She turned her face a little, watching him slip a hand inside his suit jacket, watching him extract one of those wafer-thin, black calf business card holders. The expensive kind, with a rounded gold corner set with a teeny sapphire cabochon.
Kenzie felt a surge of irrational jealousy.
Obviously an overpriced gift from some girlfriend, she thought bitingly. Men never buy those kinds of things for themselves.
And that decided her. The hell with prudence. She had as much a right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of pleasure as the next person.
So Hannes and Charley were working together. So what?
Last night had been a moment of weakness, a mere hormonal accident. It wasn't as if she intended to take up with Charley again. Nor did she owe him her fidelity. In fact, she didn't owe him a goddamn thing!
She looked on as Hannes performed that one-handed trick of flipping out a business card and holding it between the middle and index fingers— the while-collar version of striking a match with one hand.
"I wrote my home phone number on the back, Kenzie," he said softly.
She reached out to take it, but was unprepared for what happened next.
The card was like an extension of his body. The instant she touched it, a powerful electric current jolted through her.
Unbidden, her mind flashed back to that rain-slashed night last October, when his tongue had fluttered delicately against her naked flesh and she had offered him her treasure, that soft, moist sanctum between her thighs.
He held onto the card a moment before letting go.
And that was when she realized it.
I've missed him, she thought in amazement. Goddammit! I've really missed him!
She swallowed to lubricate her throat. "You . . . you said there were several reasons you dropped by," she reminded him softly.
He smiled. "Well, one other."
She raised her winged brows.
"I would like to take you to dinner this evening. If you are free, that is?"
Dinner, she thought to herself. That's harmless enough. It isn't as though I'm committing myself to anything.
"Yes," she whispered. "I ... I think I'd like that. Only I don't eat red meat, so—"
"No problem," he assured her. "I know just the place. I'll pick you up at seven?"
She nodded hypnotically. "Seven's fine," she said thickly.
"And if the fax arrives in time, you'll bring me a copy?"
She nodded dreamily.
"Well, I'd better fly." His teeth flashed brilliantly again. "I'll see you this evening," he said.
And he was gone.
"Well, well, well," observed Zandra archly. "Darling, he's divine. When it rains it certainly pours—seems your dry spell's over and a monsoon's begun. How ever do you do it? Well, never mind. I'm off to lunch—"
But Kenzie didn't hear a word. She was smiling drowsily into space, anticipating the pleasant evening ahead.
Hannes, she thought. Hot damn!
Chapter 28
Mortimer's, on the corner of Lexington Avenue and East Seventy-fifth Street, is the kind of neighborhood restaurant which wouldn't normally elicit a second glance. The main dining room has cafe- curtained windows, bare brick walls, a long bar to the left, and tables with white cloths to the right. Above the bar hangs a drawing of the restaurant's namesake—the fictional Mortimer—rendered as a romantic young man.
Inevitably, great potted palms (or, as on this day, giant arrangements of blossoming dogwood branches) sit atop the bar, leftovers from the previous night's private party.
That there is never a shortage of these horticultural extravaganzas attests to private parties being not the exception, but the norm: for nearly two decades, the city's rich and famous have adopted Mortimer's as their unofficial but highly exclusive club.
Now, at lunchtime, the main dining room was buzzing as the new arrival breezed in. She carried herself with a kind of breathless theatricality, and posed by the door for a long moment, her eyes spinning about to see who was already here.
Obviously, the usual battalion of ladies who lunch but do not eat.
Holding court at the preferred window tables were the likes of Gloria Vanderbilt, Annette de la Renta, Nancy Kissinger, Pat Buckley, Joan Rivers, Nan Kempner, and a Rothschild or two. Plus their pet escorts—Bill Blass, Jerry Zipkin, Johnny Galliher, and Kenny Jay Lane.
Even as the new arrival eyed them, so too did this cliquish audience eye her right back.
