Too Damn Rich (69 page)

When Arnold and Annalisa returned three hours
later, Kenzie couldn't believe her eyes.

Gone was the frumpy wallflower.

In her place was a chic young woman in a navy
blue skirt, blazer, white blouse, and a patterned silk scarf tied
loosely around her neck. Her hair had been highlighted and was
fashionably slant cut, and her face glowed like a palette. Even her
glasses were gone.

"I'll be damned," Kenzie exclaimed
softly.

Annalisa looked stricken. "Something is
wrong?" she ventured anxiously.

"No, no. Not wrong—right. Arnold, how did you
do it?"

He smiled hugely. "First, we took care of the
essentials."

He indicated the shopping bags from
Daffy's.

"As you'll notice, we bargain-hunted. Three
suits, three blouses, four scarves, the bag, and the shoes.
For—would you believe?—three hundred and fifty bucks. Including
tax."

"Remind me to take you shopping the next time
I need something," Kenzie said.

"Next stop was the hairburner," Arnold
continued. "An old flame of mine owed me. So that was a freebie.
Ditto the makeup, courtesy of waltzing through the first floor of
Bloomie's. The perfume's tiny vials of giveaway samples. Add a set
of press-on nails and—voila!"

He gestured grandly.

"What you see is what you get!"

"And the granny glasses?"

"Turns out she just uses them to read.
However, I insisted upon picking out a tortoiseshelly-looking pair.
But what do you think of the low black heels? Nice touch, isn't it?
Really makes her that Burghley's girl. Hmm?"

Just then Bambi came sailing in. "Hi, guys!
What's up?"

"This is Annalisa Barabino," Kenzie said.
"Zandra's replacement."

Bambi gave Annalisa a hard once-over and
nodded briskly. "You'll do." And to Kenzie: "Thank God. I wouldn't
have put it past you to have hired the dog."

The voice on the telephone echoed from the
soundtracks of countless late and late-late shows. "Mizz Tama?"

Kenzie felt a tide of goosebumps. That smoky,
Eastern European accent was unmistakable. For a moment, she was
unable to speak.

"Mizz Tarna?" The woman's tone grew louder.
"Can you hear me?"

"Y-yes," Kenzie said faintly. She put a hand
over the mouthpiece and quickly cleared her throat. "Yes," she
repeated, more authoritatively.

"Good. Do you know who zis eez?"

"I ... I think so," Kenzie said. "You must be
Miss Po—"

"Ah-ah-ah!" The voice cut her off. "Pliss.
You are nefer, efer, to refer to me by name. 'Mizz P.' vill do
nicely. Also, you must nefer bring up my former career." There was
an imperious pause. "Eez zat clear?"

Kenzie swallowed. "Yes, ma'am.
Perfectly."

"Good. I haff zome Old Mazterz I vish to have
appraized."

"And when would you like to have this
done?"

"Tomorrow afternoon. Zree o'clock sharp."

Kenzie began to reach for her Filofax, but
then decided: What the hell. Lila Pons was the last great legend of
the silver screen. It isn't as if she calls every day.

She said, "Yes, three o'clock tomorrow will
be fine."

"Good! I vill be expecting you."

"I'm looking forward—"

But Lila Pons had already hung up.

"—to see you tomorrow," Kenzie completed
softly as she replaced the receiver.

Fantasy Island has a name, and its name is
Mustique. An emerald in the turquoise sea, it is situated in the
northern Grenadines, that necklace of islands one hundred
twenty-two miles west of Barbados and is, at a mere 1,350 square
acres, one of its tiniest jewels.

And its most priceless.

For there are, in all, only two small hotels,
one bar, and some sixty private houses on the entire island.
Tourists are discouraged; ship anchorages difficult to come by.

This is a private playground, and the likes
of Princess Margaret and Mick Jagger, Lord Glenconnor, various
Guinesses, the Earl of Lichfield, and David Bowie, intend to keep
it that way. For privacy is the last frontier; the ultimate luxury
in an ever-shrinking world.

And nowhere is luxury more in evidence than
in the architectural fantasies hidden amid the rolling hills and
white cedars, the frangipani, bougainvillea, and jasmine of
Mustique.

