"Zandra?" Dina's voice squawked from the receiver. "Sweetie, what is going on?"
"Gosh. Dina, I've simply got to hang up."
"But what about next weekend?"
"Darling, I'll be there," Zandra promised, just to get her off the phone. "Count me in. And, it'll be fab. Just like old times ... we'll talk later—this evening. That's a darling. Ta!"
Hanging up the phone, Zandra looked thoughtful.
A weekend in the country. At least it would get her out of town. In three months she hadn't set foot off Manhattan.
A change of scenery was definitely overdue.
The cabinet d'amateur of Becky V's penthouse.
Like a precious jewelbox, the mellow, Goya-studded walls paid homage to its single most priceless treasure.
There she was, seated in a thronelike, flame-stitched chair. The former First Lady. Studying a gilt-framed painting on a strategically placed easel. Glowing in a shaft of dim, dust-mote sprinkled light was a Corot, Bathing Venus, which a Madison Avenue gallery had sent over on approval.
To buy or not to buy ... That was the three-and-a-half-million- dollar question.
And overriding that, since money was no object, loomed an even larger and more important issue: Was the quality of the painting superb enough for her collection?
She sat there, frowning, trying to decide.
A loud knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. "Oui?" she called out.
Uriah, her ancient servant, shuffled in and cleared his throat. "Madame!" he shouted. "Mrs. Goldsmith is on the telephone!"
"Merci, Uriah." Still studying the Corot, Becky felt for the extension phone beside her and picked up the receiver. "Allo?"
"Sweetie! It's Dina!"
"Cherie!"
"Everything is fixed. Fait accompli!"
"And Zandra?" Becky's eyes never strayed from the painting.
"She's agreed to join us."
"Bon. You have done well, cherie. I shall call Karl-Heinz at once."
Chapter 31
Later that evening, Manhattan glittered frostily. Seen from above, it looked like that famous black-and-white aerial photograph by Berenice Abbott, a signed, platinum-processed copy of which hung in Karl-Heinz's corridor.
But there was one unique difference between image and reality: color.
The millions upon millions of incandesced windows glowed yellow instead of white. Down at street level, the traffic lights winked in constant repetition: red, yellow, green ... yellow, red, green ... Blinking, multicolored neons abounded. And the streets and avenues were rivers of white headlights and ruby taillights.
Other than that, little had changed since Ms. Abbott had taken her bird's-eye view. Oh, the buildings were taller. The traffic denser. The lights more profuse. But overall, it still looked as it had back in 1932.
Seen from way, way up, Manhattan was instantly recognizable.
Even if you were Berenice Abbott.
It was seven-thirty when Hannes and Kenzie arrived at Luma, a storefront restaurant on Ninth Avenue in Chelsea, where he had reserved a window table.
"You told me you don't eat red meat," he said as he held Kenzie's chair.
She smiled, touched that he remembered, and glanced around the soothing peach and celadon interior. Frosted triangular sconces spilled serene pools of nile green on the walls.
Kenzie placed her elbows on the round table, laced her fingers, and rested her chin on her hands, watching Hannes as he seated himself opposite her. Again, she was struck by his physical beauty and commanding presence. It occurred to her that she'd never known a man who was so ... so complete.
Nor was she alone in that opinion. A casual sweep of the dining room confirmed it. Every female eye was aimed in his direction.
An odd mixture of pride and jealousy welled up inside her. She thought: Sorry, gals, but he's spoken for.
Hannes shot back his cuffs and smiled. "I hear this restaurant serves the best organic food in the city."
Kenzie, not wanting to rain on his parade, didn't let on that she'd been here several times in the past. And then she remembered with whom. A spasm of guilt stabbed her. Do I have no shame? The other times I was here, I was with Charley!
Dear God, she thought queasily, feeling the jaws of guilt snapping with renewed force. Only twenty-four hours ago I was with Charley! Maybe we hadn't planned on having sex, but one thing had led to another. And now, here I am—with his partner of all people!
She quashed the feeling of shame. Muddled emotions would lead her nowhere. I have no reason to be penitent. Charley's in my past. I can't let him dictate my future.
Hannes was saying, "I don't believe they serve hard liquor here. What do you say we start with wine?"
Kenzie gave a start. "I'm sorry." She lowered her hands and smoothed the indentations of her elbows from the white tablecloth. "My mind was wandering."
He eyed her with concern. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, of course." She smiled. "Wine would be perfect."
He ordered a 1982 Chateau Lynch-Bages Pauillac, then said, "I meant to ask you. Did you receive Professor Tindemans's fax?"
Kenzie slapped her forehead. "What is it with me? I must be losing my mind."
She slung her shoulder bag from the back of her chair, took out a manila envelope, and passed it across the table. "Here. I Xeroxed you a copy."
As though considering its immediate importance, he regarded the envelope a moment, and then put it aside. "You will forgive me if I don't get to it until tomorrow morning? I much prefer to devote this evening to present company."
His voice was so quiet, so intimate, and so undeniably warm and promising, that Kenzie felt a warm tremor firing up her flesh.
