Tears prickled her mermaid green eyes.
Oh, God! What would those animals do to Rudolph when ...
No! she corrected herself, and clenched her teeth. Not when, if ... if they caught up with him?
Her hands shook, causing the cup to rattle in its saucer. Setting it down, she got up and paced the bedroom with restless agitation, raking a hand through her billowing haze of hair.
Lunging to the bed, she snatched up her ostrich-skin address book and tapped it against her hand, her marmalade-colored brows drawn together in crooked furrows.
I have to do something, she told herself over and over. Something ... anything ... I'll never be able to live with myself if I don't.
Her eyes seemed lost and unfocused, but her expression was dogged, her lips compressed in a tight thin line of determination.
But first things first. And her first priority must be to track Rudolph down.
By calling around and telephoning every friend and acquaintance Rudolph had in the British Isles, and that included Ireland, Scotland, and Wales.
Yes! she thought, galvanized into action. She would leave messages all over the place! That way, if he was laying low at a friend's, or happened to run into someone he knew, at least he would receive word to get in touch with her at Dina's.
Zandra could only hope to God her stubborn brother would do so. Because only together—united—could they sit down and sort things out. Surely two heads could come up with a viable solution better than one.
Feeling calmer now that she had some sort of plan, Zandra picked up her empty cup, went out into the sitting room, and poured herself another cupful of tea. Taking a sip, she sat on a delicately carved chair with an oval backrest, placed the cup and saucer on the bouilotte table beside it, and reached for the brass telephone.
Now.
Now to get busy.
Placing the telephone on her lap, she opened her address book to the first page. She would start with A and, if necessary, work her way through the entire alphabet, all the way to Z.
"Shit!" Zandra swore furiously as she slammed down the phone. Tossing aside her address book, she flung herself facedown on the lavishly draped bed, bounced on the raspberry silk coverlet, and then just lay there, propped up on her elbows.
She blew a stray corkscrew of marmalade hair out of her eyes. She was frothing mad and disgusted—hardly surprising, considering that she had spent the last two hours on the telephone, methodically working her way from A through C in her address book, and had nothing to show for her efforts. No one had seen hide nor hair of Rudolph.
And, as if that hadn't been bad enough, seven different acquaintances of her brother's—seven!—had told her that they were looking for him too, and would she be so kind as to pass along a message once she found him? Seems he'd borrowed heavily, and ... well, not to be pushy, but they'd really appreciate being repaid ...
Two bright crimson spots burned on her cheeks. "Blast that Rudolph to bloody hell!" she sighed, rolling wearily over on her back.
Blankly she stared up at the shirred underside of the swagged brocade canopy, a muscle twitch tugging at the outside corner of her left eyelid. She knew she should pick up the phone and continue, starting with the Ds and trying the A, B, and Cs which hadn't answered before, but she felt too low. The notion that her calls would only flush out scores of creditors was too depressing to face at the moment.
"Boo!" a voice shouted, causing Zandra to jump up as though she'd been goosed.
"Dina!" she gasped, placing a hand over her wildly palpitating heart. "God!" She stared at her friend through saucer-size eyes. "You gave me such a scare! I didn't hear you come in—"
"I know I should have knocked!" Dina squealed, abandoning her usual silky voice in her excitement, "but we see so little of each other and—anyway!" She flung her arms wide. "Oooooh, but it's so good to see you again, sweetie!"
Bearing down on Zandra, she gave her a fierce hug, though not fierce enough to brush cheeks and thereby spoil carefully applied makeup. Then she made Zandra sit on the bed, sat down beside her, and held her at arms' length.
"You look absolutely smashing, sweetie. Yes, simply smashing." Dina's eyes sparkled. "I don't know how you do it; perhaps it has something to do with that moist English climate? Yes. That must be it. Oh, but it's so wonderful to see you!"
"And you too, Dina." Zandra attempted a semblance of cheer. "How's Robert?"
"Robert? Eh, forget Robert." Dina flapped a hand dismissively and gave a girlish little giggle. "There's all the time in the world to talk about him. What I want to know right now is, how you are!" She was so bright and chipper she positively glowed.
