Too Damn Rich

by Gould, Judith

  Her legs quivered and a shudder coursed through her.

  For what seemed an eternity, they floated in this silent lucent world, his fingers bringing on the first sputters of rapture.

  Then, the air in their lungs diminishing, they rose up as one and crashed through the surface.

  Zandra's mouth gaped as she gulped deep lungfuls of air.

  "God," she gasped, her breasts and abdomen heaving.

  There was a strange, untamed light in her eyes. She, who had always thought of her sexuality as subtle and constrained, now found it overpowering. A driving force over which she had no control.

  "Come," Karl-Heinz said, and swam her to the edge of the pool.

  There was no longer any need for words. The moment her shoulders nudged the smooth aqua tiles, she let go of him, reached behind her, and held onto the coping.

  The rigidity of his maleness prodded the petal-like folds between her thighs. She drew a deep breath and looked up at him. Her eyes glowed brightly. In one smooth movement he drove himself inside her.

  Tears sprang to her eyes. "Oh, yes," she moaned. "God, yes!"

  And filling her completely, he slowly began to thrust.

  Zandra threw back her head, turning it from side to side, and she arched her back, pressing her hips against his.

  Faster he pummeled, faster and faster, until the water around them thrashed like a boiling cauldron.

  She could feel the first tide gathering force, and then the torrent was upon her, carrying her higher, filling her completely.

  A scream tore from her throat as the flood of pleasure swept her away and over the edge.

  But it was only the beginning.

  Princess or no, she fucked like a whore.

  Chapter 48

  Three o'clock sharp." Thus spake Miss P.

  Kenzie arrived at First Avenue and Fifty-second Street a full twelve minutes early. She had the eeriest sense of deja vu, of repeating something she'd done the exact same way before.

  Which, of course, she had.

  On her last visit.

  The doorway on First Avenue into which she ducked to change from her Reeboks into her best heels (now repaired and no longer flats), was the same one where she'd changed shoes the last time. Ditto the shoulder bag into which the Reeboks were relegated.

  The sun, beginning its descent behind the Jersey Palisades, sent a tunnel of light straight across Fifty-second Street and on over the East River, where it glinted on the mullioned windows of a thousand factories and warehouses.

  As Kenzie approached River House, she was aware of the doorman inspecting her carefully through the thick glass door.

  That she passed the first test was apparent when he held it open and let her in, not that she got far. The sign proclaimed that ALL VISITORS MUST BE ANNOUNCED, and it was a house rule which undoubtedly extended to the President of the United States. This was, after all, River House, undeniably one of the premier residences in the entire world.

  "May I help you, ma'am?"

  The doorman's creaky voice was an instant replay of Kenzie's previous visit, and again, she had that jarring sense of deja vu. For not only were his words the very same, hut so was he!

  She recognized him at once. The same shuffling geezer who chased her off the last time.

  Tossing her head, Kenzie tried to dazzle him with her thousand-watt smile.

  He stared back at her: silent, unimpressed, and expressionless.

  Breezily she said, "I have an appointment with Miss P.," thinking: There! At least that's different! The last time, I called her "Miss Pons." Maybe this'll cut the mustard.

  It didn't.

  "What makes you think we have a Miss P. living here?" His voice was flat and blank, just like his face.

  Kenzie turned up the wattage of her smile.

  "Because," she said smugly, "she called me yesterday. I spoke to her personally."

  "That so?"

  "Yes, that's so." God, what a doubting Thomas. "Perhaps you remember me? I was here once before. I represent Burghley's? The auction house? Here's my card ..."

  Her voice trailed off as she began to unbuckle her shoulder bag.

  "Not necessary." He waved a hand and picked up the house phone. "Ma'am? What you say your name was?"

  "Turner. MacKenzie Turner." She looked around the lobby while he dialed, pretending to inspect the decor. Then: "Yeah. This is Artie downstairs? There's a Ms. Turner here. From Burghley's. Claims to have an appointment with Miss P. Yeah ... uh-huh ... right."

  Kenzie watched him surreptitiously, but his face gave nothing away.

  "Well?" she joked brightly as he hung up. "Am I cleared by the KGB?"

