Too Damn Rich (74 page)

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."

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.