"Hiding? Good heavens, no!" came the bright reply. "Honeymooning with Alex—what else?"
"But darling, that's marv. Happy, are you?"
"Lord, yes."
"Congrats. Doesn't this call for a drink or something?" Zandra glanced around. "Wherever is the lucky man?"
Penelope's face fell. "Would you believe, came down with the flu, of all things? Really. I warned him: 'Get inoculated, darling.' Well, men bloody well never listen, do they? And, would you believe, we have front- row seats for Sunset Boulevard tonight? Hate to waste the tickets, but that's out now ... I mean, who wants to go alone?"
Abruptly Penelope brightened.
"Of course! How utterly silly of me! Zandra! Why don't you come? We'll have dinner before ... the Russian Tea Room's my absolute fave. Oh, do say yes. It'll be divine."
"Why ... I ... yes. Why not?"
"Zandra, that's super! You're a darling. I mean, you've only positively saved my entire evening. We've tons to catch up on ... oops! Better run! Playing Florence Nightingale between shopping. You know. Anyway, we'll meet at six?"
"The Russian Tea Room. Yes."
"I can't wait! We'll look positively glam. Remember, reservations are for Troughton. Mrs. Alex Troughton." Penelope giggled. "Off I go!"
Swift kisses punctuated air; fingers waggled blurrily.
"Toodle-oo!"
And the bundle of couture rags dashed off.
Zandra stood there, staring. She felt as if a minitornado had swept her up and then left her, whirling on to wreak havoc upon whoever—or whatever—lay in its path.
Moseying on along Madison, she thought about the evening ahead.
The Russian Tea Room and a Broadway show.
Why not? It wasn't as if she had anything better to do.
Chapter 25
Will you stop pacing and settle down?" Charley snapped irritably.
A"Christ, Kenzie. You're as nervous as a cat in heat. What d'you think I'm gonna do? Bite?"
"Nervous? Who's nervous?" challenged Kenzie, lowering herself onto a slipper chair with lofty affront—no way was she going to sit beside him on the couch. Unh-huh. Hell would have to freeze over first!
Too, she wisely sat on her hands in order to make it impossible to fidget, for, words to the contrary, her body was a veritable human tuning fork of nervous energy. If she'd known that Zandra—some friend!—was going to desert her in this, her greatest hour of need, she would never have agreed to meet Charley here, alone in her apartment.
No. She would have been careful to choose neutral turf. After all, it only made sense to confront a lecherous deviant in a crowd, and not in private quarters.
But now here she was: alone with the world's number one bastard— that incomparably egotistical sex maniac who thought he was God's gift to women.
"Look, Charley," she said in a brisk, businesslike tone, "let's keep this discussion on a purely professional keel, shall we? The only reason we're both sitting here is because we have a mutual problem to solve."
"Oh?" he said, fingering one end of his droopy, Sam Elliott of a mustache. "Is that so?"
"It is," she replied crisply.
"Unh-unh. No, Kenzie." Abruptly he stopped worrying his mustache. "No. It is not so. You see, you are looking at this from a fundamentally wrong angle." Charley flicked an index finger between himself and her. "We do not have a problem. Granted, Burghley's may well have a problem, ergo—" He leveled the index finger at her, "—you have a problem. But neither the NYPD art theft squad nor I has one."
Lounging back on the sofa, he crossed his arms behind his head and made himself comfortable. "Now, the sooner you digest that minor fact," he said smugly, "the better off we'll both be."
Kenzie's face stung. How dare he lecture me! she thought, with rising fury. Who the hell does he think he is?
And, more to the point, had he forgotten that the police department
was—in theory at least—an organization comprised of public servants? And that Burghley's, as a tax-paying institution, had as much a right to its services as the Artisteria Gallery, that second-rate peddler of dubious prints by Leroy Neiman, Erte, and Dali?
Damn right it did! However, she knew that this was neither the time nor the place to let the fur fly.
Let Charley be smug, she told herself. He can act as immaturely as he wished; she, Burghley's appointed representative in this matter, would remain outwardly calm, businesslike, aloof, and entirely above reproach—so unflappably above reproach that it would drive him clear up the wall.
