"I'll arrange for hotel reservations," she said. "How long do I have? One week? Two?"
He smiled humorlessly. "Several hours, I'm afraid."
"What!" Kenzie stared at him in disbelief. "You are joking, sir?"
"If only I were."
"But this is madness! Merely authenticating—"
"I know, Ms. Turner, believe me, I know. However, if we want to handle this sale, we are forced to guarantee a price."
Kenzie stared at him. "By 'we,' " she said carefully, "I gather you mean me? That I'll have to decide?"
"Yes, Ms. Turner," he said. "You will have the authority to make the decision."
She thought: And be the sacrificial lamb if anything goes wrong.
He tapped his steepled fingertips. "Therefore, in case they are authentic and in good condition, we need to establish what we would consider to be a fair price guarantee. One that would hopefully top Christie's—and especially Sotheby's—offers."
How am I supposed to guess price guarantees? I haven't even seen the damn things. What if they're clever forgeries?
"Ten million?" he asked. "Twenty million? More?"
I've never seen that much money. How many stacks of twenty dollar bills would that make? Suitcases full. It must weigh a ton.
"Naturally, I'll need to clear this with Mr. Goldsmith," Sheldon D. Fairey said, reaching for his telephone and stabbing the number of Robert A. Goldsmith's cellular phone. "Let's just hope to God I can get hold of him. For all we know, he could be in Timbuktu."
If only he were. I wouldn't care whether he's in deepest, darkest wherever—or on land, air, or sea—just so long as it's someplace where no one can reach him.
Fat chance.
Robert A. Goldsmith was not only very much within reach. Unbeknownst to either Kenzie or Sheldon D. Fairey, he happened to be right above them.
In Bambi Parker's twenty-seventh-floor Auction Towers sublet. Lying naked on a fur spread while Bambi, aerobics-firm and pink as a Georgia peach, knelt penitently between his splayed thighs, expertly giving head.
Bambi kept her eyes and ears conveniently shut—the former, the better not to see his gelatinous bulk; the latter, to drown out his obscene, running litany:
"Yeah, baby ... uh-huh ... that's right, eat Daddy's dick ... that's a goooood girl ..."
She performed admirably, especially considering that her mind was on cruise control:
One dick is just like the next. I'll pretend it's Lex Bugg's, and that after he's good and hot he'll fuck the bewaddens out of me.
Robert's short but sturdily built penis twitched and strained and grew thicker.
This afternoon's my appointment at Georgette Klinger's. Maybe I'll treat myself to a massage along with my facial.
His wheezy groans were coming faster and she could feel his thighs quivering.
And then I'll stop at Bendel's and splurge on one of those resin and raffia pendants ...
At this point, his cock was ready to explode, and she could feel the beginnings of a shudder coursing through him when—
Bleat ... bleat ... bleat—
His cellular phone began to ring.
Bambi, hoping to bring him to climax sooner rather than later, treated him to an even stronger suction, but his hands pushed her away.
Shit! she thought. Now I'll have to start all over from scratch.
"Ro-bert!" She sat back on her heels and pouted. "Can't you just let it fucking ring?"
Her perfect blonde hair was mussed and her face was all red from the blood rushing to her head while bending down to suck him off.
"Business before pleasure," he rasped. "Now bring me the damn phone."
She sulked. "Ro—"
"Phone."
"Oh, all right!" she said crossly.
Bambi climbed to her feet, got out of bed, and went to fetch it from his coat pocket. When she tossed it at him, he unflipped it, pressed send, and grunted: "Yeah."
"Mr. Goldsmith? Sheldon D. Fairey here."
"Whassamatta?"
"Something urgent has come up, and I need your approval."
"Aw right. Gimme it in a nutshell."
Fairey did, and Robert listened, every now and then giving a noncommittal grunt.
Still pouting, Bambi climbed back up on the bed and settled on her haunches between Robert's splayed legs. She could hear the squawk of the voice on the other end, but couldn't make out any of the words.
