For the time being, reality was suspended.
In the Engelhard Court, the flickering tapers, the gold- dipped floral centerpieces, the necklaces of twinkle lights strung along arched trellises, the glow and sparkle of gold and gemstones—all conspired to gild the guests and food alike.
Everything seemed to have been conjured up by some magic-imbued genie. The swagged canopies with their elaborate jabots and bursts of ostrich plumes which hovered in midair above each round table. The army of white-gloved waiters who glided about like so many silent ghosts. The smoothness with which everything hummed along. Even the vibrato of buzzing conversations, punctuated by fanciful flights of musical laughter, seemed somehow to have been expressly orchestrated for this event by benevolent higher beings.
It was perfection—everyone said so.
No one more so than Dina Goldsmith, who was in the fast lane and loving every minute of it!
Now, surveying Karl-Heinz's immediate social fiefdom—his own table at the very epicenter of the Engelhard Court at which, thanks to Zandra, she and Robert found themselves seated—Dina regarded her A-list dinner companions with a pleasure so intense it nearly verged on physical pain. On her immediate left sat Lord Rosenkrantz, then Nina Fairey, then Robert; directly opposite her were Becky V and His Serene Highness, their host; then Zandra; and on Dina's immediate right, an unusually reticent Sheldon D. Fairey.
Predictably, the conversation at the prince's table centered around him, whose birthday was being celebrated.
"You cannot be serious!" Nina Fairey was in the midst of exclaiming. Like every woman at that table with the exception of Zandra, she only made a pretense of eating the appetizer of hot oysters with endives in a fragrant lemon-cream sauce, thus ensuring her skeletal figure perpetual clothes-hanger status. "I think it's monstrous!"
"Perhaps so," replied Karl-Heinz with a shrug of his princely shoulders, "but it is the tradition in my family. Also, such by-laws are not at all uncommon, you know. Many of the titled old families of Europe still observe the custom of primogeniture. For example, the Thurn und Taxis still do, and I could name many, many others."
That said, he began to turn toward Zandra, but Dina quickly picked up the conversational thread. "I've never heard of anything so unfair," she declared.
Karl-Heinz turned to her and smiled. "My dear Dina, as you probably well know life seldom is fair."
"Perhaps, but this virtually blackmails you into marriage!"
"Yes," Karl-Heinz agreed calmly, "it does. But don't forget, that was the original intention: to ensure a continuing dynasty of the right bloodstock."
"Still, you haven't married," she pointed out.
"No," he replied, "I haven't."
"And doesn't that worry you, now that you've turned ... well, whatever?" Diamonds flashed as she waved away his age.
"Of course it has crossed my mind," he said. "No one with a shred of sanity would jeopardize a fortune of that size."
Her voice was quiet. "But you have," she pointed out.
"Yes," he sighed, "I have."
She held his gaze. "And if your father dies? And you haven't produced an heir by that time? What happens then?"
"Then," he said simply, "I lose everything."
"Good heavens!"
"Of course, that does not mean I would be destitute. I do have a fortune of my own, and even if I didn't, the same family by-laws which kept me from inheriting would also ensure that I would be well provided for."
"But the bulk of the fortune?" Dina asked. "The power. To whom would that pass?"
"Regrettably to Prince Leopold, my sister's eldest son." Who is a drug addict and a delinquent, he thought grimly as he reached for his wineglass. "At any rate, let us hope my father lives a while longer, shall we?"
"And how is le vieil Prince?" Becky V inquired. "In good health, j'espere bien?"
"I'm afraid not," Karl-Heinz confessed. "His health has been deteriorating quite rapidly."
Silk rustled as Becky V went rigid. "A dieu ne plaise!" she exclaimed. "Cher ami! Surely that must alarm you!"
Karl-Heinz lifted the wine to his nose to assay its bouquet. "Naturally his health causes concern," he admitted. "Just as Damocles never forgot the sword hanging over his head, so too, I never forget the one hanging over mine. But what can one do?" He shrugged. "Life goes on."
"How old is your father?" Dina inquired.
He sipped the wine, which went dusky and mellow on his palate. "Nearly eighty."
Becky, quick to pat the princely hand, added: "Naturellement, it goes without saying that Heinzie was a change-of-life baby!"
There was dutiful laughter, but not from Dina. Having tasted firsthand of the bitter cup of poverty, she had, if nothing else, gained a healthy respect for all matters financial.
Now she leaned across the table toward Karl-Heinz. "Sweetie! Think of all the billions of dollars at stake! Why not get married? Why not have an heir, secure your inheritance, and be done with it? It can't be all that difficult . . . can it?"
Karl-Heinz half smiled. "In some ways, my dear Dina, yes. It can be."
