Too Damn Rich

by Gould, Judith

  Lord Rosenkrantz obliged by pressing her more tightly against him. "Is this better?"

  "Oh, yes!" Dina smiled. "This is purrrrr-fect!"

  And she thought: Maybe this will teach Robert to dance with me!

  At the edge of the dance floor, Robert A. Goldsmith nearly bit his cigar in two.

  What in damnation's come over that fool woman? he growled to himself. Does she have to make such a public spectacle of herself?

  Chewing on the Havana like a riled-up pit bull, he surveyed the immediate area to see if anyone else noticed the way his wife and Lord What's-His-Name were carrying on.

  Naturally, no one paid them the least bit of attention.

  Goddamn bunch of hypocrites!

  From behind, he suddenly felt a firm tap on his shoulder.

  He turned around, coming face-to-face with the last person he expected to see—Bambi Parker. His immediate reaction was to flash a quick guilty look in his wife's direction.

  Christ, he thought. What the hell's Bambi doing here?

  "C'mon, Garth, give me some space, will ya?" Bambi told her date. "I won't be but a few minutes."

  She shooed Garth off with peremptory flicks of a wrist. Then, taking both of Robert's hands in hers, she gave him the full impact of her fluttering baby blues.

  "Robert," she breathed in that teensy-weensy voice, "why don't we go dance, huh? That way, we can talk without arousing any suspicion."

  Like hell we won't! he thought, his eyes darting furtively toward Dina.

  Fortunately, she and Lord Rosenkrantz had disappeared from sight, swallowed up by the sea of dancing couples.

  Bambi tugged on his hand. "Robert!" She sounded exasperated and accusing, and he half-expected to see her stamp her foot petulantly.

  "Okay, okay," he muttered grouchily. "One dance."

  He tossed his cigar in the reflecting pool and Bambi let go of his hand, leading the way out onto the dance floor. Once there, she stopped and looked back at him.

  Robert hesitated for all of three seconds. Oh, what the hell, he thought, throwing caution to the winds. Quickly he followed her. What harm can one dance do?

  This gorgeous hunk certainly has all the right moves, Kenzie thought pleasurably as Hannes danced her fluidly along the edge of the pool, his searching fingers moving slowly down along her back. After a half hour in the ladies' room, she had decided to march back in and have a good time. The hell with Bambi Parker.

  "Mmmm," she murmured dreamily. She had her eyes closed, her cheek resting against his warm broad chest, and her arms looped loosely around his neck. "I love these slow dances ..."

  "So do I," he said softly and cupped her buttocks, pressing her pelvis tightly to his.

  Her eyes flicked open and the breath caught in her throat. It was impossible not to feel the tumescent jolt of his manhood straining against his trousers.

  Raising her head, she tilted it back and stared up at him, her eyes bright, luminous pools.

  "Just making sure you are still awake." He smiled, moist teeth flickering in the light from all the floating candles.

  Again she laid her cheek back against his chest, listening to the comforting strong beats of his heart. "You smell like fresh apples," she murmured.

  He had his nose in her hair. "And you of wildflowers."

  Again she raised her head. "You aren't, by any chance, trying to seduce me?" she asked huskily.

  He held her gaze. "And if I am?"

  Her voice was hushed. "Then I'd say you're already halfway there."

  The smile on his lips reached his eyes. "Only halfway?"

  The air crackled with sexual currents flowing back and forth between them.

  "Well ... perhaps a little more than halfway," she allowed.

  "Would you like to have another drink first ... perhaps find a nice quiet spot in the halls and look at some quartzite heads from the twelfth dynasty?"

  Her arms tightened around him. "And if I don't care for the twelfth dynasty? If I prefer the classical Greeks, and Priapus in particular?"

  He smiled again. "Then I can only hope that a priapic surrogate shall suffice."

  Unbidden, an image of his taut, thrusting body leapt into her mind. "Yes!" she replied throatily, feeling a raw scorching heat rise up within her. "That ... that would suffice quite nicely."

  "Good. Because what I want to do is hold you and make love to you forever."

