Too Damn Rich

by Gould, Judith

  Dr. Rosenbaum, glasses perched on the tip of his nose, was behind the bureau plat scribbling into Zandra's file.

  Zandra looked around. "Where's my husband?" she asked.

  "Right now, he's having a blood test. Meanwhile, I need to ask you a few personal questions."

  Blood test! Personal questions! "Why?" she asked, in rising alarm. "What's wrong?"

  "Why, nothing, Your Highness. Please." He gestured. "Have a seat."

  Zandra sat nervously on the edge of the bergere. She was wringing her hands.

  He took off his glasses, placed them in their case, then shut the folder and clasped his hands atop it.

  "You're pregnant," he stated simply.

  Her voice was hushed. "Pregnant?"

  He nodded gravely.

  She felt colliding emotions inside her, as though joy and despair were battling for supremacy. Her voice was quivering. "You're sure?"

  "Oh, yes," he nodded. "Quite sure. The blood serum tested positive, and the gynecological examination bears it out. Not that there's much to be seen at such an early stage. However, the tiny, telltale signs inside your cervix are unmistakable."

  She soughed a deep breath.

  "From all appearances," he said, "you must have become pregnant within the first few days of your wedding."

  She was silent for a moment. "May I ask you a question, doctor?"

  He smiled. "That's what I'm here for. Fire away."

  She hesitated. "How long before an amniocentesis can determine the sex?"

  "Unfortunately, not until fourteen to seventeen weeks into the pregnancy."

  "That long!"

  He nodded. "Anything earlier could result in miscarriage."

  "Damn."

  "However, there is another method to determine the child's sex. It is called chorionic villus sampling, commonly known as CVS. It can be performed between eight and eleven weeks of pregnancy. In other words, approximately six weeks from now. Say ... May the fourteenth, to be on the safe side. Then, should you choose to do so, that gives you adequate time to consider a safe termination."

  She sat there, deep in thought. "My husband needs a male heir," she said slowly, "and yet ..."

  "And yet there is a tiny spark of life growing inside you." He nodded compassionately. "I understand what you are going through." She looked at him. "Thank you, doctor, for telling me first." He bowed his head slightly, his face expressionless. "Now could you summon my husband? This child is his as well as mine. As its father, he has every right to know."

  Chapter 53

  The first two months of the year had been terrific. Burghley's con- sistently out-performed Sotheby's and Christie's, GoldMart, Inc. stock kept rising, Bambi gave good head and few problems, and GoldGlobe International, the conglomerate Robert was attempting to consolidate, looked like a go.

  March 31 brought Black Friday.

  At least to Robert A. Goldsmith.

  In more ways than one, it was The Day the Shit Hit the Fan.

  In the morning, a meeting with institutional investors and mutual fund managers went sour. Representing six billion dollars in outstanding GoldMart and Burghley's stock, they threatened a mass sell-off if Robert went ahead with the GoldGlobe International merger.

  Which meant he could kiss that sweet deal good-bye.

  At noon, as a direct result of the four-company merger falling through, Standard and Poor's downgraded one of the corporations involved, the Home-on-the-Range fast-food restaurant chain, from Buy to Sell, plunging the NASDAQ-traded stock a full 4Vs.

  Which meant he could kiss something else good-bye—fifteen- something million dollars.

  And the afternoon ... well, the afternoon brought troubles of an entirely different nature, and all because he'd forgotten three cardinal rules:

  1.You can only juggle things for so long before they eventually come crashing down.

  2.That Manhattan, and the Upper East Side in particular, is the smallest town on earth.

  3.And that you never, ever shit where you eat.

  On this Friday, March 31, the combination of Robert's understandably foul mood, his healthy erection, a sick hairdresser, a cancelled lunch date, and an exhibition of Highly Important Jewelry, proved to be his undoing.

  By one o'clock, Robert had had it. He was convinced that the longer he stuck around his office, the more bad news he was likely to receive. Face it, he thought, today just isn't your day. What he should have done was stayed in bed.

  Bed.

  Now there was an idea whose time had come! Just the thought was enough to bring on a king-size boner. What better way to forget all his troubles, forget all his cares?