  "Nope." He shook his head. "Sorry."

  '"What?" she demanded, staring at him in disbelief.

  He coughed discreetly, but wouldn't meet her eyes. "Housekeeper says Ms. P.'s in Klosters. That's over there in France or somewhere."

  "Switzerland," Kenzie corrected automatically. "When did she leave?"

  "Dunno, ma'am," he said. "Musta been on someone else's shift."

  "But I just spoke to her yesterday!"

  "I wouldn't know about that, ma'am. Perhaps if you tried some other time—"

  "Other time? What other time? I was summoned here, dammit!"

  "Then perhaps if you telephoned ahead—"

  "But that's just it! Don't you see? I don't have her phone number. She's the one who calls me!"

  "Then I'm afraid I can't help you." Stony-faced, he went to open the front door to show her out. "Ma'am?"

  Kenzie refused to budge. "Look, this is important," she stressed. "Maybe ... maybe there's been a mix-up. What if I used the house phone—"

  He looked shocked. "Absolutely not!" he snapped, letting go of the door and striding to the house phone in his determination to intercept her, and guard it with his life, if necessary.

  "Then could you please call upstairs once more?"

  He shook his head regretfully. "No can do, ma'am."

  "But why not?" she demanded incredulously, hands poised on her hips.

  "Because we have strict orders," he replied. "The resident of that apartment allows only one call per visitor. No exceptions." He paused. "Ever."

  "But surely, when there are extenuating circumstances—"

  "No such thing, ma'am." He smiled tightly. "I assure you, not with apartment 5C."

  5C. Kenzie mentally filed the number. You never know, she thought. It might come in handy sometime.

  "So," she asked broodingly of him, "what do I do now?"

  "Ya got me," he said.

  "Shit," she swore, under her breath.

  "Sorry, ma'am. I don't make the rules."

  "Damn and blast it all to hell!" Kenzie muttered. "What I won't do for Burghley's!"

  Talk about Kafkaesque! she thought. This is what I'd expect down at Motor Vehicles, not in the most distinguished building in town.

  Whirling around, she pushed on the heavy door and let herself out, so quickly that the doorman didn't stand a chance to jump to. She was out before he knew it.

  Marching away from the building, Kenzie tried to contain her frustration when—

  —she felt it again!

  That powerful frisson.

  That eerie, spine-tingling sensation of being watched!

  Slowing her pace, she felt herself twisting her head, eyes involuntarily drawn to the fifth floor, automatically seeking that same window which had caught her attention the last time.

  The breath caught in her throat. There! Invisible unless you knew where to look, the haunting pale image of—

  —her!

  "Klosters, my ass ... !" Kenzie exclaimed softly.

  Lila Pons. It had to be. Cinematically posed behind the squares of casement, head in a turban, she stood with one forearm across her stomach, her hand cupping an elbow as she smoked a cigarette.

  For a split second, distance contracted and their eyes seemed to meet.

  Then, before Kenzie could react, the ethereal
figure drew back into the shadows.

  The curtain swung shut.

  The window went blank.

  Show's over, she thought sardonically, and got a move on. She'd wasted too much time already.

  "Final fade-out for Ms. Turner," Kenzie muttered darkly. "Cut and ... print!"

  Chapter 49

  Whatever happened to good old-fashioned coffee shops?" Charley said mournfully.

  It was early Friday evening and Seattle Bean on Second Avenue— one of some eight dozen coffee bars which had mushroomed, seemingly overnight, all over Manhattan—was filled with a young, outdoorsy- looking crowd.

  "The coffee happened," Kenzie said. "They served shit."

  "Yeah, but this? Seattle's revenge, that's what this is."

  Kenzie, sitting on a stool opposite him, was slowly working on a slice of dense chocolate cake and sipping cappuccino.

  "What this city needs," he growled, "is a proliferation law. For coffee bars."

  "And here I always thought you Italians liked good coffee."

  "Good coffee," he said, "doesn't have to cost three bucks a cup."

  Kenzie used her fork to cut a minute sliver of cake, speared it on the tines, raised it to her mouth, and chewed in slow motion.