"I suppose you need an answer now, huh?" Robert was saying. "Okay. About this Ms.—What's Her Name? Turner—"
Bambi perked up at the mention of Kenzie, and silently started mouthing something.
"—you trust her judgment?"
Robert listened some more, ignoring Bambi's furious sign language.
"Aw right, tell ya what. There's twenty-four of 'em? Okay. If she's a hunnert percent sure they're the real McCoy, I'll authorize up to eighteen mil. Yeah, for the whole shebang! I don't give diddly what they're probably worth. 'Probably' don't cut no ice with me. She has the least doubt, she's to drop 'em. Like a hot potato, yeah. Lemme know what happens."
Robert pressed the end button and tossed the phone aside.
"Ro-bert!" Bambi complained. "I'm supposed to be the head of that department."
He drilled her with his porcine eyes. "Talkin' about head, why don'tcha shut up and gimme some?" he growled.
"But—"
"Just do as you're told."
Zandra was on a pay phone at Kennedy Airport.
"Gosh, Arnold, Kenzie's where? In Detroit? Oh, I see. No, it's nothing important. Thanks, Arnold. See you."
She hung up and sighed.
Damn, she thought. So much for moral support. Well, might as well roll up my sleeves. The sooner I get this nasty piece of business over with, the better.
Chapter 41
Prince Karl-Heinz von und zu Engelwiesen had been up since the crack of dawn. Having spent Saturday night and then all of Sunday locked in his bedroom, he had abruptly snapped out of his funk.
One and a half days of soul searching had paid off. He had come to terms with his father's numbered months—or was it weeks or days?—and had resigned himself to losing his inheritance and seeing it passed on to his sister, Princess Sofia's, eldest ne'er-do-well.
Ironically, from the moment he'd accepted that fate, he'd felt strangely buoyant and unencumbered, as though he'd sloughed off a heavy burden.
And the family empire was a burden—any multibillion-dollar enterprise is. Perhaps it's time for someone else to wrestle that multiheaded hydra, he thought.
Besides, an early retirement appealed. He had a multimillion-dollar fortune of his very own, so he certainly wouldn't starve. And as for the empire ... well, did it really matter all that much in the greater scheme of things?
Now, seated behind his purplewood bureau plat in his Auction Towers study, he signed the last of the documents which had been brought by special air courier from Germany. He looked up as his valet appeared at the door.
"These need to be faxed back immediately, Josef," he said in German as he carefully blotted his signature. "The originals can go by FedEx."
"Yes, Your Highness."
Josef paused, and cleared his throat discreetly. "There is one other thing, Your Highness."
"And that is?"
Karl-Heinz capped his solid gold fountain pen, gathered up the sheaf of documents, and aligned their edges by tapping them on the desktop.
"Countess von Hohenburg-Willemlohe is in the lobby."
Karl-Heinz stopped what he was doing and drew a deep breath. His lips tightened momentarily, and then a kind of gentle sorrow came into his eyes.
So, he thought. Zandra has dropped by. He was surprised and yet not surprised. I wonder what she wants.
"Invite her up," he said, handing Josef the documents.
Josef nodded solemnly. "Very well, Your Highness," he said, and withdrew, walking backward and bowing formally once he reached the double doors.
Karl-Heinz pushed back his ch
air, rose from behind the desk, and walked thoughtfully over to one of the windows. He stared out, hands clasped behind his back.
Uniformly low gray clouds pressed down upon the city, shrouding the tops of the tallest buildings. Already at three o'clock, lights glowed brightly in windows, and from far below, the screams of sirens drifted up, ever so faint but nonetheless persistent.
Sirens, car horns, alarms. Those were the sounds he equated with these hard-edged, vertical canyons. No matter how isolated and cocooned one was, the torment of this writhing megalopolis could never be completely silenced. Reality was just a wall away.
Suddenly he longed for the unearthly solitude of his European castles. Perhaps, he thought, it's time I went back and recharged my batteries.
His musings were interrupted by Cesar. "Countess von Hohenburg- Willemlohe," he announced.
Karl-Heinz turned around. "Thank you, Cesar."
