Never Too Rich (32 page)

His words reverberated and thundered and screeched
discordantly.

LIAR!

The word exploded in her mind like a bomb.

Abruptly one arm shot out and blurred as she gave
the nearest stack of magazines a savage shove. The
Vogue
stack teetered like a high-rise in an earthquake before slowly
collapsing against the next stack,
Harper’s Bazaar,
which
wobbled into the British
Vogue
right next to it.

Slowly, like lumbering dominoes, the Stonehenge of
magazines collapsed in upon itself, a giant, gratifying pile of
destruction.

Chapter 33

It had been an exhausting day.

In the morning Duncan Cooper, M.D., had done a nose
job and a face lift, and had followed up on three inpatients and
two outpatients.

In the afternoon he’d done a malar implant, a tattoo
removal, two dermabrasions, and a liposuction, between which he’d
also had consultations with four prospective patients to discuss
possible surgery.

The only breaks he’d taken were the hour he’d spent
with Hallelujah at lunch and the twenty minutes he’d taken right
before, rushing over to the fashion shoot at Central Park to see
Billie Dawn.

Not surprisingly, Duncan was worn out—but not worn
out enough to wheedle his way out of his date with Billie Dawn. No
way would he do that. Hell, a man would have to be lobotomized
and
gay to stand her up.

His workday finished, he spent a good three-quarters
of an hour in the second-floor bathroom of his town house adjoining
the clinic. He whistled while he showered. Clipped, filed, and
buffed his already short nails. Shaved extra carefully for the
second time that day. Slapped on expensive after-shave. Surprised
himself by digging out all those boxes of toiletries—birthday and
Christmas presents from former girlfriends—which he’d never used.
Considered a new hairstyle. Constantly checked himself out in the
full-length mirror from all angles, puffing out his chest, twisting
his torso this way and that. He ruminated on taking the time to go
back to the gym. Tried, unsuccessfully, to think of something
besides his date.

It was impossible.

Billie Dawn. Hot
damn.
What was it about her
that sent him floating on such an intoxicating cloud of euphoria?
Was it her innocence—that unbelievable but refreshingly true fact
that she didn’t know the extent of her own beauty? Or was it her
inner radiance and that way she had of making a guy feel like he
was the only man in the world?

He felt like kicking up his heels and dancing. Hell,
he felt like he owned the world—look out, Donald Trump!

Duncan headed to his dressing room and spent another
three-quarters of an hour getting dressed—something he normally
took little interest in, something that usually took him less than
five minutes. But he didn’t normally go out on dates with Billie
Dawn. She deserved a sharp dresser. Come to think of it, she
deserved more than that. Tom Cruise, maybe. Or Mel Gibson.

Scratch that. A Duncan Cooper would do nicely.

He tried on four different suits and six different
shirts before finally settling on a blue-gray, double-breasted
plaid wool jacket, gray gabardine trousers, a cashmere polo shirt
in dark turquoise, and supple blue-gray loafers with paper-thin
soles No tie tonight. He wanted to look casual. Laid-back.

An hour and a half of toiletry and dressing later,
he headed down to get his car. There was a bounce in his step, a
swagger to his move.

Since buying the town house on the other side of the
clinic, he had enjoyed that rarest of New York rarities, an
honest-to-goodness private garage, and he had celebrated by buying
a brand-new arrest-me-red Ferrari. Now, climbing into it, he
glanced at his watch. Bulgari—sporty stainless, not mid-life-crisis
gold—showed him he had over half an hour before he was expected at
Billie’s. Why not tool around the neighborhood in the meantime?
Flex his automotive muscle?

Why not indeed?

He inhaled appreciatively. The Ferrari smelled of
glove leather and high-octane gas—macho,
macho.
The
low-slung seat gave him a headlight’s-eye view of the road.

Vrooommml
One light tap on the gas pedal, and
the tiger under the hood roared and the car leapt forward.

His response was practically orgasmic. All that
growling horsepower was like a rush.

He turned right and headed over to Madison. He could
feel the engine vibrating the sleek chassis, and grinned to
himself. His usually soulfully gentle eyes glittered demonically.
This was
it.
Encasement in a metal-and-glass shell like a
knight of old inside armor. He slapped Janis Joplin into the
cassette player.

