The Secret Heiress (31 page)

And there was more. Much more.

Nikoletta’s table manners, for instance. They ranged from the exquisite to the barbarian, depending upon her mercurial moods. “The most important thing to remember is that she knows exactly what is correct, no matter how complicated the table setting. How she chooses to behave is something else,” Angelo told her. Ariadne had to familiarize herself with her favorite wines and champagnes, plus distinguish between the vintages. She must learn to hold her liquor and smoke cigarettes without choking, as much as she despised them.

“When you don’t know what to do, be rude,” Angelo advised.

All of which went entirely against Ariadne’s grain.

The lessons never seemed to end. The videos ran day and night, until Ariadne thought she would scream if she saw another image of her twin sister. When her throat was sore from repeating words and phrases and coughing on cigarettes, or her eyes stung from smoke or blurred from flash cards or videos, there were dance lessons. Mock business negotiations. Compilations of gossip columns to peruse in order to learn about the latest scandals and rumors about the flash-card people. Everything in the environment, Ariadne discovered, had been calculated to be a lesson of one kind or another. The art books and piles of auction catalogs. Even the foods she was served. Apparently Nikoletta could subsist on nothing more than caviar, foie gras, sushi, and very rare red meat. She had liked meat but virtually raw? She was repulsed.

“I’m sorry,” Angelo told her, “but you have to stop making those faces.”

Oddly, after several days Ariadne found that she was beginning to like most of the foods Nikoletta subsisted on.

She took the unheralded arrival of Adrian Single as an opportunity to relax and be herself.

No such luck, she discovered. “Hello, Nikoletta,” he greeted her.

Ariadne’s natural response was to look around to see where Nikoletta was. After a moment she realized her mistake.

“I’m sorry,” she said sheepishly.

“Remember,” he said, not unkindly, “Ariadne no longer exists. Only Nikoletta.” He grinned wryly. “Anyway, you two, rejoice! I know it’s not Christmas, but I’ve brought you a real treat.”

He began unwrapping the package, and Ariadne felt her heart sink. He had brought architectural plans of Nikoletta’s various apartments, houses, estates, and offices, plus glossy pages torn from shelter magazines featuring the same.

I should have known,
she thought.
More work.

“It’s imperative that you know your way around the rooms,” Adrian explained. “Otherwise, you’ll arouse suspicion among the staff.”

Ariadne couldn’t help groaning. “More to learn! I’m already living, talking, thinking, and dreaming in Nikoletta’s world!” she exclaimed. “Don’t I deserve a break?”

“I know this is very difficult for you, Ariadne,” Adrian commiserated, “but that’s a luxury we can’t afford.”

“Well, the hell with it all!” she exploded. “I’m going upstairs and don’t expect me to come down again until tomorrow! And don’t bother getting up early, either. I intend to sleep
late
.” She sniffed.

“Now, go,” she added, unaware that she was gesturing grandly. “Amuse yourselves with someone else.”

With that said, Ariadne swept out of the room toward the staircase and went up to her room.

A long silence ensued as Angelo and Adrian stared after her and then at each other.

“My God!” Adrian whispered. He clutched Angelo by the arms. “Angelo! Did you see what I just saw?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Afraid? Why are you afraid? I can hardly
believe
it! Congratulations are in order. You’re definitely making progress.”

Angelo shook his head ruefully. “What we’ve just witnessed isn’t progress, I’m afraid. It’s a poor, sweet girl we’re driving to the end of her rope.”

Adrian begged to differ. “I don’t think so, Angelo. That was a scene worthy of Nikoletta herself. She was
exactly
like Nikoletta. It’s bizarre.”

“I’ve grown truly fond of Ariadne,” Angelo murmured. “It’s a shame to create a monster out of that lovely creature.”

Adrian sighed. “We have a duty to fulfill. Whatever works, my friend. Whatever works.” He paused, then added, “But I think you can rest assured that regardless of how well Ariadne learns to impersonate Niki, she is incapable of
becoming
Niki. Ariadne was born with a truly good nature, I believe, and we can’t take that away from her.”

“I hope to God you’re right,” Angelo said.

 

Frans was getting dressed, but his movements were mechanical. He gave it no thought, but simply grabbed whatever came to hand. Ironically, with no intention whatsoever, he ended up looking extremely fashionable, since his wardrobe was filled with designer clothing that had been given to him on photo shoots. His white shirt with tiny black square appliqués was half-buttoned, but at least his black-and-white paisley Versace pants were zipped shut. Around his neck was a necklace of turquoise chunks and flat silver disks, a gift from Nikoletta—in memory of Bianca, she’d told him—that he hadn’t bothered to take off since he’d returned from East Hampton, and on his feet were worn black lizard pointed-toe cowboy boots, the first thing he’d tripped over when he went into the room.

He didn’t look at himself in the cheval mirror that was in the closet, nor did he check himself out in the walls of mirror in the bathroom. Instead he flopped down on the living room couch to wait for the buzzer to sound. Nikoletta was sending a car and driver around to pick him up.

“Dress is casual,” she’d told him on the telephone, which he took to mean it would be just the two of them, along with a few discreet servants on hand.

He was really not in the mood to go out. Without Bianca, life still had not regained its shine. Everything was devoid of meaning for him. Without her, there seemed to be no reason to go on, even though he knew that wasn’t true. He
must
get out,
must
focus his mind on the
living.
He knew he had fallen into a pit of despair. But he was finding it very difficult to pull himself out of that pit.

The buzzer rang, and Frans got up off the couch to answer it. He told the driver he would be right down. He backtracked to the sofa to grab the white sport jacket he’d tossed there and snatched the bottle of Stolichnaya vodka off the coffee table. He took a few gulps, then screwed the lid back on, grabbed his keys, and left the loft.