"Oh ... " Zandra shrugged, one hand oscillating back and forth. "Comme-ci, comme-ca," she sighed. "Alive, at any rate."
Dina was instantly concerned. It wasn't like Zandra to be in low spirits; but then, it wasn't like her to volunteer her personal problems, either—a fact which Dina had long attributed to Zandra's repressive von Hohenburg-Willemlohe genes.
Taking both of her friend's hands in her own, Dina said gently, "Something's wrong, sweetie. It's written all over you. Just remember, I have huge shoulders, a sympathetic ear, and find nothing more delicious than keeping deep, dark secrets."
"Well ... things could be better," Zandra said evasively. "But there's really no need to go into all that right now. It's such a dreadfully long and dreary story we'd still be at it when the sun comes up tomorrow."
"Well, if you're sure it can wait," Dina said dubiously.
"I'm positive."
"If you say so." A frown momentarily marred Dina's features; then she brightened. "I know! Tomorrow night we'll have one of our famous, all-night girl talk gabfests—the kind that drive Robert up the wall!" She clasped her hands to her bosom. "Now then, sweetie. First things first. How long can you stay?"
"Oh ..." Zandra suddenly seemed preoccupied with inspecting her fingernails. "It ... it could well turn out to be a rather lengthy visit."
"Wonderful! You're welcome to be our guest for as long as you like. Days. Weeks. Months, even! You know that."
Zandra looked at Dina, reached out, and gave her friend's fingertips a tight squeeze. "I know," she said huskily, "and thanks. But every little bird needs its nest. I'm going to have to start looking around for an apartment." She frowned. "First, though, I suppose I've got to find a job, which means getting a green card—"
"You're planning to stay that long?" Dina was positively delighted.
Zandra nodded glumly. "I'm afraid so," she sighed.
"Well, I'm not! This is only the best news since ... well, since they invented hair extensions!" bubbled Dina. "It'll be just like old times!"
She put her arm around Zandra's shoulders and gave her a sisterly, sideways hug. Then, letting go of her, she tapped her lips thoughtfully.
"Job . . . job ... jo—" Dina's eyes widened. "But of course!"
"What is it?"
"Abracadabra!" Dina clicked her fingers. "Consider yourself employed."
"Dina, really I—"
"Hush, sweetie, and listen to me a moment. Robert just bought Burghley's. Or rather, I should say, he bought controlling interest in Burghley's, which amounts to practically the same thing. Right?"
"Burghley's? You mean ... the auction house?"
"Good lord, yes," Dina said happily. "Maybe now I'll be known as something other than Mrs. GoldMart. Anyway, do you realize how huge Burghley's is? I just had the grand tour this morning, and the New York branch alone employs several hundred people!"
"Dina ..." Zandra began skeptically, but was waved to silence.
"Whatever you're going to say, I don't want to hear it. With a staff that large, they must have an opening you can fill. Now then, let me see. What's your greatest area of expertise?"
"You mean ... as far as a Burghley's department is concerned?"
"Sweetie! What else could I pos-sib-ly mean? Of course I'm talking department!"
"Well ... I did study art," Zandra sa
id rather uncomfortably. "And from all those vacations spent at various relatives' castles and country houses, I suppose I'm most familiar with Old Masters."
"There you have it! Look no further, sweetie: you're now employed. Robert's lawyers can speed up all that green card nonsense so that you can start immediately, and, in the meantime, if you need money you can borrow some from me, or else get an advance on your paycheck from Burghley's, whichever you find most comfortable." The new Queen of Manhattan smiled magnanimously. "Consider it a fait accompli!"
Zandra could only stare incredulously. Everything was happening so fast it made her head spin.
"Now, then." The new Queen of Manhattan rose to her feet, took Zandra by the hand, and pulled her up. "Next, we need to take inventory. Show me the clothes you've brought along," she demanded.
Zandra blinked. "Clothes ... ?" she repeated blankly. She cast an anxious glance toward the door of the walk-in closet; from the way Dina was talking, she had an absurd mental picture of having packed formal
gowns and cocktail dresses on the run. The image was so powerful and ridiculous she didn't know whether to burst into laughter or tears.