Dina Goldsmith did not disappoint. Her face was immaculate, tweezered, defined. Subdued makeup glowed in a palette of warm almond, creams, and rose. Her blonde hair was pulled tightly back and held in place with a gold barrette and fell loosely down her back like shimmering cornsilk. She was wearing a sable coat over a turquoise Chanel minisuit with orange and lilac braid trim. There were long ropes of tiny, carved, green onyx leaves around her neck, and matching earrings, bracelet, and brooch. Her purse and shoes were black crocodile, and she was carrying a shiny little string-handled red shopping bag.
Her entrance had the desired effect; it set off waves of sibilant whispers.
She savored the talking heads and appreciative looks. They were proof positive that she had Arrived—and with a capital A!
The proprietor, horn rims perched on the tip of his nose, scurried over to welcome her. "Mrs. Goldsmith!" he greeted warmly. "Ms. von Hohenburg-Willemlohe is already here."
Dina smiled brilliantly and, taking little high-heeled running steps, followed him past table IB—the one just to the right of the door, and which was still unoccupied—to the second one down, where Zandra was seated by the window, facing away from the door.
"Hello, sweetie!" Dina sang.
Zandra, who hadn't noticed her entrance, gave a start. "Dina! Gosh! Darling, how are you? Hullo!"
"Sorry I'm fashionably late, and I did so try to be punctual!" Dina leaned down and put her arm around Zandra and almost, but not quite, touched cheeks. "Mwah!" she air-kissed. "Mwah!"
The proprietor pulled out the chair facing the door, and Dina hopped around the table and sat down opposite Zandra and got settled. She put her bags down and pulled off her gloves and shrugged off her sable. Finally, placing her elbows on the table, she leaned forward. "There!" She smiled brightly.
"Gosh, Dina. But darling, you look smashing—it's so great to see you ... seems like it's been yonks! Life treating you well?"
"Oh, you know me, sweetie," Dina said, with a negligible wave. "Life always treats me well. Oh, I am glad you could make it—especially on such short notice!"
Dina's aquamarine eyes couldn't stay still but kept snapping here, there, everywhere. She was like a feverish bidder at auction, except that she exchanged little finger waggles and long-range air kisses with half the lunchers.
"Haven't you heard?" Zandra grinned. "Us working girls will go anywhere for a free meal."
"Pshaw! As if you eat much more than a bird!"
A young waiter appeared. "Would you like something from the bar?" he asked.
"Mineral water." Dina looked at Zandra. "And you?"
"I already have mine."
Dina smiled dazzlingly at the waiter. He was back in no time and poured from a little green bottle. Dina ordered salmon with ginger, and Zandra chose the chicken paillard.
"So what brought you out today?" Zandra asked when the waiter had gone.
Dina took a tiny sip of water. "Shopping, sweetie," she said cheerfully. "Tons of shopping. You wouldn't believe how exhausting it is!"
One certainly couldn't tell by looking at her. Besides, as Zandra well knew, Dina positively thrived on shopping marathons.
"Yes, tons of shopping. Thank God for the car. It's packed full, and there's still the whole afternoon left! Oh. Speaking of which ... here. I got you this." She passed Zandra the little red shopping bag.
"Carrier! What's this?"
"Oh, just a little something. Take it! When I saw them, I knew they had your name written all over them."
&n
bsp; Zandra gave her one of those I-wish-you-wouldn't-have looks and accepted the bag and peeked inside it. She took out three boxes wrapped in white paper with red ribbon.
"Well? Open them!" Dina, finished scanning the restaurant, placed her chin on her hands and smiled with anticipation.
Carefully Zandra undid the ribbon of the smallest box and pulled away the wrapping paper. She eyed the tiny padded red box.
"Dina," she protested again.
Dina rolled her eyes in mock exasperation.
Slowly Zandra lifted the lid. She let out a little gasp. Nestled in a bed of white silk was an exquisite gold ladybug minibrooch in red and black enamel.
"Likee?"
"Yes, but—"
"No buts. I saw it when I got these. See?" Dina extended a limp wrist to show off her carved onyx bracelet, then fingered her matching necklace. "Now, do go on." She gestured with barely suppressed excitement. "Open the rest!"
Zandra dutifully unwrapped another box. It contained lady- bug earrings.
"Di-na!"
"Hush, sweetie. One more to go."
