Too Damn Rich (43 page)

"Did I catch you at an inopportune
moment?"

"No, that's not it at all. It's just so
sudden, and—well, I hadn't exactly planned—"

"But you must come!" Dina wailed. "Sweetie, I
insist! I command you! In fact, your presence is required!"

Zandra frowned and thought: Required? Of
course my presence isn't required. Why should it be? And why's Dina
making such a big deal of it?

"Dina—" she began, and then halted: from
across the room came a sudden whoop of triumph as Kenzie raised one
fist and shouted, "Yes!" Obviously, Professor Tindemans's fax was
everything he said it would be, and the Holbein fiasco could now be
dumped into the laps of the authorities and the courts.

"Zandra?" Dina's voice squawked from the
receiver. "Sweetie, what is going on?"

"Gosh. Dina, I've simply got to hang up."

"But what about next weekend?"

"Darling, I'll be there," Zandra promised,
just to get her off the phone. "Count me in. And, it'll be fab.
Just like old times ... we'll talk later—this evening. That's a
darling. Ta!"

Hanging up the phone, Zandra looked
thoughtful.

A weekend in the country. At least it would
get her out of town. In three months she hadn't set foot off
Manhattan.

A change of scenery was definitely
overdue.

The cabinet d'amateur
of Becky V's
penthouse.

Like a precious jewelbox, the mellow,
Goya-studded walls paid homage to its single most priceless
treasure.

There she was, seated in a thronelike,
flame-stitched chair. The former First Lady. Studying a gilt-framed
painting on a strategically placed easel. Glowing in a shaft of
dim, dust-mote sprinkled light was a Corot, Bathing Venus, which a
Madison Avenue gallery had sent over on approval.

To buy or not to buy
... That was the
three-and-a-half-million- dollar question.

And overriding that, since money was no
object, loomed an even larger and more important issue: Was the
quality of the painting superb enough for her collection?

She sat there, frowning, trying to
decide.

A loud knock on the door interrupted her
thoughts. "Oui?" she called out.

Uriah, her ancient servant, shuffled in and
cleared his throat. "Madame!" he shouted. "Mrs. Goldsmith is on the
telephone!"

"
Merci
, Uriah." Still studying the
Corot, Becky felt for the extension phone beside her and picked up
the receiver. "
Allo?
"

"Sweetie! It's Dina!"

"
Cherie!"

"Everything is fixed. Fait accompli!"

"And Zandra?" Becky's eyes never strayed from
the painting.

"She's agreed to join us."

"
Bon
. You have done well,
cherie
. I shall call Karl-Heinz at once."

Later that evening, Manhattan glittered
frostily. Seen from above, it looked like that famous
black-and-white aerial photograph by Berenice Abbott, a signed,
platinum-processed copy of which hung in Karl-Heinz's corridor.

But there was one unique difference between
image and reality: color.

The millions upon millions of incandesced
windows glowed yellow instead of white. Down at street level, the
traffic lights winked in constant repetition: red, yellow, green
... yellow, red, green ... Blinking, multicolored neons abounded.
And the streets and avenues were rivers of white headlights and
ruby taillights.

Other than that, little had changed since Ms.
Abbott had taken her bird's-eye view. Oh, the buildings were
taller. The traffic denser. The lights more profuse. But overall,
it still looked as it had back in 1932.

Seen from way, way up, Manhattan was
instantly recognizable.

Even if you were Berenice Abbott.

It was seven-thirty when Hannes and Kenzie
arrived at Luma, a storefront restaurant on Ninth Avenue in
Chelsea, where he had reserved a window table.

"You told me you don't eat red meat," he said
as he held Kenzie's chair.

She smiled, touched that he remembered, and
glanced around the soothing peach and celadon interior. Frosted
triangular sconces spilled serene pools of nile green on the
walls.

Kenzie placed her elbows on the round table,
laced her fingers, and rested her chin on her hands, watching
Hannes as he seated himself opposite her. Again, she was struck by
his physical beauty and commanding presence. It occurred to her
that she'd never known a man who was so ... so complete.

