
"Those damn quacks insist that I take it easy. Told me I must retire and enjoy myself. Humph!" He shook his head, his wattle and dewlaps quivering with indignant outrage. "How can I enjoy retirement when art is my life's blood? Can you tell me that?"
"Oh, Mr. Spotts!" Kenzie moaned, looking crestfallen.
Mr. Spotts lifted a gnarled pale hand. "Enough of that. The last thing I want to discuss right now are my cardiovascular problems. In the meantime, Miss Turner, I've been invited to a party tonight by Prince Karl- Heinz von und zu Engelwiesen, one of our most valued clients. I always saw to him personally in the past, so I don't believe you ever had the opportunity of meeting him."
Kenzie shook her head. "I've seen pictures of him in the columns, but that's about it."
"Then all the more reason for me to introduce you. If you're free this evening, I'd be delighted if you would accompany me."
"You're asking me out on a date? Oh, Mr. Spotts! How sweet!"
"Not a date," he corrected, giving her a censorious look over his half glasses. "It's one of those loathsome high society events I usually go out of my way to avoid. However, in this case—" Mr. Spotts shrugged eloquently.
"I'd love to go," Kenzie assured him warmly.
"Good. Oh, and do dress up. It's black tie. Anyway, we'll talk more later. If you're both amenable, perhaps the three of us can have lunch together?" He looked inquiringly from Kenzie to Arnold.
"Sure!" Kenzie enthused.
"That'd be great!" Arnold added.
"Splendid. Lunch will be my treat." Then, lifting a trembly hand in a half wave, Mr. Spotts ducked back out. From the way he shuffled along to his office, it was obvious he was on his way to clean out his desk.
"Poor Mr. Spotts," Kenzie empathized as she slowly sank into her chair and swiveled around to face Arnold. "Retirement will kill him," she said quietly. "You know that."
"Only too well," he answered. "For him, Burghley's has always been home. If they'd have let him, he'd have eaten and slept here."
"You know, it's weird. But I really can't imagine this place without him."
"You're not the only one."
It was true. A. Dietrich Spotts was an institution—the only person left at the New York branch who had been there from the very day when it had first opened its doors, nearly forty-two years earlier. For over three decades now, he had headed the Old Masters Paintings and Drawings department, and neither Kenzie nor Arnold needed to be told that without him, things would never again be the same.
"Hi, guys!" intruded the bright, itty-bitty little chirp that set their teeth on edge as Bambi Parker breezed in, hoisting her Bottega Veneta bag onto her desk.
Mumbling desultory "Hi's," Arnold and Kenzie quickly buried their noses in work.
"Am I late?" Bambi asked, all wide-eyed innocence. "I think my watch has stopped." She made a production of shaking her wrist, frowning at the thin
gold timepiece, tapping its face with a fingernail, and then holding it against her ear.
Arnold rolled his eyes; Kenzie, unable to help herself, glanced down at her nemesis's elegantly shod feet. Bambi's Roberto Vianni grosgrain pumps were perfectly intact, just as she'd known they would be. But then, Bambi's heels never broke, just as her palomino pantyhose never ran, split ends were unknown to her, and her fingernails never, ever chipped or broke.
Chapter 5
Dina Goldsmith was on her way, and as the new "owner's" wife, was getting Burghley's red carpet treatment.
Outside, under the scalloped, dove gray awning with its trademark oxblood lettering, waited no less a personage than Sheldon D. Fairey, who held a total of three distinct job titles: chief auctioneer; Chairman of the Board of Directors, Burghley's North America; and President and Chief Operating Officer of Burghley's Holdings, Inc.
He was flanked on his right by Allison Steele, president of Burghley's North America, a deceptively feminine creature who never hesitated to go for the jugular, and on his left by David W. Bunker, Jr., the most senior of the New York branch's nine senior vice presidents.
This bland-faced triumvirate, whose patience had been worn extremely thin after standing there for nearly thirty minutes already, were careful not to show their irritation at the power behind the throne, who had yet to make her appearance.
Dina Goldsmith was—what else?—ultrafashionably late.