"Sweetie?" A troubled shadow flitted across Dina's features. "Is something the matter? Did I say the wrong thing?"
"No, of course you didn't. It's just that I left so suddenly I didn't have a chance to pack a thing. In other words ..." Zandra gestured at herself. "... what you see is what you get."
"Oh, dear," Dina said, without looking in the least bit perturbed. "Well, I'm sure we can find something for you to wear." She stood back and gave Zandra a critical once-over, her skilled eyes measuring her as accurately as the most experienced, sharp-eyed couturiere. "Would you believe, we're still the same size?"
"But why the big worry about clothes? Dina, what in the world is up?"
"What's up? Ah, I'll tell you what's up. I," Dina purred, producing two thick vellum invitations seemingly out of nowhere and waving them in a manner so giddily rhapsodic that they could well have announced the Second Coming, "have just been messengered invitations for the party of the season. Yes, the season! And, would you believe, it's being thrown by none other than—guess who? Ta da!"
With a flourish, she held the invitations right under Zandra's nose.
"Yes, sweetie, your very own cousin, Prince Karl-Heinz von und zu. And, as you can see, there are two invitations. One for Robert and me, and another for you and your escort." Dina all but swooned with excitement. "Well, sweetie? Are you surprised, or what?"
"Oh, Dina," Zandra tried to beg off. "Not tonight. Please? I'm frightfully tired. I've hardly slept for the past two days and—"
"And nothing. I shall not, I repeat not, take no for an answer. Since the festivities do not begin until seven-thirty, there is plenty of time for you to take a nap and wake up totally rejuvenated."
And taking Zandra by the arm, Dina guided her gently but firmly out of the guest suite, down the grandiose hall, and up the sweeping staircase to her own sprawling suite, chattering like a happy magpie the entire way.
"Thank God my closets are bursting at the seams with clothes I could never begin to wear ... so, first we'll pick out that appropriate little something, then we'll go through my jewelry to match it with a bauble or two—no, I will not let you utter one word of protest—and after that, I'll give you one of my magic sleeping pills and tuck you in myself. You might not believe it, sweetie, but I assure you: when party time rolls around, you'll look and feel fresh as a daisy!"
Chapter 8
What a difference a day makes.
The man who sat down to lunch yesterday in his grand, book-lined study in the Auction Towers penthouse was the world's most eligible thirty-nine-year-old bachelor. The man who was served lunch at the same library table today had turned forty.
It was Prince Karl-Heinz von und zu Engelwiesen's Big Four-O, and the fact that he had turned forty made him aware of more than just his own mortality. The responsibilities his fabulous wealth and title engendered, as well as the peculiar laws of inheritance which had governed his family for nearly three-quarters of a millennium, weighed heavily on his mind.
That he should concern himself with these matters now was in itself disconcerting—especially considering the past two decades of lusty, carefree living.
For Prince Karl-Heinz, indisputably one of the savviest businessmen in the world, was also acknowledged to be one of the most notorious playboys of all time. An exciting, passionate, and well-endowed lover, his life was a chronicle of liaisons and affairs. Movie stars, showgirls, supermodels, and other beauty queens—his amorous adventures did not stop there. An inspired lover of women—all women—his conquests had included the happily married wives and even daughters of friends, business associates, celebrities, and politicians.
Now, hearing a light tap on the study door of his condominium high above Burghley's, he called out in German, "Herrein!"
The door opened and in came Josef, his thin, precise secretary-cum- valet, who had been with him since his youth, and who knew his every quirk and peccadillo.
"Guten Tag, Your Highness," Josef greeted formally in German. "And may I take the liberty of wishing Your Highness a very happy birthday and many happy returns?"
"Guten Tag, Josef, and thank you," returned His Serene Highness, Prince Karl-Heinz von und zu Engelwiesen.
Josef hovered. "Would Your Highness like your lunch now or a little later?"
"Later, Josef."
"Very well, Your Highness."
