Robert, leaning in close, gestured at his own mouth with the wet end of his cigar. "Read ... my ... lips. As of immediately, Ms. Parker becomes head of Old Masters, my wife's friend gets the position she vacates, an' that's that. Now, will you, or will you not, execute my order?" His bushy brows contracted. "A simple 'yes' or 'no' will suffice."
Sheldon gave a shuddering sigh. It was useless to resist, that much was clear. If Goldsmith was hell-bent upon promoting Bambi Parker, then by God, promote her he would, everything else—Burghley's included— be damned!
"If you insist, sir," Sheldon managed, stilling his tremor by clenching his teeth.
Robert accepted the acquiescence with a magnanimous nod. "Well, then, since everything's settled, what do you say we get back to the party? Perhaps cement our new relationship with a toast, eh?"
Numbly Sheldon nodded, his self-loathing having rendered him speechless, his feet virtually immobile. He let himself be guided out, his mind a maelstrom of self-incriminations. For the first time in his career he had knowingly done the unthinkable—the unimaginable!—had, after all these irreproachable years, consciously compromised and betrayed the venerable institution which had been placed in his trust.
Was this to be his epitaph after leading Burghley's with formidable rectitude through a veritable jungle of economic climes—wild fluctuations he alone had uncannily, almost psychically, foreseen? Impossible to think that his dozens of proudly incorruptible triumphs were suddenly reduced to, what?
Betrayal? Treason? Whoredom?
He felt like a Judas.
No, he told himself, that wasn't quite right. He felt like—a gelded Judas.
And the man who'd chopped off his balls had the nerve to drape his arm, buddy-buddy style, around his shoulders.
Not as an act of friendship. Oh, no. Robert A. Goldsmith, he was all too aware, had a far more immediate and transparent motive: to convey one last mocking and not-so-subliminal message:
Making it crystal clear which of them was the puppet.
And which controlled the strings.
Chapter 14
In the Blumenthal Patio, Prince Karl-Heinz had finally left his post by the entrance. He was circulating, chatting attentively with his guests when a sudden murmur, like a tidal wave gathering momentum, swelled through the crowd. Then, as if a switch had been thrown, all conversation abruptly ceased and the room fell silent. Except for the elegant strains of Mozart's Quartet in G Minor, one could have heard a pin drop.
The focus of attention was the arrival of two fashionably late guests.
He was a bicontinental investment banker of colossal proportions, exophthalmic eyes, and an air of old-fashioned grandeur—and was instantly dismissed.
She was another story. After Princess Di and Queen Elizabeth, inarguably the third most famous woman alive; this rare descent from the heights of Mount Olympus, was greeted with the awe and reverence due a living legend.
For Rebecca Cornille Wakefield Lantzouni de la Vila was precisely that, plus a whole lot more.
A blue-blooded Daughter of the American Revolution, she and her rival twin sister, now the Vicomtesse Suzy de Saint-Mallet, had been born into genteel poverty in the beautiful hunt country of rural New Jersey. Luckily, the Cornille Twins, as they were to become known in society circles, were two of the great beauties of the world. More important, both were blessed with that most practical of all gifts—an exceptional ability for choosing brilliant husbands, a brilliant talent in and of itself.
Suzy, the elder by six minutes, married and buried the exceedingly wealthy French vicomte before latching onto the richest of all Hollywood producers, a wedding which ended in divorce and a huge financial settlement, after which she continued using her first husband's title.
Rebecca, the greater of the two beauties, married and buried three husbands and, like her sister, remained childless, as is often the case with fraternal twins. But if Suzy's marital matches were brilliant, Rebecca's verged on pure genius.
Husband number one was William Winterton Wakefield, III, that most stolidly Republican of all United States Presidents, who left his widow a social position second to none, and a fortune estimated at between twenty-five and thirty million dollars.
Husband number two, Leonidas Danaus Lantzouni, a rich Greek bearing gifts, left her sole heiress to a self-perpetuating empire so vast it reduced the Wakefield millions to a bagatelle.