  What indeed?

  Grabbing the phone, he punched the autodial and called Bambi's work number. 'Course, with the crappy kinda day I'm havin', she probably won't be in—

  "Bambi Parker," chirped the teensy voice.

  "Good," he rasped, thinking, miracle of miracles! "You're in."

  "Ro-bert. Of course I'm in," she said, feigning whispery affront. "What's up?" She giggled at her double entendre.

  "I'm up," he growled. "I got a hard-on's gonna bust a hole through my pants, we don't do somethin' about it!"

  "You are sooooo gross! I take it this is an obscene phone call?"

  "You betcha sweet patootie it is."

  "Well, at least that explains why you're bothering a busy working girl."

  Working girl! He nearly guffawed. Who's she kidding? From what I've heard, the only thing she works at is on not working.

  "I wanna see ya," he panted.

  "And?" she teased.

  "I want ya to go down on me."

  "And?"

  "I want ya to be wearin' one o' those lacy l'il whatchamacallit outfits I got ya."

  "Which one?"

  "How about one a them three-piece corset sets with the garters?"

  "I don't know, Robert," she sighed reluctantly. "Those wasp-waist corsets have to be laced real tight, and they hurt."

  "Oh, yeah?"

  "Uh-huh. I get all these funny crease marks all over me." She paused, a petulance coming into her voice. "That's what you like, isn't it?"

  "What?"

  "Hurting me."

  "Shit. Whaddya do? Start moonlightin' for one o' them 1-900 numbers?"

  "Ro-bert!"

  "Well, that's what ya startin' to sound like."

  "What do you take me for?" she sniffed. "Some cheap hussy?"

  "Well, I don't think anybody'd call you cheap," he cracked.

  "What's that?"

  "Nothin'. I wanna see ya."

  "What, now?"

  "Soon as I can get up there. Yeah."

  "Mmm," she said playfully. "Better let me check my calendar ..."

  "Better clear it," he growled. "I'm on my way. Be there."

  An elevator ride later, he was in his limo, inching through the Wall Street congestion.

  Heading uptown.

  Bound for disaster.

  One for the record books. All dressed up and nowhere to go.

  It had been ages since Dina last had free time on her hands. Now that she did, she felt lost and out of sorts. I don't know what to do with myself! she realized with a start.

  First, Sergei, her hairdresser had called to say he was sick and had to cancel, and should he send his replacement and the manicurist?

  Dina had glanced in the mirror, inspected her nails, and said no, she could wait until Monday.

  Then, Guerlained, Cartiered, Chaneled, and Blahniked, she had been sailing out the door when Julio intercepted her.

  "You have a call, madame."

  "Later," she told him breezily. "I'm off."

  She was to meet Suzy, Becky's sister, for lunch at Le Cirque.

  "But it is the Vicomtesse de Saint-Mallet on the telephone, madame."

  Suzy? Dina decided she'd better take the call.

  And a good thing she did, too. Her lunch date was in the emergency room at Lenox Hill, having tripped and broken her big toe.


  Now two empty hours loomed. Immediate problem: What to do. Dina knew better than to lunch at Le Cirque by herself.

  She tried Zandra. Who she'd forgotten had flown to Paris.

  Becky. Who was lunching with someone else.

  Balls! Dina felt like kicking herself. Why hadn't she heeded Becky's advice? Not two weeks earlier, her friend had urged her to find herself a walker.

  "You know, cherie. Someone quel attractif. Or terribly, terribly witty, who is always available to escort a lady."

  In short, a bachelor escort—societyspeak for a homosexual, who would never make physical demands or pose any threat to Robert.

  Well, it was too late now to pull a walker out of the hat. I'll have to make it my priority to find one, Dina decided.

  Which still left her in a quandary. What to do in the meantime?

  She considered her options.

  Perhaps she should check up on how the apartment was progressing?

  No. She would get covered with plaster dust or find herself knee-deep in debris.

  Perhaps she should get comfortable and relax?

  No. She needed to get out of the house.