  "Heaven," she sighed, shutting her eyes in ecstasy.

  "For what it cost, it had better be."

  "Charley, I'm trying to enjoy my calories. So get off this thrift kick and let's change the subject."

  "Okay." He folded his hands on the tiny table. "Why'd you drag me in here? You said you wanted to discuss somethin'."

  She put down her fork and dabbed her lips delicately with the paper napkin and took a sip of cappuccino.

  "That's right," she said.

  "You also said you didn't want to discuss it over the phone. Or over dinner. Or at home."

  She nodded. "That is correct also."

  "So discuss."

  She took a deep breath. "There are women," she said slowly, "who would undoubtedly feel flattered by displays of Cro-Magnon behavior among males. I, as you should know, do not number among them."

  He gave her a funny look. "This Swahili you're speakin', or what?"

  Kenzie sat forward. "I am speaking about fisticuffs," she said quietly. "Fights in the schoolyard. 'Wanna step outside, buddy?' That sort of thing."

  He rubbed his forehead. "Kenzie," he said wearily. "Fuck are you talkin' about?"

  "I am talking about your temper. I am talking about insane jealousy. I am talking about your use of violent physical force."

  "Run that by me again?"

  "You heard me."

  "Yeah, I heard you. But I might understand you if you'd stop speaking in goddamn tongues!"

  "All right." Kenzie took a moment to collect her thoughts. "I am referring," she said primly, "to Hannes."

  "Oh, yeah. Way I understand it, you've been burning the candle at both ends."

  "Charley, who I see, and choose not to see, is my business. It does not give you the right to go beating up on that person."

  "Excuse me?" He looked genuinely bumfuzzled.

  "And you can wipe that look of innocence off your face," she said severely. "We both know what you did."

  "Hell I do!" he said heatedly.

  "Keep your voice down!" she hissed. "It's bad enough you slugged Hannes—"

  "I did what?" He stared at her. "Christ, Kenz! What put that idea in your head?"

  "Let's just say I have it on good authority," she said stiffly.

  "As God is my judge, Kenz, I swear I didn't lay a hand on that son of a bitch!"

  She sighed heavily. "And I," she said quietly, "am supposed to believe you?"

  "Hell, yeah!" He stared at her. "You do, don't you?"

  She did not reply.

  "Aw, shit!" He raked a hand through his hair and brooded. "Guess I have Blondie to thank for this."

  "Charley, there's really no need to get into name-calling."

  "Hell there ain't! Guy I'm on the street with pretends he an' I're buddy-buddy. Meanwhile, he cuckolds me an', to top it all off, runs to you an' starts spreadin' lies. Makes me wish I had slugged the shit outta him!"

  "He says you did," she said quietly.

  Charley couldn't believe his ears. "An' you fell for it?"

  Kenzie said, "Put it this way. I don't disbelieve him."

  Charley was incredulous. "Oh, that's just beautiful! You've known me for years and along comes Blondie an' snap!—you take his word over mine."

  Kenzie let out another exasperated sigh. She picked up her cup and sipped a little and put it back down. "Then why is it," she inquired, "that your knuckles are all bruised and scraped?"

  "This?" Charley held up his hands. "That's from when I fell."

  "You fell?"

  "Goddamned right I fell! After I found out he was shtuppin' you, I tied one on. Or is that a crime suddenly?"

  "Be that as it may," she said, "Hannes is the one with the black eye."

  "Well, if I were you, I'd stop seein' the bastard." Charley stared at her. "It ever occur to you he might be dangerous?"

  Kenzie was amused. "Come on, Charley. From the physical evidence, it strikes me that you're the one I should be worried about."

  "Christ, you don't quit," he said, "do you?"

  She was silent.

  "That why you dragged me in here? To drink cap-pu-cci-no and give me shit?"

  "Charley," she said, "I am not giving you shit. I wanted to discuss this like civilized human beings."

  "Oh."

  "Also, I thought it time I started ... well, laying down the law."

  "Law?" he said suspiciously. "What law?"

  "Kenzie's Law."

  "Now you've lost me completely."

  "Well, the truth is this. I like you, Charley."