Outward appearances to the contrary, inwardly, each of them seethed. Especially Sheldon D. Fairey.
A busy man, he had far more pressing things with which to occupy his time. Every so often, he shot up the cuff of his bespoke suit to consult his gold wristwatch, a rare antique made by the very hands of Louis Elisee Piguet himself, and for none other than the wrist of the late John D. Rockefeller.
But Sheldon D. Fairey kept the true extent of his indignation in check. Aside from periodically glancing at the time, he managed to look outwardly serene.
He also looked to pinstripes born.
Tall, well-built, and perfectly turned out, he was not only imposing— his head could have been a prototype for the Antiquities department's very best Roman busts—but he proved that the looks of a certain few men, like the flavor of a handful of Grand Cru wines, only improved with age. He had thick silver hair combed back from a noble brow, an aquiline nose, solid cleft jaw, and jade marbles for eyes. Somewhere in the neighborhood of sixty, his aura exuded equal amounts of power, polish, and aristocracy.
But looks alone did not the man make. Sheldon D. Fairey was a powerhouse in the art world. He had worked wonders during his ten years at the helm of Burghley's North American operations. For it had been he who had guided the auction house to its present number-one position in New York.
Too, it had been at his instigation that Burghley's had moved from its pricey, limited rental space on Park Avenue to its current, outrightly owned square block—including not only the spacious palazzo housing the auction house proper, but conceiving and then overseeing the construction of Auction Towers, that prime residential complex which out-Trumped Trump Tower itself.
And finally, he, and he alone, had initiated the highly controversial but financially lucrative practice of helping finance multimillion-dollar art for potential bidders.
Now, just as he shot back his cuff to check his watch for the nth time, a block-long white stretch limo with DINA G vanity plates and gold electroplate trim pulled up to the curb.
A full thirty-three minutes late, he noted sourly as he adjusted his cuffs and yellow silk Hermes tie, simultaneously wondering why anyone with Dina Goldsmith's wherewithal would choose such a vulgar outlandish mode of transportation instead of something tasteful like a dark Rolls-Royce or, even better yet, a discreet Town Car?
New money! he thought in disgust. New money always had to trumpet its bourgeois insecurity!
But his face did not betray so much as a flicker of emotion. Nor did he wait for Dina's chauffeur to come around and open her door. Turning up his famous charm, Sheldon D. Fairey took matters into his own manicured hands and helped the new Queen of Manhattan alight with the same gallant demeanor he would have reserved for the Queen Mother herself.
Dina Goldsmith emerged from the Cadillac looking fashion-runway perfect. Having kept the more subtle light of autumn in mind, she had used restraint on her makeup, with just a touch of amethyst shadowing her eyes and a hint of bronze gloss highlighting her rusty red lipstick. She wore a micro-length, black wool tunic-dress with big gilt buttons. A high- necked black lace blouse. Diamond-patterned black leggings. And her hair pulled back and secured with a gold barrette which did double duty by anchoring the silky, shoulder-length blonde hairpiece that matched her hair color precisely.
But she hadn't been as discreet about wearing daytime jewelry as she'd been about her makeup, because no matter what the etiquette experts pontificated, she, Mrs. Robert A. Goldsmith, fully subscribed to the belief that diamonds were appropriate for daytime wear, a fact to which every gemstone expert, diamond cutter, and cognoscente could universally attest, for it is only in bright daylight—especially dazzlingly bright northern light—that diamonds truly came into their own, reflecting and refracting their brilliance the way their cut intended.
Also a firm believer that bigger is always better, each of Dina's earlobes was weighed down with great twenty-five-carat square-cut diamond solitaires.
"Ah ... my dear Mrs. Goldsmith!" Sheldon D. Fairey greeted in his plummiest voice.
"Sheldon," Dina acknowledged.
He bent deferentially over her hand and kissed a mere breath on Dina's fingertips. "May I compliment you on how marvelous you look?"
Dina preened visibly, eating up the attentive homage—and for good reason. She had a memory like an elephant, and today was the day she would get back at him for a whole slew of past slights.
