He was silent.
Her voice was hushed. "I beseech you. Once and for all—get married!"
He laughed almost silently. "So this is why you were so anxious to see me today?" It was more a statement than a question.
"Oui," she admitted. "It is time you secured your inheritance." She took hold of his lapels. "And before it is too late!"
Nearby, two celebrity watchers were huddled in whispered conversation, obviously undecided about whether or not to approach Becky, while her Secret Service detail, always ten steps ahead, already prepared an intercept.
"You know I'm right, Heinzie!" she whispered.
She let go of his lapels and instinctively smoothed them. The celebrity-watchers hurried forward, and were expertly rebuffed.
Not that Becky or Karl-Heinz noticed. Unaware of anything happening outside their insular bubble, they were holding each other's gaze.
"You cannot put it off any longer!" she warned. "Dieu sait! Hasn't this close call with your father been lesson enough? Mon ange, be sensible."
Karl-Heinz sighed. He rubbed his forehead and turned toward the wall.
Faces and eyes of stylized icons, like mute witnesses, stared at him from within the intricate armor of their silvered okhlads. The Virgin of Vladimir holding her child; St. Nicholas of Moshaisk; the Centurian Longinus. St. George with his lance. And the archangels, St. Michael and St. Gabriel, swords in hand. They seemed out of place in these
bright, modern surroundings: plundered treasures from a strange and distant shore.
"Heinzie," Becky implored softly. "Why ... why must you, of all people, be so disinterested in your fate?"
"Why?" He turned to her with a wry smile. "Perhaps because I have you, my dear Becky, to worry about it."
"Cela suffit!" Her eyes flashed angrily. "I won't have you uttering such nonsense. Non. The only reason I worry is because I am genuinely fond of you."
"I know that," he said gently.
"I cannot bear to see you lose your inheritance," she continued. "But you must face the facts, cheri. One of these days, le vieil Prince will not pull through." She took a deep breath. "And then what?"
Not for the first time, Karl-Heinz felt the force of her will, was aware of the iron hand under the kidskin glove.
"You know the answer to that as well as I do," he replied softly.
"Oui," she sighed. "But it does not have to happen that way. It cannot! Mon Dieu! Did you multiply the family fortune only to relinquish it to your sister's imbecile? And for what? Mere want of a male heir?"
He did not speak.
"Listen to me, Heinzie. You know what will happen if that imbecile takes over. The empire will lose direction. Its momentum will slow. It will rot and crumble from within!"
His gaze had not changed.
"Alors. You are your family's captain. So please, Heinzie. For everyone's sake—especially your own—don't give up the ship!"
He gave a bitter laugh. "You make it sound so easy!"
"That's because it is easy!"
"Oh?" He raised one cynical eyebrow. "Keeping a dying old man alive? Getting appropriately married? And siring a male heir in time?"
"Oui."
"Becky, I am not God!"
She stared at him. "No one expects you to be," she said, undeterred. "But did you build that empire into what it is only to see it torn apart? Non. You love the businesses, Heinzie. Admit it. They are your life's blood. As are your social positions. The various Schdsser. The art collections. The power. You love everything that comes with being head of the family, except for settling down!"
"My one true duty?" he mocked. Again, the raised eyebrow, this time accompanied by a sardonic little smile.
"Dammit, Heinzie!" she breathed through clenched teeth. "Must you be so stubborn? Marry, for God's sake! Produce a male heir! Ensure that what is yours shall continue to be yours!"
"Why is it," he sighed, "that I can sense my carefree bachelorhood coming to an end?"
"Because it's time!" she said sharply. "You have had a reprieve—now use it to your advantage!"
"And marry."
"Oui."
He turned away, as if to study the wall of icons. After a moment's silence, he said, cynically: "Let me guess. You have already picked out the appropriate bride?"
"Of course, cheri. And just think. She's been right under our noses all this time!"
He shut his eyes. "Zandra," he said painfully.
"Of course, Zandra!" she said, her eyebrows drawing together. "Why not Zandra?"
