Look, Robert!" Dina squealed, hopping on tiptoe and waving excitedly. "There's Sheldon D. Fairey!"
"So?" grunted Robert, who since that morning had relegated Burghley's chairman to his multitudinous ranks of minions.
Dina turned to Zandra and Lex. "You two go circulate!" she stage- whispered, making shooing motions. "We'll meet up later."
Once she had Robert to herself, she said, "I think it would only be courteous if we went and said hello to Mr. Fairey."
Prudently, she neglected to mention her ulterior motive. The very least she owed Sheldon was a quick hello and a whispered thank-you—he had, after all, been instrumental in getting them the invitations for this party.
To her surprise, Robert put up no resistance whatsoever. "All right," he shrugged. "If that's what you want, why not?"
Prudently, he neglected to mention his ulterior motive. Namely, that this was the very opportunity he'd been waiting for—but who'd have thought that his wife, of all people, would drop it so fortuitously into his lap? For it was his express intention to take Sheldon D. Fairey aside and finalize Bambi Parker's promotion.
Dina, happily oblivious to that fact, clung to his arm and unerringly navigated him over to where Sheldon D. Fairey and two Social Register couples were standing around chatting.
"Now remember, Robert," she reminded him sternly, "you promised to find Zandra a job in the Old Masters department. This is the perfect opportunity to bring it up."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he scowled, once again cursing his idiocy in acquiescing to what amounted to playing Russian roulette. God, but how could he have been so stupid? Tossing Bambi and Zandra together was like lighting a stick of dynamite and waiting around for the explosion. Sooner or later, it was bound to come.
"Sweeties!" Dina, having descended upon their quarry, let go of Robert's arm.
There was a flurry of handshakes and cheek kisses, followed by another round of the same when Nina Fairey—possessed of a social antennae second to none—seemingly materialized out of nowhere.
"Wonderful jacket!" Nina cooed. "Yves St. Laurent?"
"The one and only." Dina, for the first time finding herself at the very epicenter of attention, took to the kowtowing like a duck to water.
"My God, that ring!" one of the Social Register wives exclaimed in shock. "I've never seen a rock that huge!"
"This?" Dina purred, sighing happily. "It's new. My sweetie is so generous."
Isn't he just? Robert thought darkly, unwrapping a genuine Havana—a Flor de F. Farach Extra—which he rattled next to his ear, then held under his nose for a whiff. Satisfied, he chomped off the puffing tip. Sucked on it to get it nice and moist. Hoped the ritual would help tune out all that female jabber.
No such luck.
"Now, darling," Nina was gushing, "you really must tell us! How does it feel to own Burghley's?"
Robert heard his wife's glissant scale of light laughter. "Ask me again once it's sunk in," Dina lied, eating up every last bit of fuss, flattery, and deference. "Right now it all seems so, well, so unreal."
"Like hell it does!" grumped Robert around his cigar. Glaring at his wife's gaggle of newfound sycophants, he had a good mind to tell them exactly where they could go—and why Dina didn't was entirely beyond him. Christ, those ass-kissers hadn't given her the time of day before; why should she bother with their brownnosing now?
As these thoughts crossed his mind, he sensed Dina giving him The Look—clearly a signal that he and Sheldon have their little powwow.
He shrugged to himself. Why not? It was as good a time as any, and would provide escape from the hens.
Tapping Sheldon to get his attention, Robert beckoned him aside with a nod. Sheldon dutifully accommodated, and Robert draped a comradely arm around his shoulders and edged him away. "There's a couple a things we need to discuss," he said in a buddy-buddy locker-room kind of voice. "Whyn't we take a stroll. I'm dyin' to light up this here cigar ..."
Sheldon D. Fairey winced. If there was one thing in the world he hated, it was cigar smoke.
Not that he dared mention it. Who was he to argue with his new boss?
Mr. Spotts scooped two champagne glasses off a waiter's tray and handed one to Kenzie. "Here you go," he said, clinking his glass against hers. "A toast. To your brilliant future."
"Thank you, Mr. Spotts. And may I be worthy of living up to your expectations."
"Come, come, my dear. Now that I've officially been put to pasture, I think we can dispense with the formality, don't you? So let's do drop this Mr. Spotts and Miss Turner business. Friends should be on a first-name basis." He raised his eyebrows. "That is, of course, if you don't mind ... Kenzie?" He used her first name tentatively.