Nor was she alone in that opinion. A casual
sweep of the dining room confirmed it. Every female eye was aimed
in his direction.

An odd mixture of pride and jealousy welled
up inside her. She thought: Sorry, gals, but he's spoken for.

Hannes shot back his cuffs and smiled. "I
hear this restaurant serves the best organic food in the city."

Kenzie, not wanting to rain on his parade,
didn't let on that she'd been here several times in the past. And
then she remembered with whom. A spasm of guilt stabbed her. Do I
have no shame? The other times I was here, I was with Charley!

Dear God, she thought queasily, feeling the
jaws of guilt snapping with renewed force. Only twenty-four hours
ago I was with Charley! Maybe we hadn't planned on having sex, but
one thing had led to another. And now, here I am—with his partner
of all people!

She quashed the feeling of shame. Muddled
emotions would lead her nowhere. I have no reason to be penitent.
Charley's in my past. I can't let him dictate my future.

Hannes was saying, "I don't believe they
serve hard liquor here. What do you say we start with wine?"

Kenzie gave a start. "I'm sorry." She lowered
her hands and smoothed the indentations of her elbows from the
white tablecloth. "My mind was wandering."

He eyed her with concern. "Are you all
right?"

"Yes, of course." She smiled. "Wine would be
perfect."

He ordered a 1982 Chateau Lynch-Bages
Pauillac, then said, "I meant to ask you. Did you receive Professor
Tindemans's fax?"

Kenzie slapped her forehead. "What is it with
me? I must be losing my mind."

She slung her shoulder bag from the back of
her chair, took out a manila envelope, and passed it across the
table. "Here. I Xeroxed you a copy."

As though considering its immediate
importance, he regarded the envelope a moment, and then put it
aside. "You will forgive me if I don't get to it until tomorrow
morning? I much prefer to devote this evening to present
company."

His voice was so quiet, so intimate, and so
undeniably warm and promising, that Kenzie felt a warm tremor
firing up her flesh.

She was saved from replying by the arrival of
the waiter, who with some ceremony displayed the label on the wine
bottle. Kenzie watched while the cork was expertly extracted, and a
splash of wine poured into Hannes's glass, the bottle smartly
turned so that any stray droplets spun back inside it.

Hannes picked up his glass. Swirled it.
Inhaled the bouquet. Took a sip. Put it back down and nodded. "Very
nice," he said approvingly. The waiter topped off both glasses and
discreetly withdrew.

Hannes lifted his glass by the stem. "A
toast," he said.

Kenzie raised her glass and looked at
him.

"To us," he said softly.

She could feel the rush of his warmth
reaching out to her. It was as if a flurry of sparks had burst
inside her, and was flash-dancing up through her arms and down her
legs.

"To ... us," she whispered, carefully tipping
the rim of her glass against his.

They held each other's gaze as they sipped.
The atmosphere was so supercharged with sexual energy that she
half-expected to see electrical currents ricocheting between
them.

Lowering her eyes, she set down her glass.
Her voice was husky. "The wine's very good."

He was looking at her intently. "Yes," he
said. "But the company's superior. In my estimation, definitely
grand cm."

She had to laugh. "Bet you say that to all
the girls."

With thumb and forefinger, he turned his
wineglass around and around on the tablecloth.

"I wouldn't wager too much on that," he
cautioned. "You're liable to lose."

She smiled. "Does this mean you invited me
this evening just to seduce me?"

"That, and to get better acquainted, yes." He
nodded. "Last time we never had the opportunity to really
talk."

His honesty was disarming and unsettling. She
emptied half her glass in one swallow.

"Well." She gestured. "Talk away."

"I was hoping you'd do most of the talking.
You see, Kenzie, I'd like to learn more about you."

She laughed. "But I'd rather hear about you!
Your background sounds fascinating. I believe you told me your
father was in the diplomatic corps?"

He nodded.

"So how did you end up at Interpol?"

"I'm afraid it is a long story, Kenzie."

"So?" Her eyes didn't waver. "I have all
night."