Karl-Heinz opened his eyes and stared at the icons a while longer. Then, putting his hands in his pant pockets, he turned to her and said: "You don't understand. I have known her since she was born."
"Alors?"
"She still has her entire life ahead of her. My God, Becky! Marriage to me, with all its responsibilities, could destroy her!"
Becky's eyes narrowed. "Are you certain about that?"
He shrugged. "Sometimes," he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, "I'm not certain about anything anymore."
His passionate tone alerted her. "Dit moi," she said slowly, in the tones of a woman who trusts her intuition. "How do you really feel about Zandra?"
"How—" An anguished look came into his face. "Verdammt noch einmal! How could any man feel about her? She's enchanting, dammit! There is something magical about her!" He added, savagely: "Is that what you wanted to hear?"
"Why, Heinzie!" Eyes aglow, Becky clasped her hands against her bosom. "How wonderful! I do believe you are in love with her!"
He flinched at the word love.
"Now then," she asked. "Have you made your feelings for Zandra known?"
"To her?"
"Of course to her!" she said impatiently.
He shook his head. "No," he whispered hoarsely.
"And why not?"
"For one thing," he said with stiff dignity, "I do not relish rejection. For another, I am neither a lecher nor a pederast."
"You! A pederast!" Becky laughed. "Don't be ridiculous. Zandra is not a child. She is a mature woman. Far more worldly and mature than you give her credit for."
"Perhaps," he admitted grudgingly.
"Heinzie." Becky's voice was quiet. "Don't you see? You really have no choice. You must marry her!"
"That," he said a little tartly, "is easier said than done."
"Au contraire, cheri. It really is quite simple."
"Oh?"
"Oui. I will play fairy godmother to you both!"
"I see," he said, rubbing his chin. Then, with dawning suspicion, he added: "You wouldn't, by any chance, have already begun planning this without me, now would you?"
"Mais oui!" she admitted brightly. "After all, there is no time to lose! Now, the plan is this ..." Placing her gloved hand on his arm, she lowered her voice and guided him slowly around the perimeter of the gallery. "... I shall invite you for a weekend to my house in the country. Zandra—and her friends, the Goldsmiths—shall be invited by my neighbors, the Faireys. That way, your ... ahem! ... chance meeting will appear less obvious."
"Always the soul of discretion," he commented dryly.
She gestured. "All I ask is that you trust me. You will see. Two days around you, and Zandra shall be unable to resist."
"Oh? Is that a guarantee?"
"I don't see why not. Oui. Oui." Becky nodded to herself. "With your charm, you should be married within the month."
"All right," he sighed. "Since you seem to have all the answers, perhaps you can tell me something."
"Alors?" She looked at him questioningly.
His voice was quiet. "What does Zandra get out of this?"
Becky stopped walking and faced him squarely. "Why, that's obvious, isn't it? She gets you—one of the world's most eligible bachelors! She becomes the chateleine of one of the world's greatest and richest families! Plus, she is elevated from a mere countess to a princess! Mon Dieu!" She stared at him. "What more could a young woman want?"
"Someone her own age, perhaps?"
"Beta." She reached up and touched his cheek affectionately. "Can it be that you men really know so little?"
He did not reply.
She smiled. "Remember, Heinzie. Don't ever underestimate me. I always accomplish what I set out to do."
"Even this."
"Especially this," she said definitely.
He was silent for a moment. "Then what I always thought about you really is true. You are the most determined woman in New York."
Becky flexed her fingers, adjusting the fit of her glove. "Alors," she
said, changing the subject. "It's lunchtime. Do let's pop over to Mortimer's for a bite to eat."
She hooked an arm through his. "Shall we, cheri?"
Chapter 27
Kenz," Arnold Li called from out in the hall, "gentleman here to see you."
Kenzie, on an overseas call, put a hand over the receiver. "Oh, tell Charley to cool his heels!" she snapped, not bothering to turn around. "You know how long it took me to get through to Miskolctapolca, Hungary?"
Then, uncovering the receiver, she segued right back into the conversation, her voice bright, smooth, professional. As if the interruption had never occurred.
