Too Damn Rich (70 page)

For what seemed an eternity, they floated in
this silent lucent world, his fingers bringing on the first
sputters of rapture.

Then, the air in their lungs diminishing,
they rose up as one and crashed through the surface.

Zandra's mouth gaped as she gulped deep
lungfuls of air.

"God," she gasped, her breasts and abdomen
heaving.

There was a strange, untamed light in her
eyes. She, who had always thought of her sexuality as subtle and
constrained, now found it overpowering. A driving force over which
she had no control.

"Come," Karl-Heinz said, and swam her to the
edge of the pool.

There was no longer any need for words. The
moment her shoulders nudged the smooth aqua tiles, she let go of
him, reached behind her, and held onto the coping.

The rigidity of his maleness prodded the
petal-like folds between her thighs. She drew a deep breath and
looked up at him. Her eyes glowed brightly. In one smooth movement
he drove himself inside her.

Tears sprang to her eyes. "Oh, yes," she
moaned. "God, yes!"

And filling her completely, he slowly began
to thrust.

Zandra threw back her head, turning it from
side to side, and she arched her back, pressing her hips against
his.

Faster he pummeled, faster and faster, until
the water around them thrashed like a boiling cauldron.

She could feel the first tide gathering
force, and then the torrent was upon her, carrying her higher,
filling her completely.

A scream tore from her throat as the flood of
pleasure swept her away and over the edge.

But it was only the beginning.

Princess or no, she fucked like a whore.

Three o'clock sharp." Thus spake Miss P.

Kenzie arrived at First Avenue and
Fifty-second Street a full twelve minutes early. She had the
eeriest sense of deja vu, of repeating something she'd done the
exact same way before.

Which, of course, she had.

On her last visit.

The doorway on First Avenue into which she
ducked to change from her Reeboks into her best heels (now repaired
and no longer flats), was the same one where she'd changed shoes
the last time. Ditto the shoulder bag into which the Reeboks were
relegated.

The sun, beginning its descent behind the
Jersey Palisades, sent a tunnel of light straight across
Fifty-second Street and on over the East River, where it glinted on
the mullioned windows of a thousand factories and warehouses.

As Kenzie approached River House, she was
aware of the doorman inspecting her carefully through the thick
glass door.

That she passed the first test was apparent
when he held it open and let her in, not that she got far. The sign
proclaimed that ALL VISITORS MUST BE ANNOUNCED, and it was a house
rule which undoubtedly extended to the President of the United
States. This was, after all, River House, undeniably one of the
premier residences in the entire world.

"May I help you, ma'am?"

The doorman's creaky voice was an instant
replay of Kenzie's previous visit, and again, she had that jarring
sense of deja vu. For not only were his words the very same, hut so
was he!

She recognized him at once. The same
shuffling geezer who chased her off the last time.

Tossing her head, Kenzie tried to dazzle him
with her thousand-watt smile.

He stared back at her: silent, unimpressed,
and expressionless.

Breezily she said, "I have an appointment
with Miss P.," thinking: There! At least that's different! The last
time, I called her "Miss Pons." Maybe this'll cut the mustard.

It didn't.

"What makes you think we have a Miss P.
living here?" His voice was flat and blank, just like his face.

Kenzie turned up the wattage of her
smile.

"Because," she said smugly, "she called me
yesterday. I spoke to her personally."

"That so?"

"Yes, that's so." God, what a doubting
Thomas. "Perhaps you remember me? I was here once before. I
represent Burghley's? The auction house? Here's my card ..."

Her voice trailed off as she began to
unbuckle her shoulder bag.

"Not necessary." He waved a hand and picked
up the house phone. "Ma'am? What you say your name was?"

"Turner. MacKenzie Turner." She looked around
the lobby while he dialed, pretending to inspect the decor. Then:
"Yeah. This is Artie downstairs? There's a Ms. Turner here. From
Burghley's. Claims to have an appointment with Miss P. Yeah ...
uh-huh ... right."

Kenzie watched him surreptitiously, but his
face gave nothing away.

"Well?" she joked brightly as he hung up. "Am
I cleared by the KGB?"