And Husband number three, the Duque Joaquin de la Vila, a sixty-year-young Spanish nobleman with a lethal penchant for fast cars, left Becky with more titles than she could keep track of, and an embarrassment of riches which verged on the obscene.
Subsequently, Rebecca Cornille Wakefield Lantzouni de la Vila, or Becky V, as the press had taken to dubbing her, a sobriquet which had stuck, and by which she was known throughout the world, suddenly found herself beyond money; beyond, even, the stratospheric limits of high society itself and occupied that most exalted of all positions—the sun around which all lesser planets gravitate. At once the brightest, most photogenic, and yet pathologically private of all the celestial bodies in the social firmament, it was her air of mystery, remoteness, and unapproachability which had been the final catalyst in catapulting her to near-goddess stature.
Physically she was beguiling, a high-fashion wraith with a clothes- hanger figure. Sable hair worn in the same signature cut as Gloria Vanderbilt, tucked behind the ears and curving forward, commalike, beneath the delicate lobes; taut, surgically stretched skin; a proud Nefertiti-like profile; and eyes of the most incredibly intense violet hue.
But even more compelling than her beauty was her actual physical presence, for Becky V seemed to float regally through life in an otherworldly aura all her own.
Tonight, as always, she was trailed by two suits, obviously Secret Service agents, a courtesy extended to all former U.S. Presidents and their wives for security purposes. And also as always, she was dressed to kill, all in heavenly sapphire blue: A billowing, silk taffeta confection by Carolina Herrera, with a snug bodice cut on the bias, so that one shoulder was left bare while an extravagant silk bow blossomed from atop the other. On her feet, custom-made, pointy-toed heels of the exact same fabric, with ballerina ribbons crisscrossing the ankles, frivolous fantasies whipped up by a Florentine master whose identity Becky V guarded as jealously as her privacy.
And finally, there were drop-dead sapphires. The fabled Kashmir stones known in the trade, and among true cognoscenti, as "The Shah Jahan Suite." Just one of the many gifts from her second husband, the Greek.
Karl-Heinz crossed the enormous room, the guests parting soundlessly for him like the Red Sea for Moses. "Becky!" he greeted with delight, taking both her hands in his and kissing each of her cheeks without actually touching skin. "You honor me with your presence."
She favored him with the elusive smile Leonardo had made famous, but which she had appropriated. Her famous Mona Lisa smile, the press called it.
"How could I not be here for your birthday, Heinzie, cheri?" she said, her cornhusk voice a complete surprise to those who heard it for the very first time. "But your fortieth?" she continued. "I said to myself, 'Pas possible!' "
Ironically, it was she, who had married a Spaniard, and not her sister, Suzy, who had wed the French vicomte, who was the unabashed Francophile, constantly sprinkling her English with enough French to qualify it as Franglaise.
"To me, you do not look a day over twenty-nine," she said. "Non, non, non, not one single day!"
"Always the diplomat," Karl-Heinz noted with a chuckle, "and as always, lovelier than ever. You never seem to age. How do you do it, Becky? You must tell me your secret!"
That mystifying, unfathomable smile remained. "If I ever divulge that, je tu le promets, mon cheri, you, and you alone, shall be the only person I shall tell!"
Karl-Heinz, who knew she would do no such thing, cocked one eyebrow in amusement before politely turning his attention upon her escort.
"Lord Rosenkrantz," he acknowledged
with a slight bow, gripping the firm hand of the bristly browed gentleman. "A pleasure to meet again."
"On the contrary!" boomed the British-born financier. "The pleasure is entirely mine. May I wish you all the best, and many happy returns."
While the men talked, Becky V slowly, majestically, surveyed the room, her gaze purposely high so that she saw over the guests' heads and thus avoided catching anyone's eye, a technique she'd perfected for dealing with crowds during Bill Wakefield's presidential campaign.
"Mon Dieu!" she exclaimed softly, a little bewildered. "Is it my imagination, or is le tout New York out in full force?"