"Sorry, Charley," she said. "Like it or not, you're on this case. And, if it turns out that the Holbein was indeed stolen—"
"Aha. Hold it right there." Charley held up a hand, palm facing out: a cop stopping traffic. "You're saying it had to have been smuggled into this country. Am I right or am I right?
"If it was stolen, yes." She nodded.
"Then it's a matter for Interpol and the FBI. Or need I remind you that international trafficking in stolen art is way beyond NYPD jurisdiction?"
"You do not. And you're wrong. Granted, it's a matter for Interpol and the FBI. But it also concerns the NYPD. That painting's in our Madison Avenue vaults, Charley. On New York City soil. Moreover, it was brought in to our New York galleries by a Manhattan attorney representing the seller who, for reason or reasons unknown, prefers to remain anonymous."
"A dead giveaway that something's not kosher, hmm?"
"Charley," she said, as patiently as she could, "I didn't take that painting on, okay? Also, I don't need to tell you that we deal with intermediaries all the time. Lawyers, art consultants, private dealers ... we both know why sellers use them."
"In order to remain anonymous."
"Right. Whether for fear of thieves or kidnappers, or because the owner's fallen on hard times and doesn't want to broadcast that fact, or because he's some mad recluse who'll go to any lengths to maintain his priva—"
"Aw right, aw right!" Charley said testily. "Just tell me what you want me to do. Arrest someone we don't even know exists?"
"On the contrary. For now, your job is to help expedite our own investigation. In short, you have access to information we may be unable to obtain. Also, we might need you to liaise—"
" 'Liaise'?" He gave a mock start; made a little pretense of looking impressed. "That the word of the day now?"
"Ha ha, the smartass surfaces. Now then. I take it we can count on your, uh, expertise?"
"Why not just hire a detective?"
"Because you are one," she pointed out inexorably.
"Yeah, but I meant a private dick."
"Is that why we're taxed out the whazoo?" she asked indignantly. "To pay the private sector for the same services for which we already pay the city?"
"Shoulda known you'd have an answer handy," he muttered darkly.
Tilting her head, she smiled with great sweetness.
"Okay," he sighed. "Would you mind telling me exactly what information I'm supposed to procure, and who I might need to, er, liaise with?"
"I was hoping you could tell me." She was all smiles. "You're the cop."
He mashed a hand into his face. "Christ. Walked right into that one, didn't I?" He gnashed his teeth in frustration. Of all the creatures vile and evil, this she-devil really, truly took the cake! How like her to use his own words against him. And how incredibly phenomenal that so much ruthless calculation—so much devious selfishness!—could be contained in such a deceptively cute and petite package. There really ought to be a law about people's outsides matching their insides, not that it mattered much anymore. She'd fooled him once, and he'd learned his lesson the hard way. Still, in retrospect, it was difficult to imagine he'd once been so gullible as to have granted this cunning bitch the all-encompassing warmth of his body and soul. Well, at least there was no danger of that ever happening again!
"Aw right," he sighed, reluctantly firing up his gray cells. The quicker he got this over with, the sooner he'd be gone. "Who's the intermediar
y?"
"An attorney named Zachary Bavosa." "Shit."
"Why 'shit'?" Kenzie asked, giving him a strange look. "I take it this means you know something about him?"
"Yeah. Matter a fact, I do."
"Like?"
He showed some teeth. "Like you're dealing with a real scumbag."
Takes one to know one, she thought, but didn't articulate.
"A true, world-class lowlife," he reiterated. And frowning thoughtfully, added: "Better count me out."
"Whoa!" Kenzie said heatedly, feeling warmth prickling her cheeks. "Back up there." Her hands were itching to crawl out from under her buttocks, and it was all she could do to keep sitting on them. But sit on them she must: the urge to grab him and shake information from him was altogether too great.
"Look, Kenzie." He rested his forearms on his thighs and leaned across the kilim-draped coffee table. "Bavosa might be a lowlife, okay? But he's strictly small time. The Artisteria robbery ... yeah. I could see him acting as an intermediary for their kinda stuff. But a Holbein?" He shook his head. "No way."