With a sigh, Zandra opened the longest of the three boxes. The breath caught in her throat. The bracelet, consisting of delicate gold links interspersed with enameled ladybugs, was the most exquisite piece of all.
"Gosh. I—I don't know what to say ... they're ... fab! Dina, you are a darling, but I couldn't possibly—I mean ... it's not even my birthday!"
"They're yours, and that's the end of it," Dina said with finality. "The subject is closed." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Look! There she goes already."
Zandra frowned. "There goes who?"
Dina tilted her head toward a bone-thin socialite who was leaving the room. She leaned across the table. "Haven't you ever noticed?" she whispered. "Really, sweetie! The way she runs back and forth to the ladies' room, I'd say it's time she stops taking laxatives!"
Zandra giggled. "Goodness, Dina ... is there anything you don't know about these people?" The salads arrived. "Oh, super. Thanks."
Dina continued to dispense gossip until the entrees arrived. The noise level had swelled by decibels; table-hopping had begun in earnest.
Suddenly, without warning, the dining room fell completely silent.
Dina, glancing beyond Zandra toward the door, murmured: "Goodness!" Her eyes had widened. "So that's who's getting the A table!"
Who ... ?
Zandra twisted around in her chair.
Karl-Heinz had just entered with Becky V, two members of a superior species seemingly indifferent to the sensation they created.
Zandra, mouth falling slightly open, felt a disturbing collision of emotions, and stared at him in surprise, her ears tuning out Dina's running, whispered commentary:
"... well, he would be accompanying her, wouldn't he ... I mean, considering all her titles and his ..."
Zandra's fingers tightened around her fork; brandished it in the air as if the piece of chicken were some freshly speared trophy. Curiously, time did the impossible: contracted—compacting the past three months, during which she'd neither seen nor heard from him, into a split millisecond.
Oh, dear God—Heinzie! What was it about him that made her go all weak—
The room blurred, as with fog, everything going shapeless and out of focus. In the silence, Zandra could hear her heart thundering like a piledriver.
And then the roar and clatter of the diners resumed. Her vision sharpened.
Oh, Lord, it can't be happening! she thought, guilt closing around her like a trap. I can't be falling for him. Christ, he's my bloody cousin—/
Her breast heaved, as if her lungs were struggling for air, and her heart continued to pound deafeningly, arrhythmically.
What is wrong with me? Why am I acting like some silly, infatuated schoolgirl?
"Zandra?"
His voice startled her, jerked her like the strings of a marionette.
"Zandra! Why don't you and your friend join us? Look, the table's laid for four. Zandra?"
She stared at him.
He stared at her.
Neither of them noticed Dina and Becky exchanging barely perceptible, knowing looks.
All they had eyes for was each other.
"Ms. Turner?" said Sheldon D. Fairey, popping his head in the door. "Emergency. A client's asked for an appraisal. Afraid she wants it done yesterday, which means this afternoon. Could you be so good ... ?"
Kenzie pulled a face. "It has to be today?"
"Afraid so. It's a special VIP case."
"All right." She nodded. "I'll take care of it personally."
"Good. I really appreciate it." He handed her a slip of paper. "Don't want to lose this one," he said. "Well, I have to dash. Lunch with a potential client. Huge collection."
And he was gone.
Kenzie stared at the slip of paper he had given her. Then slowly she unfolded it.
Suddenly she sat up straight, eyes bulging.
Certain she was imagining things, she shut her eyes, counted to ten, and looked at the note again.
Kenzie's years in New York might have jaded her, turning her into a cynic and a skeptic whom nothing, and no one, could impress. However, just when she had developed the blase indifference of the true cosmopolite, what should pop up but an exception.
She was floored—who wouldn't have been by the name Mr. Fairey had jotted above the address and the appointed time?
Lila Pons
447 E. 52nd St.
4:00 p.m.
Fabled legend of the silver screen, Lila Pons had been right up there alongside Dietrich and Garbo—and had become, if such a thing is indeed possible—even more reclusive than that most famous of all recluses, Garbo herself.
Lila Pons.