In the backseat of Nikoletta’s limo, he slumped across the red calfskin seat, slid open the built-in bar, and continued to drink during the ride uptown, having one vodka after another from one of the cut-crystal decanters. Before he reached Nikoletta’s, he was smashed.

 

Uptown, Nikoletta Papadaki was in a good mood for various reasons. Frans’s imminent arrival excited her, of course, and another mood elevator for her was the private spa in her apartment. She was presently being pampered with a chakra-balancing massage while soft Japanese koto music played in the background and a manicurist worked on her nails and a pedicurist her feet. The nail color of the day was Gumdrop. Nikoletta didn’t have to go to the mountain; the mountain came to her. She had no desire to mix with the hoi polloi that frequented even Manhattan’s most luxurious spas.

All in all, life could be worse,
she mused, telling her masseuses and the manicurist and pedicurist to get a move on. She had to get ready and wanted plenty of time. After all, she wanted to be appropriately seductive for Frans.

Nikoletta personally greeted him at the door, wearing a sexy pale gold silk chemise trimmed in frothy lace. After she’d kissed his cheek, she wagged a finger at him. “Someone’s been hitting the bottle.”

“So?” he retorted. “Maybe I have a good reason.”

Nikoletta stepped aside to let him in and sized him up through half-lowered lids. Actually, he’d never looked quite as attractive, perhaps because he looked as if he had just gotten out of bed after a particularly hot romp. With his face flushed, hair disheveled, clothes somewhat wrinkled if fashionable, he didn’t look the perfect model. She was curious as to what kind of drunk he was: the obnoxious type who was unmanageable or the type she could wrap around her little finger. She’d certainly known more than her share of both varieties.

Frans slumped onto a down-filled sofa in the living room while she poured each of them a glass of champagne. Handing him a glass, she curled up decoratively beside him. “Now, why don’t you tell Niki what’s wrong, hmmm?” She trailed a finger along his thigh.

Frans gulped down the contents of his glass. “Nothing new,” he said without looking at her. “I just . . . well, I miss Bianca.”

“Of course you do,” Nikoletta cooed. “You really loved her, and she loved you.” She took a long sip of her champagne.

He smiled grimly. “A lot of good it’s done us.”

“I know you’re being ironic,” she said, “but it’s true. A love like that is rare, Frans. Few people ever experience it, and as hard as it may be for you to realize now, you were very lucky to have had it at all.”

Frans looked directly at her for the first time. Although his normally intense blue eyes showed the effects of his copious alcohol consumption, his expression was pensive. He didn’t say anything, however, but remained silent, thinking about what she’d said.

Nikoletta picked up their glasses and went to the drinks table.
I have his attention now,
she thought with a sense of triumph. She poured refills for them both. She returned to the sofa and settled down beside him, handing him his drink.

“You know what’s really crazy?” Frans said as he took the champagne.

“What?”

He gave a bitter laugh. “What’s
really
crazy”—he drained his glass in one swallow, then set the flute down on the coffee table with a bang—“is that I’m still in love with her. Yet here I am. With you.”

“I wouldn’t call that crazy, Frans,” Nikoletta responded mildly. “It’s only natural. We all need friends who can console us after tragic events. I think it makes perfect sense.” She gently brushed his hair aside and ran a finger down his face, then kissed his cheek chastely. Her manner was that of a close sister.

“Friends, yeah,” Frans murmured. “But what I’m doing here with you, I don’t know, Niki. I just don’t know.” He turned and gazed at her beautiful sad eyes and lush, sensuous lips, her lovely swan neck and perfect breasts, which were barely contained by the low-cut gold and lace sheath she wore.

“We’ve both suffered so much, Frans,” she whispered as if she might burst into tears at any moment. She reached toward him, letting her hand brush against his partially exposed chest and settle on his thigh, as if seeking support. “I think . . . well, I think that Bianca, being the loving and generous person that she was, would be happy that we could help each other.”

“Maybe,” Frans said. He saw Nikoletta’s bereft expression and heard the anguish in her voice, and his heart went out to her. She missed Bianca, too. He slid an arm around her shoulders. “You’re probably right, Niki.”

Nikoletta brushed her hand against his thigh, then began stroking it lightly. “I think—no, I
know
—that she would want you to be happy, Frans.” Her voice was choked with emotion. She laid her head against his chest. “She was so loving that she wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Frans could smell her intoxicating scent and feel her heat against his body. “Yes,” he murmured in agreement. “That’s . . . that’s the way she was.”

Nikoletta’s lips brushed against his chest tenderly, her tongue lightly flicking a nipple. Then she rested her lips there as if content to feel his muscular chest against them. She heard him suck in his breath and moved her hand from his thigh to the top of his low-cut trousers, and began stroking his hard abs. After a while she slowly shifted her hand, gradually slipping it beneath his trousers. She let it remain there, softly caressing him, but not venturing any farther. Not yet.

Frans’s chest heaved as his breathing quickened, and he leaned over and kissed the crown of her head. He felt Nikoletta shiver at his touch, and he lifted her face to his and began kissing her. Suddenly he felt desire suffuse his being, as if he needed Nikoletta desperately, as if she had lit a spark of fire in him and he was coming back to life.

Her hand slipped around him, fully engorged now and straining against his trousers.

Frans emitted a moan of pleasure. “Why don’t we go upstairs?” he murmured.

“Hmmm,” she whispered.

Dinner was completely forgotten as they had sex in her bedroom. Afterward, they slept entwined in each other’s arms, before awakening and making love again and again. Forgotten, for the meantime at least, was the ghost of Bianca and the harsh realities of the world beyond the walls of her bedroom. By morning, Nikoletta was certain that Frans was hers.