"But ... why?"
"Because I am a romantic and have yet to find the right woman. Or at least, one I would care to spend the rest of my life with."
"Voyez-vous," Becky explained for Dina's benefit, "wife-hunting is not as simple for Heinzie as it is for most men. Besides producing a male heir before the death of his father, le vieil Prince, Heinzie's wife must, like he himself, be a direct descendant of the Holy Roman Emperors."
"And you should see what most of those descendants look like!" Karl-Heinz gave a theatrical shiver. "With the exception of Zandra here, they all have any number of ghastly, but highly prized royal or serene deformities. You know ... the most horrid bulbous noses, or no chins to speak of, or jaws full of crooked tusks ..."
At the mention of Zandra's name, a calculating glint had come into Dina's eyes. "You mean ..." she asked slowly, furrowing her brow, "... Zandra would be considered appropriate?"
"She is a distant cousin, but yes." Karl-Heinz nodded. "Zandra would be highly appropriate. In fact, if I wish to inherit, it is impossible for me not to marry a relative. The Hapsburgs . . . the Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen ... the Borbon dos Sicilias ... however distantly, somewhere along the line, everyone appropriate is related to everyone else ..."
Dina tuned out, her mind a million light years away.
She knew precisely what needed to be done, and exactly how to go about it. Best of all, it would kill two birds with one stone: provide Zandra a marriage of discriminating quality and incalculable wealth, and, the old prince's health and Zandra's womb permitting, ensure Karl-Heinz his imperiled inheritance.
What could be more perfect, or obvious?
It's a wonder Karl-Heinz and Zandra haven't thought of it yet. Clearly, they're meant for one another. They make the perfect couple. Anyone with half a brain can see that just by looking at them. Besides, what are best friends for, if not to help steer two emotionally repressed souls toward a match made in heaven—not to mention on earth?
Dina smiled to herself. What indeed ...
Kenzie couldn't remember a time she'd enjoyed herself more. It wasn't just Hannes's presence and the sexual heat he generated. Nor was it entirely due to her delightful encounter with Zandra who, she now saw, was seated beside none other than their host at his table.
No. What beguiled her was no single person or thing in and of itself, but the whole dreamlike fantasy, the entire tapestry of this fairy-tale event.
As the appetizer plates were whisked away, Mr. Spotts cleared his warbly throat. "Kenzie, my dear?"
Eyes alight, Kenzie turned to him, the smoked oysters in lemon-cream sauce still lingering symphonically on her palate. "Yes, Mr. Spotts, I mean, Dietrich—?" Her hands fluttered self-consciously. "Sorry. I'm still not used to our being on a first-name basis."
"That's quite all right, my dear," he said, taking a fortifying breath. "There is something ... well, rather unpleasant... which I feel I must get off my chest."
Kenzie's brow furrowed. "What's wrong?"
"Everything," he sighed, "absolutely everything." Nodding abstractedly, he looked down at the tablecloth, and with a long gnarled finger traced the circular impression left by the appetizer plate. "I do wish I could spare you this, my dear." He raised sorrowful eyes to hers. "Especially tonight."
"Don't worry. If it's bad news, you might as well get it over and done with."
He nodded. "But I'd like you to know that I had no idea these machinations were taking place behind my back. In fact, I only learned of them myself while you were in the powder room."
"Y-yes ... ?" The furrows in Kenzie's brow deepened.
"It concerns your promotion. I'm terribly sorry, Kenzie. I'm afraid ... well, according to Mr. Fairey, it's ... it's not in the bag after all." His pink-rimmed eyelids blinked rapidly. "Can you believe it? My recommendation was tossed aside. Just like that!" His quivering voice rose an octave in outrage.
"It's all right," Kenzie said quietly.
"No, it is not all right!" Mr. Spotts whispered intensely. Trembling with barely contained indignation, he drew himself up. "You are the most qualified person to head the department! You, also, are my chosen successor. And now ... well, everything I've worked for ... everything I've striven to build up—"
Suddenly his voice cracked, and his fingers clutched the edge of the table as though to keep himself from being swept off into the farthest reaches of outer space.
Kenzie placed a hand over his. "You needn't worry," she said softly. "Arnold and I will still be there. We'll keep things on track."
He shook his head. "You don't understand. It's not just your being passed over that's so abhorrent. That too, but ... well, worse still is the new head of the department."
"Who's it going to be? Do you know?"
He exhaled heavily. "Yes," he said tightly. "And we can thank Mr. Robert A. Goldsmith for that choice!"
At the mention of his name, Kenzie's eyes strayed across the room to where Burghley's new owner was seated at the prince's table. She caught sight of Zandra and Dina touching glasses in a toast. Slowly she drew her gaze back in.