It is the oddest assortment of domiciles
imaginable: the English fort complete with crenelated battlements,
the miniature Japanese village set around Koi ponds, the
Indonesian-style complex built from elaborately carved teak
housefronts which had been dismantled from a Javanese village, the
Moorish palace, the Gingerbread House, and yes, even a Taj
Mahal.

The names given to these architectural quirks
and follies is in keeping with the Mustique mystique—Oceanus,
Serendipity, Fort Shandy, and Blue Waters.

Here, in this enchanted Eden, did the
newlyweds honeymoon.

Their Serene Highnesses occupied Villa
Neptune, a rambling columned temple built around three sides of an
aqua pool. Behind the deep and shady loggias, the coral limestone
walls were punctuated with open Palladian arches—in these balmy
climes the boundaries between indoors and out were blurred, and
doors and windows unnecessary. White jasmine and bougainvillea ran
riot, enclosed the house within their fragrant bowers.

Marble statues cavorted around the
pool—Neptune, mermaids on dolphins, fauns, centaurs, sphinxes,
river gods, and other eighteenth-century fancies. Beyond them, the
lushly planted gardens dropped abruptly to the aquamarine sea
below.

There, at anchor inside the reef, were a big
white motor yacht and a sleek mahogany sloop with a hull like a
knifeblade.

On this particular afternoon in mid-March,
the trade winds were one constant perfect breeze which blew in from
one side of the house and out the other, and the sky was a deep and
pellucid blue. The neighboring islands were hazy: distant humps,
like whales sunning themselves on the horizon.

Or so opined Zandra, who lay sideways on a
cushioned chaise in the cool, shadowy darkness of the loggia.

"What I absolutely love most here," she
declared, clad in a diaphanous white djellaba, "is that so long as
the roofs extend out far enough there's simply no need of windows!
I mean, brilliant! Just shade and ceiling fans and tradewinds ...
Oh, this truly is paradise, darling, it truly is ... What? My move?
Really?"

Eyeing the chessboard on the low table
between them, Zandra's brows drew prettily together in
concentration.

Karl-Heinz, reclining sideways on his chaise,
watched her and smiled as he listened to her upbeat chatter, the
words twittering like swirling birds around his ears.

I could stare at her forever, and still never
tire of it, he thought, realizing it was the corniest of
sentiments.

It was, however, the truth. Her mere presence
intoxicated him, filled him with a golden glow. She made him so
happy, this luminescent lively creature, that he thought he might
literally burst apart at the seams. At last he understood what
inspired poets to write sonnets, and why love songs he'd once
pooh-poohed were the only things which adequately described his
feelings.

She lights up my life, he thought. She's my
one and everything.

"Oh, Heinzie," Zandra said almost
despairingly. "I really hate having to do this, but winning is what
this game is all about... I mean, that's the whole point, isn't it?
Frightfully sorry."

And she moved her rook, took his queen, and
smiled brilliantly.

"Your move," she said blithely, reaching up
and snapping a stalk of giant red hibiscus from the big potted
plant behind her. Humming softly, she twirled the trumpet-shaped
blossom so that the petals tickled her face.

He forgot the chessboard and stared at her,
drawing bleary pleasure from just watching her. He had never known
anyone who took such sheer delight in the physical sensations of
flowers. It seemed she was forever plucking a bloom here or a bud
there, just to stroke it sensuously against her skin or dip her
nose into fragrant petals.

I wonder when she'll realize that this is
more than a mere business deal, that if I didn't love her I
wouldn't have married her?

"Now, Heinzie." Zandra was glancing over the
hibiscus at him. "You're not concentrating."

"The anthers are going to leave pollen
smudges on your nose," he said softly.

"God, it's probably all smudged already."
Zandra leaned forward and wrinkled her nose. "Is it? Smudged?"

"Charmingly smudged."

"Then I'll leave it! We'll pretend I'm an
urchin!"

She laughed with delight and jumped up,
deliberately knocking over the chessboard. The figures scattered on
the stone paving, and before he knew it, her hands swooped down,
grabbed his, and tugged him to his feet.

"Darling, we don't have to play chess, do we?
Not on such a lovely day as this. Let's swim."