  Then the Burghley's catalogue for Highly Important Jewelry caught her eye and wham!—suddenly she remembered that the auction was tomorrow! That today was the last day of the exhibition! She'd been meaning to go and check out the merchandise, only she'd never found the time.

  Well, she had plenty of time on her hands right now, and Burghley's was just a convenient block away.

  What could be more perfect?

  Kenzie was puzzled. She couldn't figure Annalisa Barabino out. Now that a few weeks had passed, Old Masters's newest employee still remained a total enigma.

  Not that there were any complaints. On the contrary, Kenzie had never seen anyone who worked so hard, or knew so much. Without fail, Annalisa was the first one in at work in the morning and the last one to leave at night.

  Her dedication was truly astounding.

  And yet ...

  Kenzie found the young woman's lack of personality disturbing. It was as if work was the only thing she lived for. What was missing was a lively core, an essential spark of life.

  And when it came to interacting with people on anything other than a business level, Annalisa invariably clammed up:

  "Good morning, Annalisa. Did you have a nice weekend?"

  "Yes, thank you, Kenzie."

  "What did you do?"

  "Oh, nothing really. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd better get back to this ..."

  Or:

  "Herro, Annarisa! Why don't you join us for a rovery runch?"

  "I'm sorry, Arnold. I can't. I must finish this. I hope you have a nice time."

  "It would be nicer if you'd join us."

  "Me? Oh, no! You wouldn't want that. I would only bore you."

  Yet when Annalisa studied a painting or a drawing, her entire face would light up with joy, and she would launch into an animated discussion about the subject and its artist, touching upon the most complicated and obscure facts during her impassioned art-fueled flight, only to fall silent and retreat into her shell once she was finished.

  Kenzie couldn't understand it.

  She's like a fragile, wounded bird, she thought. Someone must have hurt her deeply. I wonder if she'll ever fully recover.

  And so began her obsession with Annalisa. Annalisa, who was shyer and more withdrawn and serious than anyone she had ever known.

  Annalisa, who flushed when people spoke to her, who walked around with her head down and her eyes averted.

  "Have you ever heard her laugh?" Kenzie asked Arnold.

  "Nope. And I've never seen her crack a smile, either."

  "Maybe," Kenzie said thoughtfully, "it's because she's got nothing to smile about."

  "Maybe."

  Kenzie was determined to draw Annalisa out of her shell. She told Arnold she was going to take her under her wing.

  "I'd say you've got your work cut out for you," he sighed. "God knows, I've tried. And if I couldn't get past first base ..."

  "Perhaps it's because you're a man," Kenzie speculated. "It could be she distrusts men. Who knows? She might have been abused."

  "And it could be she's just plain weird."

  Kenzie shook her head. "I don't think so. She's suffered, Arnold. Somewhere along the way, she's been hurt."

  "Saint Kenzie, patron of the wallflowers," he said kindly.

  Kenzie decided to invite Annalisa to lunch, which was easier said than done. After being politely declined four days in a row, she finally said, "Today I won't take no for an answer. We'll be discussing business, so you have to come. It's an order."

  "Yes, Kenzie," Annalisa said meekly. "All right."

  "Good. Do you like Chinese?"

  Annalisa frowned. "I like the porcelains," she said slowly, "but the paintings are too stylized for my taste."

  "Food, Annalisa. I mean Chinese food."

  "Oh." Annalisa fidgeted. "I-I really don't know ... " she murmured.

  Kenzie took her to First Wok, where they sat at a table for two and perused their menus. Annalisa put hers down almost immediately.

  "You've already decided?" Kenzie inquired in surprise.

  Annalisa shook her head. "I'm not used to eating in restaurants. I wouldn't know what to order."

  "Then I'll order for you," Kenzie decided.

  For herself she chose vegetable dumplings, followed by a vegetable platter with chili sauce, and for Annalisa a spring roll and crispy shrimp. "And make it brown rice," she told the waiter.

  While they waited, they sipped tea from little cups without handles. Kenzie couldn't help noticing that Annalisa's fingernails were bitten down to the quick. Obviously, she'd stopped wearing the press-on nails.