After Josef left, Karl-Heinz became lost in his reverie once again. On this, his fortieth birthday, his stomach felt hollow as he reluctantly faced the harsh realities of his personal life. It was time he settled down, mended his licentious ways, and secured his future—no easy task for a man in his shoes ...
His Serene Highness, Prince Karl-Heinz Fernando de Carlos Jean Joachim Alejandor Ignacio Hieronymous Eustace von und zu Engelwiesen was blessed with an overabundance of everything. Besides his fortune, which was larger than most; his title, which was older and bluer than most; his aristocratic good looks, which were more handsome than most; he also possessed a libido which—what else?—was more overactively demanding than most. He looked younger than his forty recorded years—recorded, because for the past seven centuries not a single legitimate von und zu Engelwiesen had been born without a trio of lawyers present, whose duty it was to duly witness and certify in an ancient book of bloodstock that the newborn infant was indeed the product of the rightful von und zu Engelwiesen womb, the double loophole in this archaic tradition being, of course, that as many lawyers as not are unscrupulous, and even a triumvirate of them have been known to be bribable. And besides—how could there be irrefutable proof of the paternal sperm serene if lawyers were not present during insemination?
But be that as it may, there was no mistaking Prince Karl-Heinz for anything but the genuine article. The result of a carefully distilled pedigree, he exuded nobility from every pore, not only carrying himself like a prince, but speaking and looking like one, too. His nose was imperial, a true Roman nose: narrow, long, and slightly irregular, with the same central bump which all the ancestral portraits at Schloss Engelwiesen bore as proudly as their dueling scars. His ears, small and flat and nearly lobeless, were obviously a throwback to another of the many royal houses of Europe, with whom von und zu Engelwiesens had intermarried over the centuries. However, his eyes, slightly oval, bright blue, and crinkled at the corners, had a whimsical and definitely unprincely, mischievous cast.
Since the age of fifteen, Prince Karl-Heinz had bedded, but not wedded, the most beautiful women on five continents. Yet his highly publicized playboy exploits were but a small part of his character. Behind the libidinous facade there was a core of diamond-hard toughness, ruthless business acumen, and the kind of confidence that only absolute power and a serene birthright can bestow.
Ironically, that very same birthright was now the root of his greatest problem—and that could be traced all the way
back to the year 1290, when his illustrious ancestor, Eustace, had been rewarded by Charlemagne for services rendered, and made a prince of the Holy Roman Empire.
Deeded vast tracts of lands in what is now Germany, Eustace was also awarded that plum of all plums—exclusive rights to the papal mail routes for the entire western Mediterranean.
And it was that very same Eustace, the first in a long, unbroken line of princes of the Holy Roman Empire, who had laid down the von und zu Engelwiesen family laws governing inheritance for future generations; strict, binding laws which remained in effect to this very day, and to which Prince Karl-Heinz was required to adhere, and to which, therefore, he owed his current predicament.
At the heart of it was primogeniture, not so unusual in itself, since many of the noble houses of Europe still practice the ancient tradition of passing titles and inheritances down through their eldest sons. And as Karl-Heinz was his ailing father's only male offspring, primogeniture should normally have guaranteed his inheritance, and precluded his sister, Princess Sofia, from the running.
However, that was where the distinctive von und zu Engelwiesen complication arose, a problem little appreciated by Karl-Heinz. Thanks to Prince Eustace, the family's particular law of primogeniture clearly spelled out that no less than two prerequisites had to be fulfilled before the eldest son could attain his rightful inheritance.
The first, a precaution to ensure a pure bloodline, was that Karl- Heinz must marry a female who was also a descendant of the Holy Roman Emperors—an obstacle which winnowed the playing field down to a tiny handful of eligible women.
The second was that his wife had to give birth to a male heir before the death of Karl-Heinz's own father, the old prince.
If both these criteria could not be met, the inheritance would then automatically pass on to the eldest son of the next closest relative. As luck would have it, Karl-Heinz's sister, Sofia, and her husband, Count Erwein, had managed to produce a virtual army of strapping and exceedingly handsome if featherbrained princelings.
Too Damn Rich Page 8