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
"All right. But I must warn you, it is not one of those 'happily
ever after' stories."

She stared at him. "Most of real life
isn't."

"No, I suppose it is not."

He kept turning his glass around and around.
"I'm wondering where I should begin," he said after a moment.

"Why not at the beginning?" she suggested
gently.

"Yes," he said. "Why not?"

As he began to talk, she listened raptly. The
life which he described was so much like hers that she found it
uncanny. There were only two major differences. The first was that
she'd had three brothers, while he'd been an only child. And the
second was that instead of being shuttled from one military base to
another, as she had, he and his family had hop- scotched from one
capital city to another.

"It sounds more glamorous than it actually
was," he confided. "Granted, living in all those exotic countries
was fascinating. I saw a lot of the world early on. Bangkok,
Nairobi, Washington, London, Moscow, Mexico City ..."

He drank some of his wine.

"The problem with embassy life is its
insularity. It is such a closed society. One doesn't get to mix
much with the local people, only embassy personnel and their
families, and officials of the host country. Also, it seemed that
each time I made friends, my father would be assigned to another
part of the world, and off we went."

He smiled wistfully at the memory.

"But do you know the one thing I missed
most... truly missed above all else?"

Kenzie shook her head.

"Never having had a real home—a permanent
home—to return to."

Kenzie could commiserate with that. Sounds
just like my childhood, she thought. We never had a permanent home,
either. And we'd barely get settled on one army base before Daddy'd
get orders and be assigned to another. She could also relate to the
havoc such constant moves played with young friendships. Forging
long-lasting relationships was impossible.

Hannes was saying, "... coming from a
diplomatic family, it was only natural for my parents to hope that
I would follow in my father's footsteps." He laughed quietly. His
eyes had become distant, focused on some point in his past. "They
had my future in the foreign service all planned."

"But here you are," Kenzie said.

"Yes," he said, "here I am."

He drained the rest of his wine and set the
glass down. The waiter caught his eye and he nodded. They didn't
speak until both their glasses were topped and they were each
handed a menu.

When the waiter withdrew, Hannes continued.
"Strange, isn't it," he mused, putting his menu aside, "how we
expect to do certain things in life, and then end up doing
something completely different?"

She nodded.

"Consider my real ambition. Not my parents',
but my own." He paused. "Would you believe, I've always wanted to
become an artist?"

"Really!" she exclaimed, delighted that yet
another part of his background paralleled hers.

He smiled. "Yes, really. Ever since I was old
enough to hold a pencil, I was always either drawing or painting.
Everyone said I had a talent. And to me, the future was
self-evident."

She smiled. "Let me guess. You were planning
on living in a garret in Paris ... painting your heart out ...
arguing about art late into the night in smoky cafes ... having
exhibitions ..."

"... waiting to be discovered," he completed,
his voice turning wry.

"Were you good?"

"I believed I was."

He raised his glass in a self-mocking toast
and then put it down and continued to turn it around and around by
its stem.

"And then I woke up one morning and realized
the truth. You see, I was good, Kenzie. Damn good." He paused. "But
I wasn't good enough."

"So you joined Interpol?"

"No." He smiled. "Not then. First, I studied
political science."

"Ah. The dutiful son following in his
father's footsteps."

He nodded. "Exactly."

"But you didn't," she pointed out. "Follow in
his footsteps, I mean."

"No," he whispered, "I did not."

She could see the light in his eyes go dim as
a cloud of unhappiness blotted out the pleasant memories.

"Kenzie, listen to me!" There was an urgency
in his voice.

Abruptly he reached across the table and took
her hand. He pressed her fingers so hard that they hurt.

"This world is a terrible place! No matter
how insulated a life one leads, or how safe one may feel, it is an
illusion. Violence is never far away. It can strike anywhere, at
any time. You must never forget that!"

She shivered, an uncontrollable reflex to the
chill of sudden fear. Her coat of well-being, in which she'd
luxuriated warmly, was now gone. Yet she found this melodramatic
turn in conversation intriguing as well as frightening.