She smiled. "On the contrary ... Dietrich," she replied softly. "I'm honored."
He returned her smile. "I am glad. Now, if you will be so kind as to excuse me, I'm off to hunt down Mr. Fairey. I just want to make certain all the details of your promotion have been ironed out. In the meantime ..." Mr. Spotts lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Don't look now, but there's a young man standing over there, off to your right ..."
Kenzie's curiosity was piqued, but trying not to be too obvious, she waited a moment. Then she looked casually all around before finally glancing in the direction he'd indicated.
She drew a sharp breath.
The man in question—if he was the one Mr. Spotts had mentioned, and surely he must be—had to qualify as the most handsome male specimen on this side of the Atlantic!
Her voice quavered. "You . . . you can't mean that Nordic god in his mid-thirties? The Viking with the whitish-blond hair?"
Mr. Spotts smiled. "Indeed I do."
"What about him?"
"Oh, only that he hasn't been able to take his eyes off you ever since we entered."
"What! He's been eyeing ... me?" she gasped in disbelief. "Oh really, Dietrich! What makes you so sure he's not waiting for someone else?"
"Because, Kenzie, my dear," said Mr. Spotts in that precise and patient manner of his, "many things may have changed since my remote youth, but there are, happily, a very few that have not. And a handsome young man trying to catch the eye of a pretty young lady, I am glad to say, is still one of them. Now, I suggest that while I go scare up Mr. Fairey, you drop your handkerchief or use some other such feminine wile, which, I suspect, is all your young man is waiting for."
"Drop my handkerchief?" she said in disbelief.
But Mr. Spotts didn't respond. He was already gone.
Kenzie searched in vain for his tall figure among the crowd, and was startled when a stranger's voice said, "Hullo!"
Looking around, she almost choked. Dear God, him! The splendid, beautiful hunk with the whitish-blond hair!
She stood there staring, legs trembling, aware of his great shining greenish-blue eyes. Yes, large and wonderful eyes, like warm, sun-dappled swimming pools in August, the kind you wanted to drown in forever.
And, from close up, she realized something else. He was a man gifted with more than mere masculine beauty; he was, without doubt, the most beautiful man she had ever laid eyes upon.
She lost all concept of time, and had no idea how long they stood there staring at one another. Suddenly she felt like an adolescent again. All arms and legs and no tongue.
He took the initiative, gave her the subtlest of bows with his head. "Since we have not been introduced, allow me to do the honors. My name is Hannes Hockert, but my friends call me Hans. You know ..." His smile was devastating. "... as in Hans Christian Andersen?"
She shook his hand, finding it strong and hard, but with a surprisingly gentle touch. Much like his voice, which was quiet and gentle, yet had a resonant, distinctly masculine timbre.
"MacKenzie Turner," she managed in a daze, her throat so constricted she had to clear it. "My friends either call me Kenzie or Kenz."
"Kenzie ... Kenzie ..." he repeated to himself, as though tasting her name on his palate. "Mmm. Rather unusual, but somehow it seems to suit you. Yes. Ah." He indicated her glass. "I see you have finished your champagne."
Champagne ... ? She looked at him blankly.
Deftly he plucked the empty glass from between her willing fingers, threw back his head, gulped down the contents of his own, and then held it up and grinned disarmingly.
"If you'll notice," he said, winking as irresistibly as he smiled, "it just so happens that I could use a refill, also. I shall return momentarily." He paused. "You won't play Cinderella and disappear on me, I hope?"
Me? Disappear! Kenzie thought, giving a start. Good God, why should I want to do that?
"No," she whispered, her eyes dreamily following him as he moved fluidly away with the lean, unconscious grace of a dancer, or some sensuously sleek jungle cat, until he was swallowed up in the crowd.
Only then, once she could no longer see him, did she wonder how she had ever attracted the attention of such a splendidly gorgeous specimen of a man, and without even trying!
Oh my, she thought. Hannes Hockert, a.k.a. Hans, was right up her alley and exactly her type. Strikingly handsome. Compellingly masculine. And chivalrous to a fault.
She had to smile. It didn't take much stretch of the imagination to fancy him as some throwback to Leif Eriksson—a proud sea-roving warrior standing at the bow of a marauding, double-prowed Viking longboat, the silk of his white-blond hair whipped by the wind ...
Mmm, she thought with the secretive delight of a miser hoarding his treasure, no doubt about it. Hannes truly was her beau ideal—and as far as her own taste went, no one else could come a close second. No one on God's earth.