  As though in a daze, she drew his head down to hers. There was a rapturous kind of intensity in her face which he had not seen before.

  "Well?" he asked softly. "Are you ready to go?"

  Her knees were curiously weak and she felt as if she were drowning in the bottomless pools of those great greenish-blue eyes.

  "Yes!" she replied in a fierce, urgent whisper. "Let's get out of here! Let's leave now!"

  Chapter 17

  Being a host has its drawbacks

  Being a Serene Highness on top of it—especially as eligible a bachelor as Prince Karl-Heinz—makes for even further encumbrances. The flurry of interest in him, which naturally had to be returned in kind, presented more than its share of social difficulties.

  It made it impossible, for instance, to bestow his undivided attention upon the one person he was delighted to see—Zandra. However, now that he had obligingly danced with a half dozen very select partners, he intended to remedy that. He'd kept one eye peeled for her, so that as he came off the dance floor with Nina Fairey, he politely excused himself and made a beeline toward her.

  "Quickly!" he said, his voice registering urgency. "Follow me."

  Before Zandra could ask why, he was already propelling her through the throng, his brisk pace and friendly nods at friends and acquaintances indicating that he was pleased to see them, but momentarily too indisposed to stop and chat. Out of the Temple of Dendur he rushed her, through glass-lined exhibition rooms to the front entrance.

  "Fetch your coat," he told her, pulling a folded, wafer-thin cellular phone from inside his breast pocket and flipping it open.

  Zandra stared at him. "You mean, you're leaving your own party!"

  "Yes, I'm calling my driver to bring the car around—the demands of those social vampires grate." He punched a memorized number. "Now hurry," he urged, "before some attention-starved vulture detains us!"

  "Well, if you're sure," Zandra said, giving him an oblique look.

  "I'm positive." Phone to his ear, he turned his back to keep new arrivals and early departees at bay.

  Getting her scuffed motorcycle jacket from coat check, Zandra wondered whether Dina would be annoyed by her disappearance. Somehow she doubted it. She's having too good a time to miss me. As for Kenzie, I'll see her at work tomorrow . . .

  Pulling on her jacket, she joined Karl-Heinz, who was already at the entry doors, folding the phone shut and pocketing it. "My driver should pull up momentarily," he said.

  And out he hustled her; down the massive flight of stone steps they dashed. The drizzle had turned into a deluge, and they both held their jackets over their heads.

  Moments later, laughing like truant schoolchildren, they ducked into the back of his Bentley Turbo.

  "Did you find out about the latest club?" Karl-Heinz asked his chauffeur.

  The driver glanced into the rearview mirror. "Yes, Your Highness. After you called, I checked with some of the other drivers. They say a place called Dante's Inferno is all the rage. It's down in the East Village."

  "Good. Then that is where we shall go."

  Now that he had Zandra to himself, Karl-Heinz settled back in the rich glove leather, the luxury of which never failed to bring a stir of ambrosial well-being.

  "At last!" he said as the car merged smoothly with the Fifth Avenue traffic, the arcing flicks of the windshield wipers and the reflections of tail- lights on wet asphalt giving the impression they were drifting down a wide, rubied river. "For a while, I was afraid we would never have an opportunity to be by ourselves. Would you like a drink? There is a minibar—"

/>   "Not right now, thanks." Zandra's smile was radiant. "Oh, Heinzie! This is so fabulous!" She reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze. "I swear, it seems like ages since we saw each other last!"

  "That," he smiled, "is because it has been. You cannot imagine my delight when you walked in tonight. You really were the last person on earth I expected to see."

  "I'm glad you're pleased," she said. Then her smile abruptly faded and she fell silent.

  "Zandra?" He looked concerned. "What is it?"

  "About your father's health. Is it true what you said during dinner?"

  He nodded soberly. "Yes," he sighed, "I'm afraid so. The doctors don't give him long."

  "Damn!"

  He shrugged philosophically. "It isn't as though it's unexpected, you know. Father is, after all, quite old."

