Too Damn Rich (13 page)

She shrugged. "Maybe I've changed my
mind."

He glared belligerently. "And who, may I ask,
is taking you?"

Her eyes could have drilled holes through
his. "That," she snapped coldly, "is none of your business."

And that said, she went around the living
room, picking up his clothes and tossing them, item by item, right
at him. He snatched them expertly out of the air.

Looking nonplussed, he clutched the bundle
against his chest with one arm. "Christ," he muttered. "What's
gotten into you?"

"Me?" she said. "Why, nothing."

"Nothing?" He reached out, caught her by the
arm, and pulled her close. Thrusting his pelvis against her, he
looked down into her eyes and asked, "What do you mean, nothing?" A
playful smile touched the corners of his lips.

She'd have had to be comatose to be unaware
of the stiff, throbbing glans barely contained within his briefs.
For whatever other failings and bullshit Charley Ferraro could be
accused of, impotence was not among them.

"See what you do to me?" he now whispered
huskily, pressing himself even closer against her.

Kenzie's face was expressionless, but her
amber eyes glowed like a cat's. Ever ready though he might be, this
was one time she wasn't. "Charley, Charley, Charley," she sighed,
her soft, nimble fingers venturing down. She slipped them inside
his briefs and ignored his tumescence to cup a hand around any
male's single most vulnerable spot, his scrotum. "What does it take
to make you learn?"

"Learn what?"

"Why, this," she said. And smiling sweetly,
she gave his cojones a good, viselike squeeze.

His reaction was predictable. "Je-sus!" he
yelped, letting go of his clothes and very nearly levitating.

She eased the pressure, withdrew her hand,
and stepped back, crossing her arms in front of her to watch while
he cupped both hands protectively over his crotch and danced a
little jig.

He slid her a mean glare. "Now, what did you
go and do that for? Are you fuckin' nuts?"

Still smiling sweetly, Kenzie said, "Now
then, let's say that was just foreplay, hmm?" She tilted her head
to one side. "Think 'Super Dick' would care to experience an entire
gamut of new sensations?"

Angrily he snatched his clothes up off the
floor and hurriedly started getting dressed. "That does it!" he
huffed. "I'm outta here!"

Even as he was still buttoning up his fly, he
tucked his shoes under one arm, lunged for the door, and unlatched
the five locks, fleeing barefoot down the stairs in record
time.

"And good riddance!" Kenzie yelled after him.
Slamming the door with all her might, she locked it and clapped her
hands, as though ridding them of dirt, or congratulating herself on
a job well done. She thought: Just goes to show there's more than
one way to skin a cat!

Men! She snorted. Why is it they never seemed
to learn?

She jerked as the downstairs buzzer abruptly
blared. Savagely, she whirled around and stabbed the TALK button of
the intercom. "Damn you, Charley!" she yelled into it. "What the
hell does it take before you get the message?"

There was a pause. Then a calm Asian voice,
sounding like Arnold Li doing one of his routines, said,
"Derivery."

Kenzie slapped the palm of a hand against her
forehead. Damn! she swore under her breath. She'd completely
forgotten about Charley's Burmese takeout. Now she was stuck with
the bill!

Pressing the buzzer which released the
downstairs door, she projected, Gee thanks, Super Dick! Thanks a
whole fucking lot! Then she went to dig through her shoulder bag
for her wallet. Being between paydays, it was depressingly thin. In
cash, she had three tens, three fives, and three singles to her
name.

There was a soft, cautious rap on the door.
Composing herself, she once again unlatched all the locks and
opened it.

A polite Asian youth, holding a large, neatly
stapled brown paper bag in front of him, was standing in the
stairwell. "Herro," he said, giving a polite little bow.

"How much?" she sighed.

"Fawty-faw, ninety-three." With a friendly
smile, he indicated the bill stapled to the top of the bag, then
ceremoniously handed it over. In return, she gave him the entire
contents of her wallet.

"Keep the change," she said. "And
thanks."

He bowed politely. "Thank you."