"I really appreciate you taking the time for this, Professor Tindemans. I hate bothering you during your cure ... I'm so glad you understand, sir ... Yes, I'll keep an eye peeled for your fax ... Of course I'll convey your regards to Mr. Spotts the next time I speak to him! I know he'll be delighted ... You've been most helpful, Professor ... I hope you enjoy the cure, and please accept my apologies for the intrusion ... Thank you, Professor Tindemans!"
She hung up the phone with a flourish. Rolled back her chair. Flung both fists triumphantly into the air and crowed: "Yes!"
" 'Yes'?" Zandra inquired in puzzlement. "Darling, what is it? I mean, one would think your team had won the World Cup."
"Naw. Only the next best thing." Kenzie sighed happily, folded her arms behind her head, and smiled at the precarious skyscrapers of books and catalogues on her desk. "What a lovely, lovely gentleman. So gallant. And Zandra?"
"Yes?"
"You can stop researching the Holbein."
"Stop? What do you mean, stop?" Zandra objected, more puzzled than ever. "You know we can't. This has priority."
"Not anymore. I followed a hunch and hit paydirt. You see, Mr. Spotts once told me that Professor Tindemans is to Holbein what E. K. Waterhouse is to Reynolds. Well, not only was he right, but—would you believe—Professor Tindemans actually studied our very painting back in 1939?"
"He did? Oh, Kenzie, super!"
"Mmm-hmmm. All I had to do was track him down from Brussels to
Hungary, where he's at some remote spa which has—now get this— naturally radioactive grottos."
"Radioactive!" Zandra gave a shudder. "But how awful. What is it—an underground Chernobyl?"
"Sounds it, but it's supposed to have curative powers for asthma or something. At any rate, he's calling his assistant in Belgium, who'll fax us the pertinent pages of his new treatise. It's scheduled for publication this fall, and is on German artists in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. And—are you ready for this?—it includes our Holbein's provenance from A to Z! So voila! Current ownership and smuggling issues aside, our part of the work's complete."
"Gosh, Kenzie. Well done. You are the miracle worker, and all in one morning!"
"Mmm-hmmm. All we have to do now is sit back and wait for the fax. Then, keeping Bambi out of the loop, we'll distribute copies of it to Mr. Fairey and our legal department, and drop the entire case into the laps of those—" Her voice turned smugly sarcastic "—super pricks of detection, Charles Ferraro and Hannes Hockert."
"Kenzie!" Zandra hissed in a whispered attempt to shush her. "Your visitor!"
Kenzie blinked. My visitor? Who—? She had already forgotten. Then a mental lightbulb clicked on and shone brightly. She thought, Oh, shit. Charley. Well, so what if he overheard me? He is a bastard, and if the shoe fits ...
She spun her chair around.
But it wasn't Charley—
Everything inside her came to a dead stop, then slowly rearranged itself. She drew a sharp breath and swallowed.
—it was Hannes Hockert.
Kenzie's scrutiny started with the soles of his brown Bruno Magli boots and traveled ever-so-slowly up his silk and wool trousers, cut full and loose to accentuate his slim waist and narrow hips. Ditto the double- breasted jacket of matching lignite brown with its subtle, almost iridescent weave of taupe, which he wore open and to great effect.
No constricting nine-to-five uniform this. No, siree. And definitely not cheap. Kenzie knew an Armani suit when she saw one.
Kenzie's heartbeat kept increasing as she stared at him, at the masculine beauty of his face. Dear God. How could she possibly have forgotten his drop-dead good looks? He really was so beautiful, this bright blond Viking of a man, that it was impossible to tear her eyes away from him, just as it was impossible to retract her stinging barb.
Not that it had made any difference. That much was clear from the intensity of his gaze.
She stared at him.
He stared at her.
Time itself was suddenly meaningless. Both of them were in a world of their own.
Zandra, attuned to the sexually charged chemistry, looked on with growing interest, as did Arnold, who hovered just outside the door. Grinning, he gave Kenzie a thumbs-up.