"Your Highness." The majordomo bowed and shut the double doors quietly.
Zandra stood hesitantly just inside the book-lined room. She knew she looked terrible—drawn and pale, her red eyes rimmed with pink from lack of sleep. Having literally been awake for two entire days, her body was worn down by jet lag and jangled nerves, and she was on the verge of exhaustion. Her glands were swollen, and her throat felt raw.
"Well?" Karl-Heinz smiled. "Are you just going to stand there? I don't bite, you know."
She managed a tiny smile. He was right. She was standing there like an idiot.
She crossed the glowing carpet and raised her cheek for his kiss, a greeting which, in her profound agitation, she was too flustered to reciprocate.
"This won't take long, Heinzie," she said apologetically. Her vocal cords were hoarse from lack of sleep. "I'll get right to the point."
"What's the rush?" he said, his voice pleasantly tolerant.
Her breasts rose as she heaved a sigh, and then she tightened her lips and looked down at the swirling pattern of the Aubusson. After a moment, she raised her eyes and met his.
"About this past weekend, Heinzie—" she began.
Karl-Heinz laughed. "Weekend? What weekend? Some things are best forgotten. Don't you agree?"
She shook her head, her face serious. "Please," she said softly. "You're not making this any easier for me."
He looked at her with concern. "Zandra? Are you al—"
"About the weekend. I ... well, I won't pretend it didn't take me by complete surprise—I mean, honestly, Heinzie, it was so ... unexpected."
She twisted her hands in front of her.
"And I know the way I reacted was beastly. It's just that I was absolutely thrown."
"I think that's forgivable. As I recall, I made rather a mess of it. Tell you the truth, I was appalled with myself."
"Anyway, you're probably wondering, and quite rightly, what the devil I'm doing here. The truth is, I ... I've come to see whether you might possibly be interested in a business proposition."
"In that case," he said gently, taking her by the arm and leading her to the nearest sofa, "let's have a seat. I make it a point never to discuss business standing up."
She smiled gratefully and sat.
He sank into the chair opposite her. "Can I offer you something? A drink? Coffee?"
She shook her head. "No. I ... I'd like to get this over with. Heinzie."
She swallowed nervously. She stilled her hands by clasping them firmly in her lap. She crossed, and then recrossed, her splendid legs.
"I won't blame you if you'll think me frightfully despicable—"
He leaned forward. "I seriously doubt that. I don't believe you're capable of doing anything despicable."
"Please!" She heard her own stridency and quickly dropped her voice. "Let me finish before you judge me too hastily," she whispered, looking away, unable to hold his gaze.
He was silent.
"I understand the circumstances which led up to last weekend. I also realize that it must have been damn hard for you." She took another deep breath. "Just as this is damn hard for me."
For fear of saying the wrong thing, he didn't say anything.
"Your proposal ... well, I assume it really was a business proposition—right?"
Something deep inside him twisted excruciatingly, pierced him with brutal, lancinating pain.
Oh, Lord God—if only she knew the truth! If only he could give it voice. More than anything, he wanted to take her in his arms and sweep her off her feet.
"I mean ..." Zandra looked down at her fidgeting fingers. "... I was supposed to marry you and have your billion-dollar baby. Presumably, that was the whole point."
"Yes," he said miserably.
She raised her eyes from her lap and held his gaze. "Well? Still interested?"
He was taken aback.
"I mean, why on earth shouldn't you inherit? All it takes is an heir. I mean, what's the big deal of marriage and giving birth? This is the nineties. Over half the marriages end in divorce anyway. And, we wouldn't exactly have to stay married forever and ever, right?"
"No," he said tightly, "we wouldn't."
"And, since you'll inherit all those billions because of me ... well, I'm entitled to something, wouldn't you agree? Sort of like a ... a finder's fee ... or an agent's commission?"
His eyes were hooded. "So you're here to sell yourself," he said in a raw whisper.
"No, Heinzie," she corrected him firmly, "no. Not sell. Rent. You can rent me, Heinzie. Me and my most precious asset, my legitimate, priceless, Holy Roman Empire womb."