"Nope." He shook his head. "Sorry."

'"What?" she demanded, staring at him in
disbelief.

He coughed discreetly, but wouldn't meet her
eyes. "Housekeeper says Ms. P.'s in Klosters. That's over there in
France or somewhere."

"Switzerland," Kenzie corrected
automatically. "When did she leave?"

"Dunno, ma'am," he said. "Musta been on
someone else's shift."

"But I just spoke to her yesterday!"

"I wouldn't know about that, ma'am. Perhaps
if you tried some other time—"

"Other time? What other time? I was summoned
here, dammit!"

"Then perhaps if you telephoned ahead—"

"But that's just it! Don't you see? I don't
have her phone number. She's the one who calls me!"

"Then I'm afraid I can't help you."
Stony-faced, he went to open the front door to show her out.
"Ma'am?"

Kenzie refused to budge. "Look, this is
important," she stressed. "Maybe ... maybe there's been a mix-up.
What if I used the house phone—"

He looked shocked. "Absolutely not!" he
snapped, letting go of the door and striding to the house phone in
his determination to intercept her, and guard it with his life, if
necessary.

"Then could you please call upstairs once
more?"

He shook his head regretfully. "No can do,
ma'am."

"But why not?" she demanded incredulously,
hands poised on her hips.

"Because we have strict orders," he replied.
"The resident of that apartment allows only one call per visitor.
No exceptions." He paused. "Ever."

"But surely, when there are extenuating
circumstances—"

"No such thing, ma'am." He smiled tightly. "I
assure you, not with apartment 5C."

5C. Kenzie mentally filed the number. You
never know, she thought. It might come in handy sometime.

"So," she asked broodingly of him, "what do I
do now?"

"Ya got me," he said.

"Shit," she swore, under her breath.

"Sorry, ma'am. I don't make the rules."

"Damn and blast it all to hell!" Kenzie
muttered. "What I won't do for Burghley's!"

Talk about Kafkaesque! she thought. This is
what I'd expect down at Motor Vehicles, not in the most
distinguished building in town.

Whirling around, she pushed on the heavy door
and let herself out, so quickly that the doorman didn't stand a
chance to jump to. She was out before he knew it.

Marching away from the building, Kenzie tried
to contain her frustration when—

—she felt it again!

That powerful frisson.

That eerie, spine-tingling sensation of being
watched!

Slowing her pace, she felt herself twisting
her head, eyes involuntarily drawn to the fifth floor,
automatically seeking that same window which had caught her
attention the last time.

The breath caught in her throat. There!
Invisible unless you knew where to look, the haunting pale image
of—

—her!

"Klosters, my ass ... !" Kenzie exclaimed
softly.

Lila Pons. It had to be. Cinematically posed
behind the squares of casement, head in a turban, she stood with
one forearm across her stomach, her hand cupping an elbow as she
smoked a cigarette.

For a split second, distance contracted and
their eyes seemed to meet.

Then, before Kenzie could react, the ethereal
figure drew back into the shadows.

The curtain swung shut.

The window went blank.

Show's over, she thought sardonically, and
got a move on. She'd wasted too much time already.

"Final fade-out for Ms. Turner," Kenzie
muttered darkly. "Cut and ... print!"

Whatever happened to good old-fashioned
coffee shops?" Charley said mournfully.

It was early Friday evening and Seattle Bean
on Second Avenue— one of some eight dozen coffee bars which had
mushroomed, seemingly overnight, all over Manhattan—was filled with
a young, outdoorsy- looking crowd.

"The coffee happened," Kenzie said. "They
served shit."

"Yeah, but this? Seattle's revenge, that's
what this is."

Kenzie, sitting on a stool opposite him, was
slowly working on a slice of dense chocolate cake and sipping
cappuccino.

"What this city needs," he growled, "is a
proliferation law. For coffee bars."

"And here I always thought you Italians liked
good coffee."

"Good coffee," he said, "doesn't have to cost
three bucks a cup."

Kenzie used her fork to cut a minute sliver
of cake, speared it on the tines, raised it to her mouth, and
chewed in slow motion.

"Heaven," she sighed, shutting her eyes in
ecstasy.