Kenzie sat there in stunned disbelief. Somehow, it felt unreal. Was it truly possible that she, of all the world's experts, should be chosen to appraise the Great Hermit's collection, perhaps even meeting the legend in person?
But there was the proof, right in her hand. In black and white. Lila Pons. "Jesus Christ," she whispered.
Zandra gulped the last of her coffee. "Sorry, darlings," she announced, putting down the cup. "Hate to eat and run, but I really have got to dash."
"Leaving already?" Karl-Heinz sounded disappointed.
"Afraid so, darling. Duty calls." Zandra scooted back her chair.
"Auction's next week, means work galore. And, with this Holbein fiasco, I'll be backlogged until God only knows when ... I mean, everybody, but simply everybody's, breathing down everybody else's neck. You wouldn't believe the stink. Honestly, you'd think they'd announced World War Three."
"Well," Dina murmured, "if you really have to be getting back, I suppose we can't keep you."
"I'm afraid there's no choice, darling. Things are in a bit of an uproar. You know how it goes. Starts at the top of the food chain and works its way down." Zandra smiled good-humoredly. "Look at it this way. At least it's not dull." She stood up and pulled her coat from the back of her chair.
Karl-Heinz rose also. "Perhaps you'll permit me to escort you?" he asked softly, taking her coat and helping her into it.
"Oh, gosh. Heinzie, shouldn't you stay and have a cordial or something?" she asked. "Really. It isn't necessary to escort me."
"I know, but I would like to." He glanced at Becky. "You do not mind?"
"Juste del, cheri." Becky gestured elegantly. "Don't be ridiculous. Off you go."
"I'll call you later," he told her. Then he took Dina's hand and raised it to his lips. "It has been a pleasure."
Dina preened. "The pleasure was all mine."
"Becky." Karl-Heinz gave a slight Prussian bow.
Becky's sculpted features did not alter as she blew him an almost imperceptible kiss. "A bientot, cheri."
Zandra leaned down and embraced Dina. "Marvelous lunch," she said. And, more softly: "But, darling, honestly ... you've simply got to stop with the gifts! Really. Not that they're unappreciated, but you're going to spoil me absolut
ely rotten. You know I'll love you forever anyway."
"Oh do stop, sweetie," Dina begged, although she looked pleased.
Zandra, smiling radiantly, turned to Becky. "It's been fab seeing you again!"
Becky smiled that famous Mona Lisa smile. "And you also, cherie."
Zandra tossed her scarf around her neck and shouldered her leather bag. "Well, toodle-oo you two!" She waggled her fingers and Karl-Heinz took her arm and guided her to the door.
Then they were gone.
"Alors." Becky, lifting her espresso, looked over the rim of the tiny cup with hooded eyes. "That went rather swimmingly, n'est-ce pas?"
"Yes," Dina agreed softly, "it did." She peered through the cafe curtains in time to catch Zandra and Karl-Heinz hurriedly jaywalking across Seventy-fifth Street. "You were right," she told Becky quietly. "They do make the most attractive couple."
"Oui." Becky sipped her espresso and put down the cup. "Alors. I believe the time has come for your little tete-a-tete with Monsieur Fairey."
Dina smiled. "About the weekend in the country."
"Oui. A week from this Friday would be perfect." Becky looked thoughtful and nodded slowly. "Quite perfect indeed ..."
Emotions collided inside her like a raging firestorm. Zandra couldn't remember when she'd felt so utterly powerless or vulnerable. She hated the sensation of helplessness, the inability to dominate her passions. Her reaction to Karl-Heinz had caught her completely off-guard.
On one level, the physical attraction he provoked was intoxicating, uncontrollable, energizing. That was the plus side.
On the negative, she found herself feeling tainted, shamed, repulsed.
He's my relative! she told herself grimly. Good Lord, what I'm fantasizing most likely amounts to incest—
Of course he was a distant enough relation for that not to be an issue. But, appalling as some people might find the notion, Zandra couldn't help wondering what an intimate relationship with him entailed.
Sliding him a brief, contemplative sideways glance, she thought: Sheer bliss, no doubt. Yes, sheer unadulterated bliss ...
Too Damn Rich Page 29