She was saved from replying by the arrival of the waiter, who with some ceremony displayed the label on the wine bottle. Kenzie watched while the cork was expertly extracted, and a splash of wine poured into Hannes's glass, the bottle smartly turned so that any stray droplets spun back inside it.
Hannes picked up his glass. Swirled it. Inhaled the bouquet. Took a sip. Put it back down and nodded. "Very nice," he said approvingly. The waiter topped off both glasses and discreetly withdrew.
Hannes lifted his glass by the stem. "A toast," he said.
Kenzie raised her glass and looked at him.
"To us," he said softly.
She could feel the rush of his warmth reaching out to her. It was as if a flurry of sparks had burst inside her, and was flash-dancing up through her arms and down her legs.
"To ... us," she whispered, carefully tipping the rim of her glass against his.
They held each other's gaze as they sipped. The atmosphere was so supercharged with sexual energy that she half-expected to see electrical currents ricocheting between them.
Lowering her eyes, she set down her glass. Her voice was husky. "The wine's very good."
He was looking at her intently. "Yes," he said. "But the company's superior. In my estimation, definitely grand cm."
She had to laugh. "Bet you say that to all the girls."
With thumb and forefinger, he turned his wineglass around and around on the tablecloth.
"I wouldn't wager too much on that," he cautioned. "You're liable to lose."
She smiled. "Does this mean you invited me this evening just to seduce me?"
"That, and to get better acquainted, yes." He nodded. "Last time we never had the opportunity to really talk."
His honesty was disarming and unsettling. She emptied half her glass in one swallow.
"Well." She gestured. "Talk away."
"I was hoping you'd do most of the talking. You see, Kenzie, I'd like to learn more about you."
She laughed. "But I'd rather hear about you! Your background sounds fascinating. I believe you told me your father was in the diplomatic corps?"
He nodded.
"So how did you end up at Interpol?"
"I'm afraid it is a long story, Kenzie."
"So?" Her eyes didn't waver. "I
have all night."
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "All right. But I must warn you, it is not one of those 'happily ever after' stories."
She stared at him. "Most of real life isn't."
"No, I suppose it is not."
He kept turning his glass around and around. "I'm wondering where I should begin," he said after a moment.
"Why not at the beginning?" she suggested gently.
"Yes," he said. "Why not?"
As he began to talk, she listened raptly. The life which he described was so much like hers that she found it uncanny. There were only two major differences. The first was that she'd had three brothers, while he'd been an only child. And the second was that instead of being shuttled from one military base to another, as she had, he and his family had hop- scotched from one capital city to another.
"It sounds more glamorous than it actually was," he confided. "Granted, living in all those exotic countries was fascinating. I saw a lot of the world early on. Bangkok, Nairobi, Washington, London, Moscow, Mexico City ..."
He drank some of his wine.
"The problem with embassy life is its insularity. It is such a closed society. One doesn't get to mix much with the local people, only embassy personnel and their families, and officials of the host country. Also, it seemed that each time I made friends, my father would be assigned to another part of the world, and off we went."
He smiled wistfully at the memory.
"But do you know the one thing I missed most... truly missed above all else?"
Kenzie shook her head.
"Never having had a real home—a permanent home—to return to."
Kenzie could commiserate with that. Sounds just like my childhood, she thought. We never had a permanent home, either. And we'd barely get settled on one army base before Daddy'd get orders and be assigned to another. She could also relate to the havoc such constant moves played with young friendships. Forging long-lasting relationships was impossible.
Hannes was saying, "... coming from a diplomatic family, it was only natural for my parents to hope that I would follow in my father's footsteps." He laughed quietly. His eyes had become distant, focused on some point in his past. "They had my future in the foreign service all planned."
"But here you are," Kenzie said.
"Yes," he said, "here I am."
He drained the rest of his wine and set the glass down. The waiter caught his eye and he nodded. They didn't speak until both their glasses were topped and they were each handed a menu.
When the waiter withdrew, Hannes continued. "Strange, isn't it," he mused, putting his menu aside, "how we expect to do certain things in life, and then end up doing something completely different?"
She nodded.
"Consider my real ambition. Not my parents', but my own." He paused. "Would you believe, I've always wanted to become an artist?"
"Really!" she exclaimed, delighted that yet another part of his background paralleled hers.
He smiled. "Yes, really. Ever since I was old enough to hold a pencil, I was always either drawing or painting. Everyone said I had a talent. And to me, the future was self-evident."
She smiled. "Let me guess. You were planning on living in a garret in Paris ... painting your heart out ... arguing about art late into the night in smoky cafes ... having exhibitions ..."
"... waiting to be discovered," he completed, his voice turning wry.
"Were you good?"
"I believed I was."
He raised his glass in a self-mocking toast and then put it down and continued to turn it around and around by its stem.
"And then I woke up one morning and realized the truth. You see, I was good, Kenzie. Damn good." He paused. "But I wasn't good enough."
"So you joined Interpol?"
"No." He smiled. "Not then. First, I studied political science."
"Ah. The dutiful son following in his father's footsteps."
He nodded. "Exactly."
"But you didn't," she pointed out. "Follow in his footsteps, I mean."
"No," he whispered, "I did not."