  "Yes, but still ..." Her voice trailed off, supple leather creaking as she changed position on the seat. She sensed that despite his acceptance of the situation, it weighed far heavier on his mind than he cared to let on.

  How like him to neither complain nor indulge in self-pity, she thought. Publicly, at least, he's ever the Serene Highness, graciously bowing to the inevitable—

  —to death.

  With a chill shiver, she stared past the chauffeur and out the cleared arcs of windshield. She saw, but didn't absorb, the dark expanse of Central Park giving way to the whorishly lit Plaza Hotel, and then the enticing luxury emporiums below Fifty-ninth Street—Bergdorf Goodman ... Van Cleef and Arpel . . . Tiffany . . . Bendel's. The soft squish of tires on wet pavement was more imagined than heard, such was the soundproof cocoon of this stately car.

  Karl-Heinz's voice was soft. "Zandra?"

  She turned to him, both their faces flickering from the swiftly moving shop windows which flashed past on either side, like passenger trains speeding in the opposite direction.

  "Let's forget my father for tonight. All the worrying in the world is not going to help."

  She drew a deep breath, held it inside her, and let it out slowly. "No, I suppose it won't." She stared intently over at him. "But Dina did hit the nail right on the head, didn't she?"

  He did not reply.

  She reached out and touched him on the arm. "Heinzie, you really must start thinking about securing your inheritance. Before it's too late!"

  He smiled at her earnestness. "I appreciate your concern, but that, too, is a problem which shall keep until morning. Now, then." He clapped his hands together briskly. "Enough about me. I want to hear all about you—are you still breaking hearts, raising hell, and causing Aunt Josephine apoplexy?"

  "Oh, I think Aunt Josie gave up on me years ago—'Washed her hands' of me, as she rather succinctly put it." Zandra laughed. "Not that I really blame her. In retrospect, I suppose I have been rather a handful. But let me see ... something must be new besides my embarrassing the family in one way or another, or my unexpected arrival here this morn—"

  "Unexpected?" he asked. "Why? Is something wrong in England?"

  Damn! she thought, subconsciously placing a hand over the sleeve of her forearm, under which the burn wound throbbed anew. How like him to pick up on that. I'm going to have to watch my every word.

  "Who said anything was wrong?" She forced her voice to sound light.

  But she thought: What isn't wrong? Only Rudolph and his gambling debts ... the toughs who frightened me so badly I fled the country ...

  But those particulars, she knew, were only the tip of the iceberg, the symptoms of a much larger and far more ominously looming problem— specifically, how to raise the cash Rudolph owed, and, even more precisely and to the point, how to repay it before the interest kept doubling, tripling, or quadrupling the principal.

  Paying off that debt is the only way Rudolph and I can ever feel safe.

  Money. She needed to get hold of Big Money, and fast.

  And who, an opportunistic voice piped up in her head, has more money than Karl-Heinz?

  She instantly put the skids on that train of thought. She would never, could never, appeal to Karl-Heinz for help. Pride precluded it.

  Bad enough I'm a poor relation, she thought. I'm not about to compound that by going begging. Even asking for a loan is moot, since I haven't a hope in hell of ever repaying such an astronomical sum ...

  "Something is troubling you," Karl-Heinz said with uncanny acuity. "Why don't you tell me what it is. Perhaps I could be of assistance."

  Tempting as his offer was, she quickly shook her head. "It's nothing," she lied. "But thanks all the same."

  On impulse, she scooted across the seat and pecked him lightly on the cheek.

  He looked both surprised and pleased. "What was that for?"

  Her voice was soft and throaty. "For caring. For being you. For your birthday. For making this my lucky night."

  "No," he said quietly, "you are wrong. It is you who have made this my lucky night."

  Even in the dimness of the car, Zandra could feel the gentle force of his gaze.

  She thought: He really is a prince, and in more ways than one. I only hope to God he gets married in time ... and that whoever she is, the lucky lady will deserve and appreciate him ...

  Dancing.

  Robert A. Goldsmith wasn't very good at it. What he was extremely good at, however, was playing grab-ass. Now, as the orchestra played "Someone to Watch Over Me," his hands were all over Bambi Parker's aerobics-firm buttocks: feeling, kneading, groping, squeezing.