Shutting the door, she locked herself in for
the third time, her nose wrinkling as she caught a whiff of Burmese
food. For once, instead of making her mouth water, it caused her
stomach to do flip-flops—not surprising, considering that her food
budget for the entire rest of the week was shot. She'd be forced to
eat Burmese for days, after dumping the beef satay and chayote
pork. No way was red meat going to touch her lips.

Stomping to the kitchen, she shoved the bag
into the fridge and slammed the door shut. "Gee, thanks, Super
Dick!" she muttered, adding: "Super Dick, my ass!"

Bedroom his, bedroom hers.

The Goldsmiths had separate connecting
suites, a reciprocal convenience in more ways than one.

Robert tended to stink up the room with his
cigars while reading business reports late into the night, and then
snored like a bull with defective adenoids. Dina couldn't live with
cigar smoke, or without nine undisturbed hours of beauty sleep.

He invariably woke up after four hours, horny
as all hell. She was not crazy about being jerked from the midst of
sweet dreams, especially not by a hirsute, two-hundred-sixty-pound
sex maniac on whom everything drooped but the flagpole.

Consequently, they had long since arrived at
a mutually acceptable arrangement: they slept in separate bedrooms
and had set aside specified times for conjugal sex. Between those
occasions, each had other outlets to satisfy the most imminent
urges.

Robert had his Blow Job (as he thought of
Bambi Parker and her long list of predecessors), as well as his
trusty right hand and a stash of oral porn videos. Dina had her
ivory-colored vibrator and her own hidden stash of videos,
starring—what else?—hard-bodied, muscular young males with hair in
the only two places she found acceptable.

Of course, when Dina wanted something badly
enough, she wasn't above bending the conjugal rules. With Robert,
she knew exactly which buttons to push.

At six-fifteen that evening, Robert turned
off the multiple jets in his white marble shower and grumpily
wrapped a white cotton bath sheet, like a giant sarong, around his
substantial middle. He looked like one of the Aga Khans of yore—or,
more recently, the average state-run Black Sea resort-goer
somewhere in the former Soviet Union.

Not that he had a personal beef about the way
he looked—if he had, he'd have done something about it. The truth
was, he'd long ago come to terms with his body. If other people
found him offensive and pear-shaped, then so be it. That was their
problem. Corpulence had never interfered with his sex life,
especially since it was a given that so long as you were rich
enough, you could look like the Elephant Man and still get your
pick of the litter.

Selecting a cigar from the bathroom humidor,
he sniffed it, rattled it next to his ear, then snipped off the end
with a silver cutter and lit it. Once he got it going to his
satisfaction, he clamped it between his teeth and puffed away,
diddling with the sink's dinky gold and rock crystal faucets Dina
had insisted upon installing, and which he loathed.

Damned Frenchified things! Each time he used
them, he hankered for his plain, old-fashioned chrome fixtures, the
honest kind of plumbing stocked and sold in the discount hardware
department of every GoldMart store across the country. The kind
he'd grown up with, and you could repair with a standard lug wrench
instead of a bunch of special-gauge, la-di-da jeweler's tools.

The kind I want back! he thought crankily,
the unusually large mound of shaving cream he squirted into his
hand, as well as the noisy vigor with which he slapped lather onto
his face, attesting to the irritation he felt at having to shave
for the second time that day. And all because of a damned
last-minute invitation to the Met!

Robert puffed angrily on his cigar, the blue
smoke mixing with the rising steam, creating a dense, pungent cloud
which the bathroom's one useful item, the giant distortion- and
fog-free mirror, kept magically clear.

Parties, how he detested them! And God, how
Dina thrived on them! But why she couldn't do like other socialites
and get herself one of those
faygeleh
walkers to squire her
around, he'd never know—just as he'd never understand how anyone
could devote her entire life to crashing society and sucking up to
a bunch of hypocritical snobs who didn't give a rat's ass about
her.