"You need not worry," Karl-Heinz, well aware of her aversion to throngs, however choice its denizens, was quick to assure. "Your timing is perfect. We are about to dine, and since only half these guests are invited to the dinner itself, the crowd will thin out perceptibly. But first, just to be polite, we really ought to circulate for a minute or so. That is," he added solicitously in light of her privileged status, "if you do not mind?"
Becky V gamely slipped an arm through his. "Il le faut," she pronounced imperiously. "Today is your birthday, so just this once I must do as you command. Tu marcher en tete!"
"Leapin' lizards!" gasped Kenzie in a voice of reverence. "Did you get a load of who just arrived?"
Her new-found Adonis, returning with their drinks to find her all agog, smiled tolerantly and pressed a glass of champagne into her hand. "Rest assured," he said, "your eyes did not deceive you."
"Then you saw her, too?"
Hannes smiled. "How could I have missed her? She only caused this entire crowd to fall silent."
"Yes," Kenzie said solemnly, "that she did. And here I was, always under the impression that in these circles, people were immune to such star-struck behavior."
"Yes, but Becky V is notorious for never appearing in public," he said.
"So is Michael Jackson," she pointed out.
He smiled. "Why? Do you miss him?"
"Truthfully, no. But enough about that." She held out her glass and proposed a toast. "Here's to—"
"—us?" he interjected softly, staring intently into the glowing depths of her eyes.
Thrown completely off guard, Kenzie was deaf to the clink of their glasses and the surrounding swirl of chatter and laughter, was aware only of her own heightened sense of visual perception. Acutely conscious of nothing but the indecently superb male specimen she had attracted.
Us! she thought jubilantly, wanting to burst from exultation. He said, "us!"
Taking another sip, she waited to swallow, savoring the tingly burst of bubbles in her mouth. Privately celebrated his male proximity by imagining him a bee and her own nude body a blossom ripe with promising, fragrant pollen. Wondered, among other things, whether meetings such as theirs were accidental or predestined, and if he could hear her heart thumping wildly against her rib cage.
"You've suddenly become very quiet," he observed. "Is that because silence is golden?"
She did not speak.
"Ah. Then perhaps the proverbial cat has your tongue?"
"Perhaps," she admitted with a hint of a yawn, deliberately trying for disinterested cool, but not quite pulling it off and not really caring one way or the other if she did. "Are you here with someone?"
"You mean ... a lady?"
She let her silence speak for itself.
"To answer your question," he replied, obvious amusement playing on his face, "yes, I came with a lady. But have no fear. It seems that I have been deserted."
"Dumped!" Kenzie exclaimed, her surprise genuine. "You! For another man?"
He grinned. "Thank God. She was quite tedious."
"But beautiful?"
"If you consider artifice beauty, then I suppose so." Hannes swallowed some champagne, all the while holding her gaze. "And you? I gather you did not arrive here alone, either?"
"Nooooo," she said slowly. "Does that make a difference?"
"Only sometimes. Now let me see ... is he tall, dark, and handsome?"
Kenzie did a moue and pretended to consider. "Well, he is tall," she allowed flirtatiously, enjoying the sexually charged banter immensely.
"And handsome?"
She had to subdue a smile. Mr. Spotts was hardly bad-looking— especially considering his age—but no one could ever accuse him of being handsome. "Well, I ... I suppose you could say he ... he looks ... mmm ... distinguished," she ended cagily.
"But he's not your husband?" Hannes glanced at her unadorned ring finger.
Kenzie was pleased. It seemed ages since someone other than Charley had come on to her. In fact, she had almost forgotten what such attention was like, or how deliciously it stroked the feminine ego.
"Whatever gave you the idea I was married?" she wanted to know.
"Just asking."
She smiled. "Well, since you want to know, I'm still single. There." Without waiting for a reaction, she sipped another milliliter of champagne. "And the lady you accompanied here? Is she your wife?"
"God forbid!" he laughed.
"Mistress, then?"
"She'd better not be, or else her husband might well take a shotgun to me!"
"Ouch!" She made a face. "I take it he's the jealous type?"
"Oh, yes," he said, "very. As well as a splendid marksman."
"Sounds awfully romantic," Kenzie said, meaning it.