She could see the light in his eyes go dim as a cloud of unhappiness blotted out the pleasant memories.
"Kenzie, listen to me!" There was an urgency in his voice.
Abruptly he reached across the table and took her hand. He pressed her fingers so hard that they hurt.
"This world is a terrible place! No matter how insulated a life one leads, or how safe one may feel, it is an illusion. Violence is never far away. It can strike anywhere, at any time. You must never forget that!"
She shivered, an uncontrollable reflex to the chill of sudden fear. Her coat of well-being, in which she'd luxuriated warmly, was now gone. Yet she found this melodramatic turn in conversation intriguing as well as frightening.
I wish I knew the specifics of what he's trying to say, she thought. But she didn't want to pry. I must be patient. He'll tell me about it when he's ready.
Sensing her fear, he let go of her hand. "I'm sorry, Kenzie. I do not mean to be an alarmist."
She nodded.
"I will explain, and then you shall understand. I think I owe you that much."
He paused, forehead creased, and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"You realize, of course, that I was not always as cynical and cautious as I am now. There was a time I was carefree. When, with all the fervor of youth, I truly believed we can master our own destinies."
As she listened, Kenzie picked up her glass and sipped a little wine. The sounds of the restaurant made a comforting, privacy-veiling murmur in the background.
"I studied political science at Oxford," he told her, "and then at Yale. Upon my graduation, my father called in favors, and I was assigned to the Finnish embassy in Paris. Not in an entry-level position, mind you—I worked closely with our ambassador. Soon I was on intimate terms with his family. Under those circumstances, I suppose falling in love with his daughter was inevitable. Her name was Helena. After a brief courtship, we were engaged to be married."
An irrational tweak of jealousy plucked at Kenzie. "Was she beautiful?"
"Helena?" He shut his eyes, and sighing, he nodded slowly. "Oh yes. She was ... extraordinarily beautiful."
"Then what—?"
"Destiny!" he said bitterly.
His eyes snapped open and the curtain of his guard lifted. On the table, his fingers curled, closing into such a tight, trembling fist that the knuckles turned white.
"God, how I—" He stopped in midsentence and bit his lip, momentarily incapable of continuing.
There was no mistaking his misery. For all his self-assurance and manly strength, he could no longer hide the deep and suppurating wound at the core of his being. A moistness came into his eyes, and Kenzie knew he was on the verge of tears. Then he quickly looked away, but not before she recognized something else in his face—
—something besides pain.
With a shock, she realized what it was: a simmering, dangerously subdued menace which emanated from the furnace of a potent and unas- suaged rage.
What kind of trauma could he have suffered to cause a reaction like this?
Reaching across the table, she gently, soothingly, cupped both hands around his twitching fist. Under her ministrations, the trembling lessened, then eventually stilled.
"Hans," she said huskily, "please. Don't torture yourself like this. It's really not necessary."
He turned his face to her, his features grim. "It is—it is necessary," he said tightly. "You have a right to know!"
She held his gaze. "I'll leave that up to you. But I don't want to pry—"
He nodded and cleared his throat, a splintery, cracking sound like that of a sailboat's hull strained by enormous pressure.
"It was violence—stupid random violence!" he said bitterly. "Seven years, three months, and twelve days ago. The day of our wedding! And all because Helena and my parents were in the wrong place, at the wrong time!"
"Oh, Hans!
" Kenzie whispered.
"It happened, as if things like this just happen—"
His voice cracked, and he shook his head savagely, a wet sob bursting forth, jolting Kenzie. Hannes pushed a hand through his hair, then hunched over the table and lowered his head, as if inspecting the white service plate for flaws.
"They—Christ, they were on their way to the church ... only stopped at the bank for an heirloom we kept in the vault, a necklace which brides in my family traditionally wore—"
A muscular tic made his cheeks flutter, and he swallowed noisily.
"A necklace, Kenzie! Can you imagine? They died because of a ... a trinket!"
"My God! But how—?"
Hannes's murmur was so soft as to be barely audible.
"Robbers—gunmen ..."
She had to lean forward and strain to hear.
"... returning from the vault. Father, Mother, and Helena stumbled upon the thieves, surprised them—"
Kenzie's horror grew as the story unfolded.
"All three of them, shot dead in cold blood. Father ... Mother ... Helena—"
Their names exploded from his lips, and he gripped the edge of the table with both slender, knobby-knuckled hands.
"What kind of sentences—"
"None!" he whispered. "It remains unsolved to this day."
Kenzie shuddered in disbelief. The notion that people could murder one's nearest and dearest, and get away with it, was beyond her comprehension.
She thought: From childhood, we're programmed to believe that criminals are caught and punished, just like in the movies or on television. But real life isn't like that. Real life is ugly and brutal and unfair.
Hannes raised his eyes slowly, and she could see the held-back tears glittering in the corners.
He said, "It is worse, Kenzie ... far worse than anything you can imagine."
"But how ... how did you ever cope ... ?"
"The only way possible," he sighed, shrugging his shoulders. "I became obsessed with finding the killers. Bringing them to justice kept me going."
Too Damn Rich Page 32