"For what it cost, it had better be."

"Charley, I'm trying to enjoy my calories. So
get off this thrift kick and let's change the subject."

"Okay." He folded his hands on the tiny
table. "Why'd you drag me in here? You said you wanted to discuss
somethin'."

She put down her fork and dabbed her lips
delicately with the paper napkin and took a sip of cappuccino.

"That's right," she said.

"You also said you didn't want to discuss it
over the phone. Or over dinner. Or at home."

She nodded. "That is correct also."

"So discuss."

She took a deep breath. "There are women,"
she said slowly, "who would undoubtedly feel flattered by displays
of Cro-Magnon behavior among males. I, as you should know, do not
number among them."

He gave her a funny look. "This Swahili
you're speakin', or what?"

Kenzie sat forward. "I am speaking about
fisticuffs," she said quietly. "Fights in the schoolyard. 'Wanna
step outside, buddy?' That sort of thing."

He rubbed his forehead. "Kenzie," he said
wearily. "Fuck are you talkin' about?"

"I am talking about your temper. I am talking
about insane jealousy. I am talking about your use of violent
physical force."

"Run that by me again?"

"You heard me."

"Yeah, I heard you. But I might understand
you if you'd stop speaking in goddamn tongues!"

"All right." Kenzie took a moment to collect
her thoughts. "I am referring," she said primly, "to Hannes."

"Oh, yeah. Way I understand it, you've been
burning the candle at both ends."

"Charley, who I see, and choose not to see,
is my business. It does not give you the right to go beating up on
that person."

"Excuse me?" He looked genuinely
bumfuzzled.

"And you can wipe that look of innocence off
your face," she said severely. "We both know what you did."

"Hell I do!" he said heatedly.

"Keep your voice down!" she hissed. "It's bad
enough you slugged Hannes—"

"I did what?" He stared at her. "Christ,
Kenz! What put that idea in your head?"

"Let's just say I have it on good authority,"
she said stiffly.

"As God is my judge, Kenz, I swear I didn't
lay a hand on that son of a bitch!"

She sighed heavily. "And I," she said
quietly, "am supposed to believe you?"

"Hell, yeah!" He stared at her. "You do,
don't you?"

She did not reply.

"Aw, shit!" He raked a hand through his hair
and brooded. "Guess I have Blondie to thank for this."

"Charley, there's really no need to get into
name-calling."

"Hell there ain't! Guy I'm on the street with
pretends he an' I're buddy-buddy. Meanwhile, he cuckolds me an', to
top it all off, runs to you an' starts spreadin' lies. Makes me
wish I had slugged the shit outta him!"

"He says you did," she said quietly.

Charley couldn't believe his ears. "An' you
fell for it?"

Kenzie said, "Put it this way. I don't
disbelieve him."

Charley was incredulous. "Oh, that's just
beautiful! You've known me for years and along comes Blondie an'
snap!—you take his word over mine."

Kenzie let out another exasperated sigh. She
picked up her cup and sipped a little and put it back down. "Then
why is it," she inquired, "that your knuckles are all bruised and
scraped?"

"This?" Charley held up his hands. "That's
from when I fell."

"You fell?"

"Goddamned right I fell! After I found out he
was shtuppin' you, I tied one on. Or is that a crime suddenly?"

"Be that as it may," she said, "Hannes is the
one with the black eye."

"Well, if I were you, I'd stop seein' the
bastard." Charley stared at her. "It ever occur to you he might be
dangerous?"

Kenzie was amused. "Come on, Charley. From
the physical evidence, it strikes me that you're the one I should
be worried about."

"Christ, you don't quit," he said, "do
you?"

She was silent.

"That why you dragged me in here? To drink
cap-pu-cci-no and give me shit?"

"Charley," she said, "I am not giving you
shit. I wanted to discuss this like civilized human beings."

"Oh."

"Also, I thought it time I started ... well,
laying down the law."

"Law?" he said suspiciously. "What law?"

"Kenzie's Law."

"Now you've lost me completely."

"Well, the truth is this. I like you,
Charley."

She looked at him directly, her tawny eyes
reaching down deep.