"Well?" she asked again. "Who is it?"
It was all he could do not to choke on the name. "Bambi Parker," he whispered hoarsely.
It went like a stab through her heart.
Bambi? In charge?
Sick with shock, Kenzie sat there in bewilderment, disbelief robbing her facial planes of vitality, her chin of its strength. In her stomach, oysters and champagne roiled violently.
I've been cheated.
The realization detonated like mental sticks of dynamite.
Bambi robbed me of my promotion.
Mr. Spotts inspected his fingernails. "At any rate, I no longer hold you to your earlier promise. Saving the department from Ms. Parker is too much to ask of anyone." He smiled bleakly. "What I said about the gift coming with strings attached—"
"It's not the Zuccaro I'm—"
"I know," he commiserated gently, "I know."
Two waiters glided toward their table, smoothly setting down plates of roast duck with brandied fruit compote.
The rich aromas of fowl and liquor were too much. Kenzie found herself engulfed in a sudden swirl of heat and nausea.
Abruptly she pushed back her chair and staggered to her feet. "I—I'm sorry," she gasped. "I'll be right back. I—I've got to— to—"
Clapping a hand over her mouth, she stumbled through the maze of tables, making it to the ladies' room just in time. Lunging for the nearest sink, she bent over it and threw up oysters, lemon sauce, and champagne.
After the worst of her wretching had subsided, she raised her head to the mirror. Her face was drawn, her complexion sallow. Loosening her grip from the counter, she fumbled with the cold water tap, grabbed a handful of paper towels, and soaked them. With her left hand, she pressed them to her forehead; cupping her right, she scooped handfuls of water into her mouth and rinsed, spat out, rinsed again.
Tears stung her eyes; from time to time, great convulsing dry heaves continued to wrack her body.
Passed over in lieu of Bambi Parker!
The injustice churned sickeningly.
How in God's name can I endure working under that bimbo?
How many times have I had to rectify her asinine mistakes?
She thought: So this is what it tastes like, the bitter cup of defeat!
It had begun to drizzle as Bambi Parker and Garth Wheeler Stewart II hurried up the carpeted steps to the Met. Garth, the blandly handsome young heir to a multimillion-dollar toilet paper fortune, carried an outsized umbrella which sheltered them both.
"It would have been nice if you'd rated an invitation for the dinner," Bambi reproached in her breathy little girl's voice, "instead of just the dance. If you ask me, I think it's insulting."
"If it bothers you, we can go on," Garth said. "There are at least four other parties tonight that I know of. Bet this place is full of geriatric cases anyway."
"No," Bambi said quickly. "We've come this far, we might as well stay for one little drinkipoo. Besides, this is supposed to be a real bash, and I want to see for myself what the hullabaloo's all about."
Wisely, she neglected to mention her real intention for coming— expressly, to see whether or not Robert A. Goldsmith was here, and if so, to "accidentally" bump into him and make certain he'd pulled the necessary strings for her promotion.
Once inside the museum, Garth handed over his invitation and went to check their coats and umbrella. Bambi smoothed her revealing, beaded blue minidress trimmed with blue ostrich feathers at the hem and got out her compact. A swift inspection assured her that her face was perfect. She looked young and bright and au courant.
Just the way Robert liked.
In the Temple of Dendur, the Peter Duchin Orchestra segued smoothly from "Fascination" into "Moon River."
On the dance floor, the couples slowed their pace accordingly. Above their heads, the minor Egyptian temple, a gift to the United States for saving Abu Simbel from the Aswan Dam, glowed as though the sandstone was washed by mysterious moonlight. Outside, Central Park was dark, and the towering gridwork wall of rain-streaked slanted glass reflected, like a tilted mirror, the glitter from the floating, flickering candles and lotus blossoms in the temple's reflecting pool.
"Isn't this romantic?" Dina sighed as Lord Rosenkrantz, despite his size, proved himself an exceptionally adept dancer. "I had no idea you danced so well!"
His chest swelled with pride. "That comes from being paired with such a beautiful young lady," he said staunchly, lifting her hand and kissing the tips of her fingers.
Dina positively preened. She was floating on cloud nine and wished this party would never have to end. "Isn't this music divine?" she crooned. "Really, I do believe I could dance all night. Tell me, Lord Rosenkrantz. Does every dance partner of yours feel as if she's wearing the Red Shoes?"
"Alas, madam, never one as beautiful as you. Ah, isn't that your husband?"
"Where?"
"Over ... there." He turned Dina around in a slow, fluidly sweeping 180-degree turn.