But the signal didn't register; neither she nor Hannes were aware of their audience. All they had eyes for was each other.
"Good morning, Kenzie," he greeted softly, finally breaking the silence.
Kenzie forced herself to speak. "Hans," she acknowledged, her voice trembly and barely audible.
"It has been a long time, Kenzie."
"Yes," she whispered, still holding his gaze, "it has."
Three months, she thought. That's how long it's been since I told him—him!—to take a hike! Christ, I need to get my head examined! What single girl in her right mind would chase away a hunk like him?
"Then you don't mind my dropping by like this?" he asked. "Unannounced? Without an appointment?" The smile emanating from his lips and eyes was warm and embracing, so utterly enveloping that it made her go weak all over.
"So ... what brings you to ... to my neck of the woods?" she murmured, thinking: I must pull myself together. For Chrissake, I'm an adult—not some young twit with a schoolgirl crush!
He drew a few steps closer. "There are several reasons, Kenzie," he said quietly.
She was silent, unable to wrest her eyes from his.
"Business," he murmured. "And pleasure."
He leaned casually against her desk and folded his arms.
"You see, Kenzie, I'm a great believer in combining the two."
Kenzie, conscious of her hands fidgeting in her lap like some trapped, high-strung animal, forced herself to still them, and struggled to regain at least a semblance of professional decorum.
"Why ..." She had to clear her throat. "Why don't we stick to business?" she suggested in a tightly gartered voice.
"If you like. Yes." He inclined his head in acquiescence. "Why not? That sounds reasonable enough. And we are both reasonable people, are we not, Kenzie? Reasonable and . . . well, perhaps a bit impulsive?"
She remained silent, not trusting herself to speak.
And then he smiled again.
To the casual observer it was a public smile, the crowning touch of Continental politeness and old-world charm, while to its recipient it sent a different and altogether very private message.
For Kenzie, it spelled memories, promises, passion, bed.
And, under the bright wash of the overhead fluorescents, she became aware of something else. His pale bluish eyes weren't really a matched set. Rather, each was a slightly different shade, the right iris a hint bluer, and the left a tad greener, an irregularity which she found compellingly intriguing and—banish the thought!—ter
ribly sexy.
"Now then." He rubbed his chin. "To get business out of the way ..."
She waited.
"What can I tell you besides what you've already probably guessed? That yes, this is an official call on behalf of Interpol regarding the Holbein. And yes, it's at the specific request of the Federal Republic of Germany and the U.S. Department of State. As to whether I'm empowered to use all necessary resources to help the courts resolve the issue of ownership—yes again."
He spread his hands, palms outward, and grinned.
"And there you have it," he said. "In a nutshell, of course."
Kenzie's expression had not changed. The soughing of hot air from the heating duct was the only sound in the room at the moment, other than the rustling of paper coming from Zandra's desk.
"That's not to mean that you need any assistance," Hannes added. He turned up his smile to its most devastating wattage. "From overhearing you, it seems you have everything well under control. However, I'd be delighted if you'd drop this case—"
He leaned over her gently in order to whisper in her ear.
"—and anything else you'd like—into my lap."
The come-on was unmistakable, and Kenzie's face colored with the heat blooming under her skin. With a massive effort, she tore her eyes from his, made a quarter-turn on the swivel of her chair, and pretended to busy herself at her desk.
Her emotions were in turmoil.
Why was it that men were suddenly dropping into her lap? For three long months she had been celibate; had not even dated anyone. Now all of a sudden, her cup runneth over.
Last night had brought Charley.
Today—Hannes.
And she wanted him, dammit! That was the worst part.
Only one snag. His temporary partner—Charley.
She sighed to herself. The last thing she needed was having the two of them fighting over her. Or—God forbid!—exchanging bedtime stories and locker-room jokes about her behind her back.
So . . .
To rebuff or not to rebuff? That was the question. And the time to decide was now. Before things got out of hand.
"Here is my work number, Kenzie," Hannes said. "You can reach me there during the day. If I'm not in, just leave a message."
Too Damn Rich Page 28