At the red light at the corner of Seventy-second and
Lex, a voluptuous brunette in the backseat of a cab eyed him
covetously. He grinned up at her, winked, and the moment the light
changed, was off like a rocket.

Jackie Stewart, eat your heart out!

He sang along with Joplin. He was king of the
streets, lord of the asphalt jungle. Driving the Ferrari was, he
considered, almost, though not quite, as good as sex.

He wondered happily: Am I regressing? Is this car a
mid-life-crisis toy? A chrome penis?

Well, fuck it. He enjoyed the car, and whatever
anyone else might think, he wasn’t about to let it bother
him.
Let the spoilsports pick him to pieces. He’d always
been his own man, and he wasn’t about to change that now.

It had been an exhausting day.

In the morning Shirley Silverstein, a.k.a. Billie
Dawn, had done an in-studio photo shoot for Maidenform bras.

In the afternoon she’d done the location shoot in
Central Park for
Vogue.
Then Olympia had whisked her off to
a meeting with the creative director of the Fink, Sands, and
Sanders ad agency and Fritz Steinert, the vice-president of
Mystique Cosmetics.

In between, she’d had to meet with the fashion
editor of
Vogue
and the art director of a hair-conditioner
manufacturer.

The only break she’d gotten was the few minutes
during which Duncan Cooper had dropped by the park. Lunch had been
a container of low-fat yogurt grabbed on the run.

Her feet ached from being on them all day; her neck
was tender from hours spent craning it; her lips ached from
alternately smiling brilliantly and pouting seductively.

Not surprisingly, Billie Dawn was worn out—but not
too worn out to wheedle her way out of her date with Duncan Cooper.
Nothing short of being at point zero of a nuclear blast could have
made her break it. Appealing looks, a great personality, those
soulful liquid eyes, and that head of cute, unmanageable
yellow-gray curls—he was everything a girl could want, wrapped up
in one perfect package. If he wasn’t one in a million, she didn’t
know who was. Besides, last winter, when she had been
Humpty-Dumpty, he had put her back together again.

Her workday finished, she hurried home to her
high-rise sublet on East Sixtieth Street.

The phone rang as she was letting herself in. She
let it ring; she wasn’t expecting any calls, and besides, the
answering machine was on. Whoever was calling would have to leave a
message. She had better things to do with her time right now—like
getting ready for her date with Duncan Cooper.

She sailed into the bathroom and lavished special
care on herself. She was buzzing pleasantly. Sang while she
douched. Hummed while she blow-dried and combed her waist-length
hair. Whistled while she filed, buffed, and relacquered her long,
already perfect nails. Concentrated quietly while she shaved her
slim smooth legs for good measure.

Her grooming completed, she dabbed chill fingers of
perfume behind her ears and into the cleft of her smallish breasts.
Studied her nude self in the mirror. Fretted, as usual, over her
lack of cleavage. Considered wearing her hair in a different style.
Ruminated over applying more makeup than usual, and then decided
against it. Tried, above all, to think of anything but her
date.

Which was like winning the Lotto jackpot and not
giving it a second thought.

Her eyes were glowing. She sighed with breathless
expectation.

Duncan Cooper, M.D.—
wow.
What was it about
him that electrified her every nerve ending and sent tingling
shivers dancing up and down her spine? Was it his uncomplicated
ease—that natural way he had of dealing with everything around
him—or was it his natural warmth and that sincere way he had of
looking at her and making her feel like she was the only woman on
earth? Whatever it was, it made her feel like extending her arms
and dancing around and around. Heck, if she got any happier, they’d
have to cast her in a Disney movie!

Billie Dawn repaired to her bedroom and felt her joy
vanish the moment she slid aside the doors of her closet. A
mountain of clothes—clean and pressed, clean and unpressed, mostly
dirty— tumbled out, threatening to bury her. With a cry of dismay
she jumped back to avoid the avalanche of fabric. And then just
stood there and stared. Nothing, nothing more than a row of wire
hangers, alarmingly
empty
wire hangers, hung on the clothes
bar! Could that be? She slapped her forehead.
Damn!
She’d
been so busy lately that she’d forgotten to lug her clothes to the
cleaner’s. She had been intending to for weeks now, but something
had always come up.