Having greeted Dina, Fairey first introduced Allison Steele and then it was her turn to bring the triumvirate's attention to her sidekick— Gabriella Morton. "My secretary." Dina gestured to the tweedy, bossy squirt of a woman. "Miss Morton."
"How do you do, Ms. Morton?" Fairey greeted in his fruity tones.
"That's 'Miss' Morton, if you please," Gaby sniffed, pumping his arm energetically up and down. "I remember when it was perfectly acceptable to be a 'Miss'—and in my book, it still is."
He looked somewhat taken aback. "Er, of course, Ms.... er, Miss Morton ..."
Dina felt like hugging Gaby on the spot; instead, she made a mental note to give her a well-deserved bonus.
Well-deserved because, several years earlier, it had been this self-same Sheldon D. Fairey who, at one of the Goldsmiths' parties, had dismissed Dina's prized trio of Renoirs as "minor," and had hinted that her treasured Degas Racehorses from Christie's was possibly second-rate and had dared—actually dared!—to question the authenticity of her Toulouse-Lautrec, the very Toulouse-Lautrec she had successfully bid for at Burghley's while no less an auctioneer's mallet than Sheldon D. Fairey's own had sealed the sale! Then, as if that hadn't been provocation enough, she had actually overheard him adding insult to injury by snidely referring to her ornate French furniture as "Louis Cohen" behind her back!
So wasn't it delicious that the tables should suddenly have turned? And that he—Sheldon D. Fairey, of all people!—should now be forced to eat humble pie and have to kowtow to her?
"Louis Cohen" indeed!
Fairey was smiling ingratiatingly at her.
"I cannot tell you how pleased I am to have this opportunity to show you around," he was saying, placing a solicitous hand under Dina's elbow to steer her inside.
But Dina, pumped up with adrenaline, was not quite ready to move.
"Sheldon, sweetie ..." She frowned at the uniformed doorman who was holding open one of the thick plate glass doors for them.
"Yes?" he asked.
She gestured. "That—uniform!"
Sheldon D. Fairey inspected the doorman, who was fastidiously groomed and
spit-shined as always. "What about it, Mrs. Goldsmith?" he asked cautiously.
Dina turned to him, piercing him with a drill-bit gaze. "Those breeches ..." she observed frostily, pointing and making a little production of shivering. "And those ... well, those storm trooper boots! They're too neo ... you know ... Gestapo?"
Sheldon D. Fairey coughed into a cupped hand. "Actually, it's a faithful copy of an English chauffeur's uniform," he informed her.
"Nonetheless." Dina smiled saccharinely, reveling in his discomfiture. "Those uniforms have got to go. Blazers and ties will do nicely ... and they'll be far less intimidating as far as Burghley's customers are concerned. Don't you agree?"
"Hmmm," he said noncommittally.
"Of course you do," Dina purred before turning to Gaby, who was right behind her, steno pad and pen at the ready. "Make a note of that, Gaby, will you?"
Gaby smirked. "Okie dokie, Mrs. Goldsmith."
"Now then, Sheldon." Dina slid her arm through Fairey's. "Shall we get on with the tour? I want to see everything. Absolutely evvvverything!"
And so Dina set about having the time of her life. Busting Sheldon D. Fairey's chops was an eminently satisfying experience.
Once inside the spacious lobby, Dina paused as though to soak in the surroundings, her laser-eyed gaze jumping from one uniformed security guard to the next.
"Really, Sheldon," she said with a frown. "I do believe those guards are half-asleep. Why, look at that one over there!"
She pointed an accusatory finger.
"He's actually sitting down on the job! Sitting down, Sheldon!"
Fairey followed the direction of her quivering finger with unease. Just his bad luck for a guard to be caught having his morning coffee and Danish on one of the customers' benches. Gnashing his teeth, he wondered how word of Dina's arrival had not gotten around to everyone, dammit!
"Hmmm," he said, looking concerned.
"Well? Do they, or do they not, seem far less than alert?"
Too Damn Rich Page 5