Lex Bugg hopped, skipped, and jumped—a frog on speed.
At first, Zandra was amused by his frenetic energy as he charged from one circle of acquaintances to the next. Barely able to keep up with him, she shook countless hands, dutifully smiled and laughed, and did her best to put names to faces.
A futile exercise.
Lex introduced her to too many people in too rapid a succession for anyone to make an impact. Everything was a blur.
"Is there anyone you don't know?" she quipped good-naturedly.
"Only those who don't count," he responded in total seriousness, his head slowly swiveling as he scanned the sea of faces for any important new arrivals.
It was then, at that precise moment, that Zandra realized to what extent he was using her. Not surprisingly, her initial amusement turned to outrage. It was one thing to be introduced to people, but it was another to be toted around like some prize trophy, having her name and title dropped for no other reason than his trying to impress people.
Well, that was where she drew the line.
Spying a world-famous photographer, Lex took her by the arm. "C'mon," he said excitedly, "there's Francesco Scavullo!" He started to make a beeline, but Zandra refused to budge. She was fed up and royally pissed.
"Hey, c'mon!" he urged. "What's keeping you?"
Turning on him in a blaze of hair, teeth, and eyes, she snapped, "Goddammit, Lex! You really are a first-class shit! You know that?"
He looked taken aback. "Is something wrong?" he asked, genuinely perplexed.
"Is something wrong!" she echoed, dripping contempt. "I'll tell you what's wrong! For your information, I take exception to the brazen way you're using me as a carrot! I'm not just some kind of social bait you can dangle in front of whomever you please! You're using me."
He pretended shocked innocence. "Moi?"
"Yes, vous." Anger blazed from her eyes.
His brow furrowed at her sudden transformation. Like he needed this scene! Who'd have thought she'd turn into a complete minus?
"Is that how you really feel?" he asked, trying to keep his cool.
"That's exactly the way I feel!" Her voice was husky, quiet but strong, and something about her face reminded him of tempered steel.
He took a deep breath, inflated his cheeks, then slowly exhaled, deciding to placate her and avert a public spectacle for now.
He said, "Okay, okay. You've got every right to be angry with me, all right?"
Her eyes narrowed appraisingly, her fingers blurring as she tapped the elbows of her crossed arms. Hardly naive, she briefly contemplated his spiel.
He had all the right answers.
And showed the appropriate remorse.
Why, then, couldn't she shake the suspicion that he was only humoring her? Or that his sincerity went about as deep as the laminate on his porcelain teeth?
Correctly reading her skepticism, Lex decided it behooved him to turn up the charm. "You're right," he said earnestly, holding her gaze. "I've been selfish and owe you an apology. What do you say we kiss and make up?"
Zandra, doubts unvanquished, let her silence speak for itself.
Stuck-up bitch, Lex wanted to say, but curbed the impulse. Instead, he gave her his most appealing little-lost-boy expression.
"Look," he reiterated, "I said I was sorry. And I am."
Zandra sighed to herself. So what if his amends didn't ring true? That was beside the point, wasn't it? For an apology, whether heartfelt or not, was an apology—and as such, required a gracious response.
Etiquette came first. Personal feelings last.
"All right, all right. Apology accepted." She raised her hands and waved them, as if partaking in some arcane sorcery designed to clear the air while, all around, glittering as though in reproof, tout New York crowded her peripheral vision, a constantly shifting, prismatic explosion of sequins, rainbows, and jewels.
They wandered into the otherwise-deserted Egyptian Wing. Lit glass showcases lined both walls, displaying the plunder of ancient tombs: fragments of textiles and shrouds, Ptolemaic bronzes and limestone steles, quartz heads of kings and painted mummy masks, sacred cat-headed goddesses and canopic jar lids in the form of divinities.
All once-holy icons of a long-lost culture, now reduced to curiosities for the shuffling, daytime masses.
Robert A. Goldsmith rested his elbow, as though to stake claim to its ownership, on the great central sarcophagus. The cigar between his clenched teeth churned up great indulgent clouds of smoke which gradually dissipated into a low blue haze hovering overhead.
Sheldon D. Fairey, intending to avoid the worst of the smoke, stood a few steps back. He found the eerie, tomblike silence of this particular gallery claustrophobically oppressive and disquieting. He was, above all, too aware of the dozens of pairs of mysterious blank eyes which he felt kept watch from behind the walls of their fragile glass prisons.