Over Lord Rosenkrantz's shoulder, she caught sight of Robert scowling at her from the sidelines, unlit cigar clenched between his teeth.
Serves him right, she thought happily, pretending not to see him. "Please, Lord Rosenkrantz," she whispered, "you must hold me closer! I don't know why, but I'm suddenly possessed of the most fiendish urge to make my husband jealous! He doesn't appreciate me all he should, you know. I think it's time he's taught a little lesson."
Lord Rosenkrantz obliged by pressing her more tightly against him. "Is this better?"
"Oh, yes!" Dina smiled. "This is purrrrr-fect!"
And she thought: Maybe this will teach Robert to dance with me!
At the edge of the dance floor, Robert A. Goldsmith nearly bit his cigar in two.
What in damnation's come over that fool woman? he growled to himself. Does she have to make such a public spectacle of herself?
Chewing on the Havana like a riled-up pit bull, he surveyed the immediate area to see if anyone else noticed the way his wife and Lord What's-His-Name were carrying on.
Naturally, no one paid them the least bit of attention.
Goddamn bunch of hypocrites!
From behind, he suddenly felt a firm tap on his shoulder.
He turned around, coming face-to-face with the last person he expected to see—Bambi Parker. His immediate reaction was to flash a quick guilty look in his wife's direction.
Christ, he thought. What the hell's Bambi doing here?
"C'mon, Garth, give me some space, will ya?" Bambi told her date. "I won't be but a few minutes."
She shooed Garth off with peremptory flicks of a wrist. Then, taking both of Robert's hands in hers, she gave him the full impact of her fluttering baby blues.
"Robert," she breathed in that teensy-weensy voice, "why don't we go dance, huh? That way, we can talk without arousing any suspicion."
Like hell we won't! he thought, his eyes darting furtively toward Dina.
Fortunately, she and Lord Rosenkrantz had disappeared from sight, swallowed up by the sea of dancing couples.
Bambi tugged on his hand. "Robert!" She sounded exasperated and accusing, and he half-expected to see her stamp her foot petulantly.
"Okay, okay," he muttered grouchily. "One dance."
He tossed his cigar in the reflecting pool and Bambi let go of his hand, leading the way out onto the dance floor. Once there, she stopped and looked back at him.
Robert hesitated for all of three seconds. Oh, what the hell, he thought, throwing caution to the winds. Quickly he followed her. What harm can one dance do?
This gorgeous hunk certainly has all the right moves, Kenzie thought pleasurably as Hannes danced her fluidly along the edge of the pool, his searching fingers moving slowly down along her back. After a half hour in the ladies' room, she had decided to march back in and have a good time. The hell with Bambi Parker.
"Mmmm," she murmured dreamily. She had her eyes closed, her cheek resting against his warm broad chest, and her arms looped loosely around his neck. "I love these slow dances ..."
"So do I," he said softly and cupped her buttocks, pressing her pelvis tightly to his.
Her eyes flicked open and the breath caught in her throat. It was impossible not to feel the tumescent jolt of his manhood straining against his trousers.
Raising her head, she tilted it back and stared up at him, her eyes bright, luminous pools.
"Just making sure you are still awake." He smiled, moist teeth flickering in the light from all the floating candles.
Again she laid her cheek back against his chest, listening to the comforting strong beats of his heart. "You smell like fresh apples," she murmured.
He had his nose in her hair. "And you of wildflowers."
Again she raised her head. "You aren't, by any chance, trying to seduce me?" she asked huskily.
He held her gaze. "And if I am?"
Her voice was hushed. "Then I'd say you're already halfway there."
The smile on his lips reached his eyes. "Only halfway?"
The air crackled with sexual currents flowing back and forth between them.
"Well ... perhaps a little more than halfway," she allowed.
"Would you like to have another drink first ... perhaps find a nice quiet spot in the halls and look at some quartzite heads from the twelfth dynasty?"
Her arms tightened around him. "And if I don't care for the twelfth dynasty? If I prefer the classical Greeks, and Priapus in particular?"
He smiled again. "Then I can only hope that a priapic surrogate shall suffice."
Unbidden, an image of his taut, thrusting body leapt into her mind. "Yes!" she replied throatily, feeling a raw scorching heat rise up within her. "That ... that would suffice quite nicely."
"Good. Because what I want to do is hold you and make love to you forever."
As though in a daze, she drew his head down to hers. There was a rapturous kind of intensity in her face which he had not seen before.
"Well?" he asked softly. "Are you ready to go?"
Her knees were curiously weak and she felt as if she were drowning in the bottomless pools of those great greenish-blue eyes.
"Yes!" she replied in a fierce, urgent whisper. "Let's get out of here! Let's leave now!"