"Zandra—"
"Of course, I can't guarantee the sex of the child we'd have, but I'll do my best to see that you'll inherit. I'll even stick around and have a second child, if the first turns out to be female."
"And this ... this womb rental," he asked dryly, "how much is that going to cost me?"
"Exactly one and a quarter million pounds sterling, for me and my womb both. Payable immediately and in full."
"Why one and a quarter million?" he asked in surprise. "Aren't you undervaluing yourself? Why not a flat quarter billion? Or half a billion? God knows, you're in a position to name your price."
"I already did."
"But why settle for a paltry one and a quarter million?"
She looked away from him. "That is no concern of yours," she said softly.
He sat forward. "Zandra," he said quietly, "are you in trouble? Is that it? You don't need to sell yourself—"
"I'm not selling myself!" she blurted angrily. "I'm renting myself."
"But you don't have to. I'll gladly help you anyway."
Tears threatened to blur her vision, and it was all she could do to fight them back.
"Look, Heinzie, I don't want help. This is strictly business. Now, let's make a deal, or let's not. Just tell me which it'll be."
He sighed and looked at her sadly.
"For Christ's sake!" she said angrily. "You need me to inherit! Fine! Here I am. A bloody marvel. The perfect product, all ready for leasing! Now, will you make up your mind?"
"Zandra," he said gently, "you're not a product."
Salty tears stung her eyes. "Oh, cut the shit, Heinzie!"
She got up and looked down at him, her anguish apparent.
"Do you, or do you not, want me?" she said quietly. "It's either now or never. Which will it be?"
He rose to his feet. "All right, Zandra," he sighed.
"What does that mean? Yes? Or no?"
"It means yes."
The relief which flooded through her was almost unbearable.
But not because of my inheritance, he wanted to add. Because you need my help. Because I'm in love with you.
She fumbled for the business card Joe Leach had given her, thrust it at him, and looked away.
"Wire one and a quarter million into this account at Barclay's, London. The moment it's transferred, I'm all yours."
"All mine?" he said, thinking: How can you be all mine? The last I heard, nobody's come up with a way to capture
a ray of sunshine and bottle it.
"Yes, all yours. What you see is what you get. All five feet, ten inches of me. Head to toe, golden womb, and all."
He tapped the business card in his hand. "The money will be wired within the hour."
"And there's one more thing," she said.
"Oh?" He raised his eyebrows.
"I want your lawyers to draw up a prenuptial agreement in which I relinquish any and all claims to alimony, inheritance, child support, and anything else."
"Aren't you being a little harsh on yourself?" he said.
She shook her head vehemently. "It's a condition I insist upon."
"Very well," he said. "Consider it done."
She took a deep breath, turned her back to him, and reached behind her head, holding up her hair.
"Unzip me, Heinzie, will you?" Her voice was suddenly strong and sure.
A painful tightness came into his chest. "The money hasn't been wired yet."
"So? You're a man of your word. Best we get a head start, don't you think? Got to make that billion-dollar baby."
She waited, but he still made no move.
"Heinzie!" she said impatiently. "I can't do this on my own, you know. Takes two to make—"
He grabbed hold of her and turned her roughly around. "Zandra, stop it!"
Her eyes went wide with fear. "Does this mean you don't want me? That the deal's off?"
"Don't be silly. But I'm old-fashioned and want to do this the right way."
She stared at him. "Why, I believe you are serious!"
"Very."
"If that's the way you want it," she said softly.
He nodded. "I do."
She looked at him a moment longer, then her chin came up. "Let me know about the arrangements," she said, thinking: Why does it sound more like a funeral than a wedding?
"I will."
Her eyes were still on his. Then she reached up, touched him tentatively on the cheek, and swiftly turned and ran from the room.
Only once she hit the street did she allow the poisonous, suffocating cloud to engulf her. Seeking the refuge of the nearest doorway, she hid in its shadows, her forehead pressed against cold, hard granite. Sobs racked her, and burst from deep within her chest.
Too Damn Rich Page 44