  She looked at him directly, her tawny eyes reaching down deep.

  "In fact," she added softly, "I like you a damn lot."

  "Gee, thanks," he said sarcastically. "Makes all the difference."

  "But I like Hannes, too."

  "No doubt a whole lot also," he observed wryly.

  Her expression did not change. "That's right," she nodded.

  "Well," Charley sighed, "I won't pretend the truth doesn't hurt."

  "At any rate," Kenzie continued, "to uncomplicate matters, I thought it best to keep the two of you separate."

  Charley simply stared at her.

  "I also thought it fair to give each of you equal time."

  "Did you now?" he said bitterly. "Just like opposing opinions on TV?"

  "Just until we all know where we stand emotionally," she emphasized. "I have, therefore, decided that Hannes can see me Mondays, Wednesday, and Fridays."

  "Yeah?"

  "Which means," she said, "that Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays are yours."

  "Gee. An' Sundays? What about Sundays?"

  "On Sundays," she said succinctly, "I rest."

  "Sounds like you're gonna need it."

  She shrugged.

  "Also sounds like you wanna have your cake and eat it, too."

  "I will not," she said, "dignify that with a response."

  "Sure you're not playin' one of us against the other?"

  "Charley," she said patiently. "I'm trying to keep the two of you from each other's throats." She sat erect, her hands folded. "So. Are you in agreement?"

  He eyed her narrowly. "You float this by Blondie yet?"

  "I discussed it with Hannes," she said. "Yes."

  "An'?"

  "He didn't voice any complaints."

  "I bet he didn't!" Charley was silent for a moment. "And if I do?"

  "I'm hoping it doesn't come to that," Kenzie said softly.

  "That like me hopin' Blondie drops dead?"

  "Charley, look," she said. "I'm trying to make this as painless as possible for all three of us." She took a deep breath. "You can either take it or leave it."

  He stared at her.

  She stared back at him.

  "O
h, great!" He rubbed a hand over his face. "I get to choose between the devil and the fuckin' deep blue sea!"

  "I'm sorry if that's the way you perceive it, Charley."

  "Shit." He shook his head. "You really know how to kick a guy where it hurts, don't you?"

  "Hurting you is the furthest thing from my mind. I'm only trying to be fair."

  "Yeah." He gave a negating snort. "Right."

  She waited, her mouth pressed in a thin tight line.

  "Well, I don't do my best thinking on an empty stomach," he said. "An' last I heard, ca-pu-cci-no doesn't qualify as a meal. Am I correct in surmising that we're not leavin' here and goin' someplace for real food?"

  "You surmise correctly."

  "Then how come you got all doozied up? You ask me, basic black with spaghetti straps ain't exactly a coffee bar getup."

  "No," Kenzie said softly, "it's not."

  "So. What gives?"

  "It's Friday night," she said gently.

  "Fri—" He slapped his forehead. "Oh, yeah. How stupid of me. This is Blondie's night!"

  Kenzie flinched as though she'd been struck.

  "So you and him," Charley said, "are gonna go do dinner. And whatever."

  She raised her chin. "That's right."

  "Well, fuck you!" he shouted angrily. "Fuck you both!"

  And jumping up, he knocked over his stool and stormed out.

  "I broke the news to Charley," Kenzie told Hannes over dinner at Prive, on East Eightieth Street.

  "How did he take it?"

  She sighed and sipped her white wine spritzer. "Not well, I'm afraid."

  "I'm sorry to hear that, Kenzie."

  She nodded. "So am I," she said. Then she smiled. "Do you know, he believes you might be dangerous?"

  "Me!" Hannes laughed. "What a marvelous absurdity. Look at me, Kenzie! I am still walking around with a bruised face."

  "I know." Kenzie smiled.

  She ate a bite of grilled vegetable and goat cheese tart.

  "It gives you that dashing, heroic air," she added.

  He laughed and then abruptly fell silent.

  "Kenzie, has it occurred to you," he asked slowly, "that Charley might have a point?"

  She gave a start. "What do you mean?" She stared at him.

  "Well, he may have every reason for feeling paranoid. What he did to me, for example."

  "Yes?"