"I suppose that's one way of looking at it."
"But isn't he afraid of entrusting his wife to your ... care?"
"Why? Should he?"
Kenzie found herself blushing. Lowering her eyes, she looked down into her glass, slowly twirling it back and forth by the stem. "Well ... what I mean is ... you're ... well, you're not exactly ..."
"Exactly what?"
"Well, not the Elephant Man, that's for sure."
Hannes threw back his head and laughed. It was a spontaneous, open-mouthed laugh which reached his eyes and crinkled their corners, a laugh which instantly disarmed, contradicting the strength of his too- handsome features, bringing his chiseled perfection down a notch and proving that he was, after all, a lusty, flesh-and-blood human instead of some narcissistic marble deity.
Pretending a calm disinterest she did not feel, she tore her eyes away from his and abruptly changed the subject. "What ... what kind of a name is Hannes?" she asked, apropos of nothing.
His voice was a seductive whisper. "It is Scandinavian, Kenzie. I was born in Porkkala. That is a town on the Finnish Riviera, slightly to the west of Helsinki."
"I can't believe you're from Finland!" she exclaimed.
"And why is that, Kenzie?"
"Because ... well, your English! It's flawless. You don't have the least trace of any accent."
"That," he explained, "is because my father was a career diplomat. His work took us to every conceivable corner of the world, and I attended English boarding schools, as well as American embassy schools in ... oh, it must have been a dozen different countries."
She stared at him, half paralyzed, her heart knocking ever harder, and she had the sensation of the room receding and growing silent until it seemed they were the only two people there.
"And you're the first Hannes I've ever met," she whispered huskily. "Or, for that matter, the first Hans ..."
Once again they were captured by each other's gaze, his so hypnotic that Kenzie's breath left her altogether, and she knew with a certainty, with an absolute dead certainly, that she was gone. There was no use fighting it; resisting him would only fuel the flames of her own desires, a point proven when he caught her arm and drew her swiftly to him as if he meant to kiss her. When she realized, after a moment, that it was only so a waiter with a champagne-laden tray could pass unhindered, she felt the dull, empty ache of disappointment.
He sensed it, and instead of letting her go, held her all the more tightly against him, his lips curved in a mischievous little smile.
Her lips went suddenly dry and she could feel a fever raging in her loins; a kind o
f fire leaping between him and herself.
Oh, how alive and vital and lustful he was! And ah, how wondrously spellbinding, this silent communication!
Why on God's earth, she asked herself, would I want to resist him?
And yet, her better judgment hadn't entirely deserted her—from somewhere far within the recesses of her mind, some dormant wisdom told her to take it slower, cautioned that things were proceeding too fast.
A stranger as handsome as Hannes has got to spell trouble, the voice in her head warned. If you know what's good for you—and you do— you'll quickly make your exit. At least give yourself time for a breather. Why not repair to the ladies' room? Who knows? You might even avoid a ton of potential heartache ....
Extricating herself from his arms, she murmured vague excuses about visiting the powder room, and backed away on unsteady legs. Then, turning swiftly, she fled, plunging through an opening in the dense crowd while repeating, "S'cuse me ... s'cuse me ... s'cuse me ...," giving strangers she bumped apologetic little smiles to show she'd meant no offense.
Too late, Kenzie saw the tall figure hurtling toward her on a collision course, an orange-tressed figure wearing red, white, and black who, like she herself, was hurrying too fast to be able to stop.
For an instant, time seemed suspended, then sped up as the inevitable occurred. The two young women collided—slam-bam!—breaths exploding before each bounced backward a step, the champagne glasses flying out of their hands.
Liquid sloshed, drenching their bosoms before two distinct crashes, one right after the other, signaled glass shattering on the floor.
Kenzie and Zandra both let out simultaneous moans of horror. Pinched their skirts and held them out, looking down at themselves to assess the damage. Then, slowly raising their heads, each glared accusingly at the other.
The crowd, which only moments earlier had wisely jumped back, now pressed eagerly forward, soles and heels crunching on broken glass.
Too Damn Rich Page 14