Now she could just see herself in some horribly
expensive restaurant, all rumpled, while flickering candlelight
picked up every wrinkle and stain. Duncan would think her a pig—and
who could blame him?

Stifling a cry, she fell to her knees and
frantically attacked the clothes. Somewhere in that jumble there
had to be
something
she could wear—didn’t there? But
dresses, skirts, pants, blouses—the longer she pawed through them,
the more panicky and bewildered she became.

Finally she bit her lip savagely and sat back on her
heels. What
could
she wear? The few clean clothes she
managed to sort out were all what she called “in-and-out
clothes”—sensible, no-iron outfits she wore on modeling assignments
that she could get on and off in a flash. They were hardly the
romantic sort of thing one wore on an important date.
Nothing
she owned seemed appropriate—or did the least to
inspire her. Despite her now-astronomical salary, she had yet to
spend money on any really good clothes. And why should she? Up
until now, she had hardly gone anywhere. Oh, the movies, the odd
ballgame, maybe a casual neighborhood restaurant. . . but that was
it. Period. Besides, after spending all day putting on and taking
off some of the world’s most beautiful clothes, who wanted to come
home and have to do the same? Home was for rolling up one’s sleeves
and pant legs and relaxing. In fact, now that she thought about it,
she’d gotten to the point where every time she changed clothes, she
felt like she should be getting paid for it.

She eyed a balled-up blouse with disgust and flung
it aside. She had, to reverse the old cliche, someplace to go but
nothing to wear.

Damn.

She rifled through the jumble of clothes in renewed
desperation. Skirts and dresses flew out behind her, arcing through
the air and falling soundlessly to the carpet. Oh, God. Where was
your fairy godmother when you needed her? Was owning
one
extravagant outfit too much to ask? Duncan Cooper deserved a
beautifully dressed woman hanging on his arm.

In the end, she chose lime-colored panty hose, a
short black tank-top dress with thick shoulder straps, a floppy
purple velvet pullover tunic, comfortable flat espadrilles.

She eyed herself critically in the full-length
mirror. She didn’t look too bad, all things considered. Well, at
any rate, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Like it or not, it was the
least she could do.

She hoped she wouldn’t disappoint.

After the doorman rang and announced Duncan Cooper,
she grabbed a lemon-yellow ankle-length cotton duster and hurried
out to the elevator.

When she reached the lobby, the doorman pointed out
beyond the canopy, where a sleek red Ferrari Testarossa, with air
manifolds just forward of the rear fender, waited with a growl.
Duncan Cooper leaned across the passenger seat and chucked open the
door when he saw her coming.

For the moment, her worries about how she was
dressed were forgotten. “This is
your
car?” she breathed,
running her eyes appreciatively along its length.
“Wow!”

He stared at her, his eyes riveted. Was he dreaming,
or was she the most magnificent woman he had ever laid eyes on?
Yes, that. Definitely, undeniably, inarguably that.

“
You’re the one who deserves a
wow,” he said softly with a grin. “Well? What are you waiting for?
Hop on in, beautiful, and fasten your seat belt!”

Chapter 34

R L. Shacklebury expected a frosty reception—hell,
after the fiasco on the phone, he deserved one. He wouldn’t blame
Edwina if she tried to scratch his eyeballs out.

Blast that damned Catherine Gage all to hell! he
thought grimly. And blast me all to hell too! How could I have been
so stupid as to let myself be led by my cock?

Minutes before boarding the Trump shuttle in Boston,
he had called Sally, his secretary, and instructed her to arrange
for Edwina to receive one enormous FTD bouquet every hour on the
hour.

“
This has something to do with
Catherine Gage?” Sally asked in a knowing voice, right on the mark,
as usual.

“
MYOB,” he told her without rancor.
“Just see to it that the flowers are delivered like
clockwork.”

Appropriately subdued and willing to do anything to
get back into Edwina’s good graces, after landing at La Guardia he
had the cabbie detour by a florist’s, where he bought every flower
in the glass-fronted cooler.