  "You mean you've arranged it?" Bambi batted seductive lashes. "Already?"

  "Yeah," he grunted, more intent upon her perky derriere than on his dancing. "Not that this promotion's makin' either of us very popular."

  "So?" Bambi tossed her head, baby blues hard and challenging. "Why should we care what other people think?"

  "Why?" he repeated in disbelief, realizing just how uncomfortably big she was getting for her britches. "You wanna know why? 'Cause the consensus is, you're not up to the job."

  She froze in mid-step. "Would you care to repeat that?" she said in a Freon voice.

  He continued to fondle her buttocks. "I heard you nearly got yourself fired a few times."

  She pulled away from him and stepped back, standing just out of reach. "You've been talking to that decrepit old Mr. Spotts, haven't you?" she accused. "That sounds like something he'd come up with!"

  "Actually, it was Sheldon D. Fairey who brought it up."

  "That son of a bitch! I think you should fire him."

  Placing her hands on her hips, her frontal equipment rose and fell within the snug, low-cut armor of glittering blue beads.

  Pouting, she added: "You would, you know, if you really cared about me."

  Robert went ballistic. Seizing her bare arm, he yanked her roughly against him. "What kinda games d'you think you're playin'?" he snapped into her upturned face. "And whaddya think I am—stoopid? Maybe you'd kill the goose that lays the golden eggs, but I sure the hell won't. Who do you think made Burghley's the leading auction house in this country? Huh?"

  Bambi made a face against the spray of spittle.

  "Well, I'll tell ya who," he went on grimly. "Sheldon D. Fairey. And since I've invested a hell of a lot of money in that company, my first priority ain't a piece of ass—it's protectin' my investment."

  "Are you trying to tell me that I'm expendable and Fairey isn't?"

  "What do you think?"

  "I think you are a real bastard!"

  He jerked her even closer, plastering her breasts so tightly against him that he could feel her wildly beating heart. "You can think what you like. I'm just giving you some friendly advice."

  "Oooooh," she said sarcastically. "I'm shaking!" With a faint wicked smile, she thrust her hips right up against his, slid her free hand deftly between him and herself, and felt his phallus through his trousers.

  His erection was immediate.

  "Always hard, aren't you, Robert?" she taunted.

  "Christ Jesus!" he whispered fiercely. "Are you nuts! God alone
knows how many people are watching!"

  "Will you chill out? In this crowd no one will notice a thing. At least," she laughed, "not so long as we continue dancing—and you keep old J.P. tucked inside your pants!"

  As they moved to the music, her hand tightened over his phallus and he drew a deep shuddering breath. There was something about playing with fire that ignited some base sense of urgency within him. He could feel his blood speeding in his veins, his pulse racing, and his heart pounding away like kettle drums. Trapped inside boxer shorts and trousers, his penis strained and reared, craving to release the juices of life itself. If only she would undo his fly and take it out! Hold his cock in her hands and bring him to orgasm right here amidst this crowd!

  After a minute, she looked up at him. "Well, Robert?" Her voice was softly mocking. "Still want to throw me to the wolves?"

  Silently he cursed his cock. Ever since he could remember, he'd had to guard against it being his downfall—and if he wasn't careful, he knew that one of these days it would be.

  He was breathing heavily. "All I was ... saying," he managed, disgusted with his ill-timed physical reaction, "is you . . . you better not blow your promotion. I can only ... go to bat for you ... so often ..."

  It was as if he'd struck her. Her body suddenly tensed and she iced him with her eyes. "If you intend to leave me in the lurch, then be man enough and say so now." Her breathy little girl's voice had gone cold and bitter. "But remember, Robert. If you don't scratch my back, don't expect me to be around to scratch yours."

  To make her point, she let go of his crotch and pulled away again.

  He still had her by the arm and tightened his grip. "Listen, you little prick tease." His voice was soft but had a harsh, savage edge. "You wanna join the big league and play hardball? That it?"

  She did not reply.