"Ah! So you admit to putting a penny-ante heist above what's possibly a major theft!"
"Like hell I am! A robbery's a robbery. People were bound and gagged at the Artisteria Gallery. For your information, they coulda easily been killed."
"Yeah," she smirked. "And for Lex Buggs or Ertes. God. Imagine the insult."
He wasn't amused. "You realize how many people a day are killed for less?"
"Lots, I'm sure. But how," she demanded, "do you know someone wasn't killed acquiring the Holbein?"
"I don't, but that's a lifetime and four thousand miles ago. Meanwhile, the Artisteria robbery's here and now."
"So's the Holbein," she snapped, not in anger, but with conviction. "At least, according to Washington and Bonn it is. And, penny-ante or not, Bavosa's the intermediary."
"Probably through sheer luck, and because there's no conspiracy involved."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because anyone with half a brain would steer clear of him, that's why. Tell you what—I'll inform Officer Kopensky that you'll be in touch. She's eminently capable, and you can work with her. Now, I've got more pressing things to do, so unless there's something else, I'm outta here."
He rose to his feet.
She jumped to hers. "Oh no you don't!" she huffed. "You're not going anywhere, Charles Gabriel Ferraro. Not if I can help it."
He snatched his overcoat from the sofa and started past her. "Then you just watch me," he said grimly, striding to the front door.
"Like hell I will!"
With the speed of lightning, she darted unerringly in front of him, reached the door first, and stood there, splay-legged, barring his way. Her arms were crossed in front of her, and she stared up at him, amber eyes shining like coals.
"Kenzie," Charley sighed wearily, "when are you gonna stop playing games? Will you please step aside?"
Her nostrils flared as she tossed her head. "Not if my life depended upon it." Her feet were firmly planted and she stood there, resolute as a rock.
He stared down into her upturned face. "Does this mean I must physically remove you from my path?"
"Oooooh!" she taunted, her eyes growing wide. "So now you're into police brutality." She barked humorless laughter. "Why am I not surprised?"
"Kenzie," he sighed, "c'mon. You're leaving me no choice."
"Charley, if you so much as lay a ... a goddamn finger on me, so help me God I'll ... I'll ..."
"You'll what?"
Her pupils dilated. "I'll physically restrain you!"
"You? Restrain me?" He laughed. "Don't tell me. You into jujitsu now?"
"Go ahead." She sniffed loftily. "Make fun of me if you want."
"I'm not making fun," he said quietly. "I'm asking you nicely. Now, for the last time, will you please step aside?"
She kept her chin raised. "No fucking way."
"Then you leave me no other option." He reached out for her, but again, she was quicker.
Unthinkingly, and totally without premeditation or warning, she launched herself directly at him, grabbing him around the neck with her arms while jackknifing her legs and scissoring them tightly around his waist.
She caught him so utterly unaware, so entirely by surprise, and impaired his vision so completely, that he staggered backward and dropped his coat.
"Are ... you ... mad?" he gasped, pulling at her thighs with both hands in an attempt to wrench her loose.
Instead of replying, she clung to him like a monkey, but with one vast difference. No simian on earth had so unyielding a grip, or was so smooth-skinned, so ripely, voluptuously, and undeniably feminine. Under the circumstances, there wasn't a red-blooded, heterosexual male on earth who stood a chance, especially not with the crotch of her red jersey sweats pressed right up against the crotch of his twills. Despite his angry curses, he could already feel something stir beneath the layers of fabric, and so could she.
He was definitely getting hard.
"Get ... the hell ... off me!" he gasped hoarsely. In vain, he tore at the drawstring waist of her sweatpants. "Let ... go!"
"Never!" she panted. Her hold around his neck and middle tightened.
"You ... fuckin' ... bitch!" Even as his penis swelled, he made one last ditch attempt to free himself. Grabbing the back of her sweats with both hands, he yanked the waist apart with all his might. A sudden ripping noise ensued as fabric rent; seams and drawstring gave way, ragged cotton drooped. Instantly Kenzie felt the rush of cool air as all that stood between her and bottomless nudity were the briefest of red briefs.