"All right," he laughed. "Why not? I'll be
right back."

He began to go inside, but her hand closed on
his arm.

"Heinzie. Where on earth are you going?"

He turned around. "To get a swimsuit."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, for God's sake,
darling. Whatever for? Don't be such a prude! Besides, the servants
can't see us from their quarters, and, so long as we don't stand at
the very edge of the dropoff, the yacht's crew can't see us from
down below, either."

She held his gaze.

"As for me," she added huskily, "well, I am
your wife, you know."

"I know," he said softly.

She let go of his arm. In one smooth
movement, she slipped the djellaba up over her head and let it
drop. She shook out her hair.

He caught his breath. She was naked
underneath. Her strawberry nipples jutted forth from her strong,
perfect breasts and her pubis was a curly marmalade-colored
triangle.

"Well? Darling, will you get undressed? Or
must I do it for you?"

Still holding her gaze, he shrugged himself
out of his collarless shirt. Then he began to undo the drawstrings
of his silk trousers.

She said, "Oh, good," and strode out into the
dazzling sun, heading straight to the poolside.

He watched her lift her arms and launch
herself into midair, then arc and jackknife so neatly into the
water that she barely disturbed its surface.

Karl-Heinz could only shake his head in
wonder. How is it that everything she does is pure perfection?
Surely she must have some flaws?

She surfaced at the far end, beneath the big
marble statue of Neptune, and sleeked back her hair and waved.
"Darling, what are you waiting for?" she called. "Do join me! It's
super!"

Stepping out of his trousers and briefs, he
walked to the pool and dove in neatly, swimming underwater with
quick even strokes. He burst up beside her, shaking his head and
spraying a shower of droplets in all directions.

"Well? Isn't it terrif?"

All around them the water sparkled, as though
sunlight was reflecting off liquid chrome.

"Oh, it's not bad," he allowed.

"Not bad?" She karate-chopped a sheet of
water at him. "What do you mean, not bad?"

He drew his lips across his teeth and
grinned. Chopped water right back at her.

She squealed. Gulped a deep breath and
quickly submerged.

He swam around in place, looking for her,
thinking: Where is she? What's she up to—

Without warning, she shot up behind him and
dunked him under.

A burst of air surfaced, bubbling furiously.
Then he came up, spouting a mouthful of water.

He glared at her. "That wasn't nice!"

"So?" She laughed with delight.

Her playfulness was difficult to resist, and
he lunged at her.

Pretending terror, she shrieked and swam
hell-bent for the other end. He gave pursuit, but they were evenly
matched and she managed to stay just out of reach.

"Aha! You're scared!" he taunted.

Her laughter rippled above the thrashing of
water. "Oh, really? And what of?"

"Me."

"You! And why is that?"

His eyes glinted. "Because you know what will
happen if I catch you!"

"What?" she challenged.

He couldn't tell if she'd purposely slowed or
not, but he caught her by one ankle, held on, and pulled her to
him.

"This," he said.

And gathering her in his arms, he covered her
lips with his and plundered their sweet warmth. Her breasts were
flattened against his chest; his phallus was erect.

Zandra felt a quickening inside her. She
twined her legs around his and trapped his straining manhood
against her belly. In this embrace they submerged, swirling down
into the aqueous blue, their mouths locked as their tongues flicked
and probed, explored and feasted.

Despite the pressure of the water she could
feel the rapid thuds of his heartbeat, and the scalding fires of
his needs reached out and suffused her in a radiant glow.

With her entire soul she returned his
passion, gripping him as fiercely as he gripped her. Weightlessly
they tumbled, somersaulting in slow motion, her hair fanning out
and waving like a mermaid's.

All around, squirming reflections of sunlight
flashed like rippling quicksilver, turning the pool into an
underwater ballroom.

One of his hands moved to the back of her
head, keeping her face pressed against his. With the other he
cupped a breast, gently brushing her nipple with circular movements
of his thumb.

Her breast tingled like a point of fire, and
she moaned into his mouth.

Slowly his fingertips drifted lower, lower,
inexorably lower, tracing the concave indentation of her belly,
caressing the rise of her mound, exploring the tender intimacy
between her thighs.

Her legs quivered and a shudder coursed
through her.