  A closer inspection revealed something else. Annalisa's appearance was slipping. Her blouse was rumpled and the shoulders of her suit jacket were sprinkled with dandruff.

  Soon she'll look like a frump again, Kenzie despaired. Shit. How do I broach the subject of grooming without hurting her feelings? Well, now certainly wasn't the time.

  Attempting to jump-start the conversation, she smiled brightly and said, ttI know so little about you. I was hoping to take this opportunity to get better acquainted."

  Annalisa nodded. "I studied under Professor Fiorentino at the Ambrosiana—"

  "—and worked at the Uffizi," Kenzie said, remembering the resume. "Yes, yes, I know all that. What I meant was ... personal things."

  Annalisa looked at her blankly. "Personal things?"

  "Yes. You know. Where you came from. What your hobbies are. Whether you have any brothers or sisters—"

  Annalisa's face blanched and her body tensed as if preparing to be struck. Then her mouth opened, and her eyes filled with tears. Quickly she looked away.

  Kenzie was appalled by the reaction she had provoked.

  "I'm sorry, Annalisa," she said guiltily, backing off immediately. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want. In fact, we don't have to discuss anything."

  Annalisa nodded, wiping her eyes with the palms of her hands. She looked tiny, frail and forlorn, staring down into her empty teacup as if attempting to divine the leaves.

  "It's all right, Kenzie. There are ... some things I just cannot—"

  "I understand."

  Kenzie saw the waiter approaching.

  "Get ready. Here comes our grub."

  Annalisa stared in amazement at the proliferation of plates and bowls and condiments which suddenly appeared on the table.

  "There's so much!" she exclaimed. "I can never eat all this."

  Kenzie tore the wrapping off her chopsticks and gestured with them. "Well?" she said. "What are you waiting for? Let's dig in and eat."

  Annalisa picked up her fork and attacked her food. She ate in silence, seemingly without chewing, as if she hadn't enjoyed a full-course meal in weeks. Kenzie was still working on her appetizer of dumplings when Annalisa put down her fork and sat back.


  Her plates and bowls were empty; not so much as a grain of rice remained.

  "Should I order you another course?" Kenzie quipped, still attempting to break the ice.

  "Oh, no," Annalisa said earnestly. "But thank you for asking."

  Kenzie couldn't believe the response. My God, she thought. How humorless can anyone be?

  Annalisa was beginning to fidget self-consciously. "I ... I really should be getting back to work now, Kenzie," she murmured.

  Kenzie stared at her. "But this is our lunch hour."

  "Yes, but there is so much to get done."

  Kenzie didn't argue. "You run along then," she said, forcing a smile.

  Annalisa opened the black leather bag Arnold had picked out for her. "How ... how much do I owe?"

  Kenzie waved a hand airily. "Nothing. I'll put it on the expense account. Burghley's is paying."

  "Really?"

  "Yes." Kenzie thought it easiest to lie.

  "Well, thank you for inviting me." Annalisa scooted her chair back and got up. "Enjoy your lunch."

  Then, hunching her body protectively in on itself, and keeping her head down to avoid making eye contact, she darted off.

  Kenzie sat there, staring after her. Arnold's right, she thought, with a sigh. The patron saint of the wallflowers certainly has her work cut out for her.

  Robert had been getting increasingly careless of late, a far cry from the beginning, when he'd been overly cautious.

  At first, whenever he'd come to visit Bambi, he would order his stretch limo to be driven directly down into the maw of Burghley's underground parking garage. From there, he'd pass a security desk, identify himself, and take the elevator straight up to the twenty-seventh floor of One Auction Towers.

  With never a hitch.

  After a while, he'd become less panicky and had his limo pull up to the canopied entrance of Auction Towers and let the doorman jump to, while keeping an eye peeled in case the wife was on the sidewalks in the vicinity.

  Still never a hitch.

  Finally, Robert stopped scanning the sidewalks altogether. After all, was there really any need for subterfuge? As Bambi had pointed out, he had every right to be there.

  Damn right, he did! This was one helluva fine piece of real estate and he owned the lion's share. This was his turf. He was the big cheese around here.