"You ... you barbaric Neanderthal!" she huffed, shaking with rage.
Unable to see past her, he staggered around blindly.
Savagely she pummeled his buttocks with both feet and beat his back with her free fist. "Defiler!" she ranted, biting his ear with knife-sharp teeth for good measure.
He yelped in agony. "Lunatic!"
"Pervert!" she screamed. "Rapist!"
And then his foot caught on the edge of the carpet. Letting out a yell, he teetered dangerously, lost his balance and toppled over backward, landing heavily on the floor. Air whooshed out of his lungs.
Fortunately for her, he'd landed on his back, so she wasn't squashed. However, she had rolled off him. Now, being the first to recover, she scrambled right back atop him, in her haste not noticing that she was straddling him upside down, in the classic position universally known as the sixty-nine. Damn! Talk about facing in the wrong direction!
She tried to scoot around, but it was already too late. Charley was coming to, his hands pushing on her buttocks and trying to lift her, while his face, pressed against that most glorious of all obstructions, the mound of her barely covered pubis, exhaled radiant warmth right into the core of her being.
Kenzie's entire torso arched, and she went momentarily stone cold. Then something inside her—the icy resolution she'd believed impervious to combustibility—ignited and melted away in a blaze.
And still the internal explosions continued, on and on, as if fed from a bottomless source. Violent shudders, fierce and deeply sexual, wracked her body from head to toe, and the feeling of physical urgency was curiously liberating, as though shackles were cracking apart and setting her free. Suddenly, it seemed only natural to focus all her attention upon the groin of Charley's gray twill trousers.
For, unlike Oakland, there was a there there. And, from the way the fabric twitched and strained, there was a lot of there there. A whole lot.
A killer erection, if she gauged it correctly.
Reaching out, she firmly took hold of his cloth-enshrouded penis.
He nearly levitated.
She sighed aloud with pleasure. How had she done without for so long? And whatever could have possessed her to lead these last few months of mean, self-induced celibacy in the first place? A lively sex life, like a fine wine, was to be enjoyed.
"Kenzie ... " Charley's voice was muffled, but
the vibrations it sent coursing through her were electric. "... we're both ... gonna regret ..."
But she wasn't listening. An intense heat, like from a furnace, radiated from deep within her, and a warm sticky moisture dampened her panties and wet her thighs.
"Please . . ." she heard Charley gasp. "This ... isn't . . . fair ... "
"Charley," she chided, bowing her head into his groin, "haven't you heard? All's fair in sex and war."
Gently she took the zipper pull between her teeth and slowly unzipped his trousers.
His fly opened like a husk, and when she loosened his trapped phallus and scrotum, his penis twitched the air, a heat-seeking missile in search of its target. With its enormous swollen head and prominent veins bulging in deep relief, it rose stalwartly from its thicket of pubic hair, looking like nothing so much as a delicious sculpture fashioned of the finest, surpassingly pink nephrite.
"I ... I'm ... not responsible," Charley managed, his voice, like his warm breath, lost in her moist, private-most regions.
"Oh, do shut up, Charley," she said, without rancor. "Didn't anybody ever tell you you talk too much?"
And gripping the stem of his manhood with one hand, she loosened his belt and trouser button with the other, all the while leisurely pressing her groin into his face.
His pleasurable groans were a dead giveaway, as was his tongue working its way beneath her panty line.
She knew now that he was lost; they'd reached the point of no return.
Good.
Taking a long, deep breath of delight, she lowered her mouth and trailed the feathery tip of her tongue teasingly along the length of the engorged shaft and then reverentially across the succulent globes of scrotal fruit.
With her every lick, Charley gasped and pushed his pelvis upward.
Well, he can shake, rattle, and roll all he wants, she thought, with a smile. Not that it'll do him much good.
On the contrary. She had done without for too long to rush things along now, and was resolutely—obstinately and inexorably—determined to savor every last delectable millimeter of him, and for as long and leisurely as was humanly possible.
Too Damn Rich Page 26