Well, he'd do what he always did at these
kinds of functions. Wait until dinner was over and then wander off
to some quiet place where he'd be joined by five or six like-minded
cronies—all self-made billionaires who, like himself, had been
dragged along by their younger trophy wives. While everyone else
danced and air-kissed and stabbed each other in the backs, they'd
light up cigars and tell each other off-color jokes. And inevitably
get around to reminiscing about the "good old days," back when
they'd been hungry young
machers
with nothing more than a
few cents and a dream, and times had been rough, but life—ah
life!—that incredible journey ever full of surprises had been
infinitely more challenging, more exciting, and most of all, more
satisfying than it had been ever since!

Lost in thought, Robert was oblivious to the
fact that his bathroom door had inched open a crack.

And that a slitted aquamarine eye was peering
in at him.

Out in his mirrored dressing room, Dina
quickly stepped back from the door. Her lips were compressed in a
grim line. She had seen quite enough. Too much, as a matter of
fact.

Dressed, her husband was hardly a pretty
sight. But undressed ...

She instantly slammed a mental door on that
train of thought. Continuing along it was entirely the wrong
approach. She knew from experience that the anticipation was always
worse than the act itself. Her lips abruptly turned down at the
corners. No, that wasn't quite true. The act was worse. Far worse
...

Putting off the inevitable, she looked at her
infinite reflections in the mirrored closet doors.

The sight which greeted her made her
cringe.

She was wearing a pink baby doll top with
thin halter straps and white lace trim over matching crotchless
white lace panties. There was a white lace collar around her throat
and a big white maribou pom-pom pinned to her hair. To top it all
off, looped around one index finger was a red ribbon. And dangling
from it was the huge, stuffed red satin heart emblazoned
"Daddy."

Dina could only shake her head in baffled
wonderment, her multiple reflections mimicking her every move.
Really, it was too, too bizarre. A woman her age dressing up like a
baby doll! How any grown man could get sexually aroused from this
was entirely beyond her.

However, if this was what it took, then so be
it.

Clenching her jaw determinedly, she adjusted
the low-cut bodice so that her breasts swelled voluptuously and
left her strawberry nipples strategically exposed. She ran her
tongue across her lips to moisten them. Then, swallowing all
remnants of pride, she grasped the gilded doorknob and slipped into
her husband's jungle-humid steambath.

He was so immersed in shaving, the cigar
clenched between his teeth, his head wreathed in a smog of smoke
and steam, that he didn't even notice her—at least, not until she
opened her mouth.

"Daddy," Dina crooned softly in her very best
baby voice.

She had it all down pat. The pout. The starry
false eyelashes. Even the penciled-on nose freckles.

"Ba-by's horny!"

Dina's entrance had its desired effect.
Robert's head swiveled, then turned back to face his own fog-free
reflection before he did a classic double take. He nearly choked on
his cigar.

Dina was standing in the doorway, splayed
legs planted wide. Sucking on a thumb while twisting her torso
childishly from side to side like a six-year-old.

Robert knew his priorities. Tossing his cigar
and razor into the jasper sink, and happily oblivious to having
nicked his chin, he gave her his full and undivided attention,
unconsciously licking his lips while eating her up with lust-filled
eyes.

If his face hadn't been such a dead giveaway,
Charlie raising the front of the bath sheet in an immediate salute
certainly dispelled any remaining doubts.

"Hey, l'il girl!" he rasped, loosening the
towel from around his porcine waist and letting it drop. Without
even touching it, his erect penis twitched and bobbed—a little
muscle control trick he was particularly proud of.

He held out his arms. "Come on over to Daddy,
baby."

Dina took her thumb out of her mouth and
stuck out her bottom lip petulantly, swinging the red satin heart
back and forth, back and forth, the twenty-nine-year-old regressing
to six trying to make up her mind.

Finally, she looked up from under demurely
lowered lashes. "Daddy's little girl needs to give some head!"

"Well then, I'd say this is his l'il girl's
lucky day!" Robert looked down at himself. "See? Lookit the treat
Daddy's got for his l'il baby!"

Dina glanced, with pretended interest, at the
thick circumcised penis with its curiously asymmetrical ruff and
wondered, as always, who had botched his circumcision.

Licking her lips with feigned hunger, Dina
approached her husband. "Daddy, may I?" She looked up at him with
huge pleading eyes. "Please?"