"The reason I brought ya in here," Robert growled, "is for some goddamn privacy. What I wanna discuss is completely off the record. In other words ..." He thrust his head forward, a pugnacious, ferociously glaring pitbull, "... we never had this conversation. Ya read me?"
Loud and clear, Sheldon thought, masking his alarm behind a carefully composed countenance. Phrases such as "off the record" and "never had this conversation" invariably set off warning bells—and with good reason. Having spent his entire career above reproach, he had adroitly avoided underhanded dealings like the plague. At least, he thought miserably, until now. But in the meantime, what choice did he have but to acquiesce?
"If that is the way you wish it," he murmured tactfully, "yes. Of course this will remain entirely off the record."
"Good. 'Cause if this goes any further'n you an' me, I'll have your ass."
"You can count on my discretion," Sheldon, ever the gentleman, sniffed with dignity.
Robert, luxuriating in confidence, leaned back against the ancient tomb, churned up even greater and more humongous clouds of smoke. Then, taking the cigar out of his mouth, he regarded the hand-wrapped tobacco leaves with something akin to admiration.
"My wife's best friend happens to be in town for an unspecified period of time," he said conversationally. "She's lookin' for a job."
He raised his eyes, pointedly met Sheldon's, and held his gaze. "She needs a green card, too."
Sheldon felt an ominous pluck of foreboding. "Y-yes?" he ventured guardedly.
Robert's plump ruddy features expressed a world of disdain. "For Christ's sake, man, you're in charge of Burghley's! Surely clinching something as simple as this is within your capacity?"
Sheldon, attempting to deflect Robert's stinging barb, coughed discreetly into a cupped hand. "Well, I'll ... I'll certainly look into it and give it my best shot," he said with an almost maidenly primness.
"You'll look into it?" Robert mimicked, setting Sheldon's teeth on edge. "You'll give it your best shot?"
Now Sheldon's blood pounded in his ears and the suffocating anger he felt burned like vicious indigestion. Resolving to remain as outwardly calm and dignified as circumstances would permit, he drew himself up and said, "As I assured you, I'll—"
"Unh-unh." Robert's eyes flashed like multiple razor blades. "I think you've got your wires crossed. See, I'm not askin' ya to do it. I'm tellin' ya to!"
His voice stung, and with an inward smile, he observed that he'd hit right on target. Sheldon's hands had clenched into fists and he quivered from head to toe with speechless indignation.
"In other words, Fairey, what you're gonna do," Robert continued smoothly, "is tell me what I wanna hear. An' what I wanna hear is that you've already taken care of everything. That the damn woman's already got her job—in Old Masters—and the green card to go along with it."
Robert cupped a hand around his ear.
"Well? Are you deaf? Speak up, man!"
Sheldon's lower mandible dropped a good two inches before clicking audibly shut. His cheeks were flaming, and the heat of his humiliation seemed to radiate outward, causing the cool glass cases and the blank- eyed, silent stone heads to ripple as in a Saharan mirage. Never before in his professional career had he ever been treated with anything but deference—never!
Sheldon, in an attempt to recoup some of his lost composure, swallowed hard. What he wanted to say was, "I tender my resignation. You may find yourself another flunky," and stalk off, dignity intact. Instead, prudence dictated he do no such thing.
Clearing his throat, he said, "Well, as a matter of fact there ... there just so happens to be an ... er .... opening in that depar—"
"Good!" Robert boomed, his ebullient voice an echo overlapping from the hard surfaces all around. Marble, metal, glass, stone. "That's what I like to hear!" There was about him a presumptuous, ruthless triumph. "Now then, since we've gotten that out of the way, there's one more thing."
Sheldon, feeling everything inside him go on full alert, mentally braced himself. What more could that uncouth fiend want? No, not want, he quickly corrected himself, demand.
Robert puffed away with deceptive serenity, freshly shaven cheeks a bellows. Then, as a conversational aside: "I heard the head of Old Masters has retired."
"Mr. Spotts, yes," Sheldon sighed, lugubrious as an undertaker. "I'm afraid it's quite unfortunate, losing one of the world's top—"
"I do not concern myself with day-to-day details." Robert brushed aside air with an arrogant wave of his cigar. "Presumably, that's what you get paid to do?"
Despite Sheldon's clenched jaw, the scathing sarcasm easily breached his defenses. And once again, he felt his body betray him. His face stinging with the guilt and repressed outrage of a child trapped by the playground bully.
"Old Masters . . . isn't that the department where ... now what is her name ... ?" Robert, back still turned, was pressing the thumb and index finger of his cigar hand to his forehead, pretending it necessary to search his memory. "Ah, of course!" His voice was ebullient again, almost a croon. He whirled to face Sheldon. "Now I remember—Ms. Parker! A certain Ms. Parker's employed in that department. Am I right?"
For a moment, Sheldon was stumped. Then the name hit him with full force. Good grief! he thought. Don't tell me he means Bambi Parker! What on earth could he possibly want with her?
"Y-yes?" he ventured.
"I want her promoted," Robert decreed, once again puffing luxuriantly. He added, "To head of Old Masters."
"What!" Sheldon exclaimed, the words blurting from his mouth before he could stop them. "Good God! You can't be serious!"
"And why not?"
"B-because ..." Sheldon sputtered, crimson cheeks deepening to bruised purple, ". . . b-because ... well, replacing Mr. Spotts with M-Ms. Parker is ..." He swallowed hard. "... is simply out of the question!"
"Sez who?" Robert's eyes had become flat as a reptile's. "You?"
Inwardly, Sheldon quailed. He found it all he could do to suppress the impulse to admit defeat and surrender; even harder, to squelch a far greater urge—to prostrate himself and become obsequiously oily. Instead, he summoned the mustered remnants of his dignity and made one valiant last stand.
"This ... this is extremely awkward, Mr. Goldsmith," he said, the strength of his voice surprising even himself, "but you must ... we must ... bear in mind the, er, the experience and knowledge, the ... the expertise, as it were, which that position requires."
The reptilian eyes blinked sleepily.
"Not that I have anything personal against Ms. Parker," he was hasty to add. "She simply does not possess the necessary qualifications. In fact, it pains me to have to say this, but ... well, on several occasions, we ... we very nearly had to—"
"Are you quite finished?" Robert interrupted testily. "I thought I made myself perfectly clear. I only concern myself with the big picture. To put it bluntly, Fairey, I don't give a rat's ass about in-house politics or day-to-day minutiae."
"You ... you can't do this!" Sheldon whispered, raking a manicured hand through his perfect silver coif, the sum of all his frustration and fears transparent in that one childlike gesture of mussing his hair. "Don't you realize Ms. Parker might well ruin the department ... possibly sully Burghley's reputa—"
Robert, leaning in close, gestured at his own mouth with the wet end of his cigar. "Read ... my ... lips. As of immediately, Ms. Parker becomes head of Old Masters, my wife's friend gets the position she vacates, an' that's that. Now, will you, or will you not, execute my order?" His bushy brows contracted. "A simple 'yes' or 'no' will suffice."
Sheldon gave a shuddering sigh. It was useless to resist, that much was clear. If Goldsmith was hell-bent upon promoting Bambi Parker, then by God, promote her he would, everything else—Burghley's included— be damned!
"If you insist, sir," Sheldon managed, stilling his tremor by clenching his teeth.
Robert accepted the acquiescence with a magnanimous nod. "Well, then, since everything's settled, what do you say we get back to the party? Perhaps cement our new relationship with a toast, eh?"
Numbly Sheldon nodded, his self-loathing having rendered him speechless, his feet virtually immobile. He let himself be guided out, his mind a maelstrom of self-incriminations. For the first time in his career he had knowingly done the unthinkable—the unimaginable!—had, after all these irreproachable years, consciously compromised and betrayed the venerable institution which had been placed in his trust.
Was this to be his epitaph after leading Burghley's with formidable rectitude through a veritable jungle of economic climes—wild fluctuations he alone had uncannily, almost psychically, foreseen? Impossible to think that his dozens of proudly incorruptible triumphs were suddenly reduced to, what?
Betrayal? Treason? Whoredom?
He felt like a Judas.
No, he told himself, that wasn't quite right. He felt like—a gelded Judas.
And the man who'd chopped off his balls had the nerve to drape his arm, buddy-buddy style, around his shoulders.
Not as an act of friendship. Oh, no. Robert A. Goldsmith, he was all too aware, had a far more immediate and transparent motive: to convey one last mocking and not-so-subliminal message:
Making it crystal clear which of them was the puppet.
And which controlled the strings.